"You don't like the rules? Maybe you'd be happier working someplace else." I would've loved to tell him to go fuck himself, but the job market was tight and, especially with the way Rebecca had been spending my money lately, I couldn't afford to be unemployed.
I was typing so hard my wrists hurt. I took a break, flexing my hands, and then patted my front pants pocket where my wallet had been. A sudden, sickening emptiness overtook me, and I rushed down the hallway to the bedroom. I spilled out the contents of the top drawer of my dresser onto the bed and searched through everything, hoping by some crazy chance it would be there. But after looking through the stuff for the second and third times I realized I was just deluding myself my favorite picture of Barbara, that I'd taken when she was sixteen, was gone.
I started crying. Not just crying bawling. Everything the stress of the whole night, my screwed up relationship with Rebecca, missing Barbara more than I had in months was hitting me at once. As I sat on the bed, sobbing, taking short, erratic breaths, I imagined that Barbara was with me. She was sitting next to me on the bed, putting an arm around my shoulders, telling me, Don't worry, Davey. Everything's gonna be okay.
Then I remembered what Heather had said to me in the bar about spirits.
I didn't really believe in any of that metaphysical crap, but, figuring I had nothing to lose, I said to the empty space to my left, "I just want you to know how much I miss you. I think about you a lot, all the time actually, and I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for not saying good-bye to you that day at the hospital, and for acting like such a dick the whole time you were there. But I think you know how much you really meant to me. If you didn't know it, I hope you know it now. I loved you, Barb. I thought you were the greatest sister in the world.
I hope you can hear me now, that I'm not just talking to myself. But you're not fucking here, are you?"
I stood up and swatted everything from the bed onto the floor and screamed, "Damn it!" Then, looking down among the contents of the dumped-out dresser drawer, I noticed a snapshot of Rebecca taken in front of the fireplace in the living room. She was standing sideways to the camera in cutoffs and a little-boy T-shirt, her hair flung over to the left side, her lips pursed in an I'm-better-than-you way. The flash had reddened her eyes, giving her a devilish quality.
I left the apartment, not even bothering to take a jacket, and headed toward Central Park. I entered at Eighty-first Street and veered left along the path through the woods. I might have passed an occasional jogger or a body sprawled on a bench, but the park was dark and empty.
Then I noticed two young guys one black, one white or Puerto Rican walking about twenty yards behind me. I didn't want to look back over my shoulder again, but I sensed they were following me. I started walking faster, but their footsteps were getting louder and I could hear their breathing, so I knew they had gained on me. I started to run as fast as I could, my heart pounding and my adrenaline flowing. I thought about veering off into the woods, but I stayed on the path, and around the next bend I reached a playground and saw streetlights ahead of me. I exited the park at Eighty-fifth Street and Central Park West and walked downtown a block, looking back over my shoulder, relieved to see that the kids weren't following.
I reduced my pace to fast walking, gasping, still looking back after every few strides. I crossed Central Park West at the next light and walked quickly along Eighty-fourth Street. I was angry at myself for getting into a potentially dangerous situation. Normally I had better instincts, avoiding all places in Manhattan that were quiet and unpopulated, especially at night. At Columbus Avenue, my pulse and breathing returned to normal and I started seeing the humor in the situation. If the kids had tried to steal my wallet, I would've had nothing to give them.
Back at my apartment, I cleaned up the mess in the bedroom, then showered. Afterward I felt refreshed and clearheaded, and I decided that tonight I'd finally break up with Rebecca. All I had to say was, It's over, and I could go on with my life.
It sounded so simple.
It was after ten o'clock. I returned to my computer, hoping to at least finish a rough draft of my article. I connected my headset to a little digital tape recorder and started transcribing the interview I'd had earlier with Robert Lipton. As I listened to Lipton go on in his upbeat voice about his company's prospects, I kept rehearsing in my head what I'd say to Rebecca. I had trouble concentrating. I mistyped words and sentences and I had to replay parts of the recording, sometimes three or four times. As I was working, I realized that I'd forgotten to contact the credit bureaus about my wallet. I went online and did a search for "what to do if your wallet is stolen" and found all the information I needed. After I called the credit bureaus and put fraud alerts on my accounts, I remembered that I hadn't canceled one card from my wallet an Emigrant Savings Bank ATM card that I rarely used.
After nearly an hour on the phone, getting put on hold and talking to two customer service reps, I was finally able to close the account. I tried to get back to work, but I was starting to feel the way I had right after I discovered my wallet had been lifted. I felt like a sucker, like I'd been violated. I couldn't believe I'd let it happen.
I hadn't been drunk, so I couldn't use that as an excuse. I remembered how Eddie had distracted me, showing me the pictures of the naked women, and how I had leaned forward slightly on my stool to see the first one. At that moment, anyone behind me could have had access to my front pocket and easily swiped my wallet.
I finished outlining the article at about one o'clock. I was exhausted, but I wanted to stay up to have it out with Rebecca. I was afraid that if I waited until the morning, I'd lose my edge and wouldn't be able to go through with it.
I turned on the TV in the living room for some background noise and lay on the couch. I dozed for a while, then woke up and checked my watch.
It was past three. I realized that tonight could be one of the nights that Rebecca didn't come home. Sometimes when she went out she didn't return until the next afternoon, claiming that it had gotten late and she was wasted so she'd «crashed» at some friend's place. Of course, I often wondered if she was cheating on me. I hoped she was in bed right now with Ray, or some other guy, and that they were having great sex, or better yet, falling in love.
I got up from the couch and was about to head toward the bedroom when I heard the lock in the door turning. A few seconds later, Rebecca entered. She was obviously wasted standing unsteadily, her eyes glassy and bloodshot and when she saw me in the living room facing her she reacted as if she had entered the wrong apartment. Then her confused expression morphed into a drunken smile and she said, "Hey, what up, yo?… I mean, what up besides you?"
She tossed the Gucci pocketbook that she'd bought last week on my Visa onto a chair, then wobbled over and kissed me on the lips, giving me a whiff of alcohol.
"I had the best est time tonight," she slurred. "That new club blew, but Chaos was hype, yo. I met this choreographer guy? I forget his name Mike or Mick or Mel something-or-other. I have his card in my pocketbook." She reached toward her side, slow to realize that she had already put her pocketbook down. She went on: "Anyway, I had such a bitchin' time talking to him. He has this, like, company, you know, a dance company, and he wants me in this, like, show? It's some kind of modern jazz-like show or something or other. Who knows? Next year at this time I might be dancing at Lincoln Center. Don't worry; I'll still talk to you when I'm famous."
She started laughing, as if she'd made an hilarious joke, and then she undressed. First her top came off, and then she wiggled out of her jeans and kicked away her sandals.
"It's over," I said.
Rebecca stared at me, half smiling. My words didn't have the cathartic effect that I'd thought they would.
"What's over?" she finally asked.
"Us," I said. "I want you to move out."
She continued to stare at me ambiguously, then started to laugh.