Дуглас Кеннеди - Five Days

‘No, I’m just saying that to show off my masochistic tendencies.’

Richard laughed.

‘You are a toughie.’

‘Hardly. though if I make a somewhat sarcastic comment like that one to my husband, Dan takes umbrage. Whereas you laughed.’

‘Familiarity always breeds. complexity.’

‘Why didn’t you say “contempt”?’

‘Because. I wish it didn’t breed contempt. But it does.’

‘In every marriage, every long-term domestic relationship?’

‘I can’t say I’m that knowledgeable about other people’s marriages — which are usually something of a mystery to those on the outside, let alone those actually in the middle of them. But from the ones I do know — and I don’t have that many friends who share stuff like that with me — I can’t say that I know a great number of people who are genuinely happy. Do you know many happy couples?’

‘No. And like you, I can’t say that I have many friends.’

‘That surprises me. You strike me as someone who—’

‘Outside of my family and my best friend Lucy I largely keep to myself. I was this way in school, in college. One or two close friends. Cordial working relationships with those around me, and always this tendency to be standoffish a bit. Certainly not towards my children. Outside of murder and mayhem, I would literally do just about anything for them. And, once upon a time, Dan and I were close.’

‘But now?’

‘I don’t really want to talk about all that.’

‘Understood.’

‘Now you are being too nice,’ I said.

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because you told me a great deal about your son and your wife. And I’m hedging my bets, as usual.’

‘You shouldn’t feel in any way obliged to tell me. ’

I stopped in front of a park bench and suddenly sat down, no longer wanting to have this conversation while perambulating. Taking my cue, Richard joined me on the bench, sitting at the far end of it, giving me the distance that he cleverly understood that I needed.

‘Dan is a man I don’t know anymore. Though I’ve talked a little about this with my one great friend Lucy, the fact is, I’ve kept much of it to myself. Because he’s been through a major personal crisis with the loss of his job. And because I always felt that I needed to be loyal to Dan. God knows, I wanted things to somehow revert to that time before he was laid off when we had a reasonable and reasonably easy relationship with each other. Now I’m not saying that ours was ever the most romantic of stories.’

‘So who was the love of your life?’

The question — so unexpected, so deeply direct — threw me. But without pausing for a moment to reflect about the wisdom of even going there, I heard myself saying:

‘Eric. His name was Eric.’

I looked up to see my use of the past tense register on Richard’s face. Immediately I regretted letting this small piece of information out. Immediately I was so grateful to Richard for not bringing it up, though again I heard myself say something unexpected:

‘That is the first time I’ve mentioned his name in around fifteen years.’

I held my breath for a moment, hoping that Richard would not follow this revelation with a question. To his immense credit he said absolutely nothing, letting a silence hang between us as I scrambled to think what I should say next. Which turned out to be:

‘And now I’m dropping the subject.’

‘No problem,’ Richard said.

I stood up. Richard followed suit.

‘Shall we continue walking?’ I asked.

‘Absolutely. Where to?’

‘You told me you wanted to show me where you’d live in “the next life”. So show me.’

‘It’s not far.’

We headed further on through the Gardens, past a small pond and flower beds still festooned — that word again! — with the final vestiges of that summer’s flowers.

‘Let me guess,’ Richard said. ‘Does “festooned” work here?’

I laughed.

‘That’s impressive.’

The Gardens ended and we found ourselves facing a long avenue, fronted by venerable nineteenth-century residences, a central barrier of greenery stretching all the way north. Directly in front of us was a church clearly dating back to the colonial era, and an apartment building that looked like it belonged in some jazz-age Scott Fitzgerald story.

‘So is that where you want to live in the next life?’ I said, pointing upwards to the penthouse.

‘In my dreams. That used to be the Ritz. Now it’s apartments for the super-rich. Even in reserved, button-down Boston — where ostentation and flashing the cash are still considered bad taste — there is, like everywhere else these days, truly serious money floating about. Especially with the density of mutual funds and bio/info tech people concentrated here.’

‘Those mutual fund folk get two-to-three-million-dollar bonuses every year.’

‘Minimum two-to-three-million. If you’re at the top of that financial food chain, it’s probably somewhere over ten million. Unreal, isn’t it?’

‘What makes it even more unreal is that everyone who is not a member of that wealth club — by which I mean anyone who doesn’t make over a couple hundred thousand a year — is struggling. I speak from experience. The last eighteen months, with Dan out of work, have been very tight. As much as he hates the stockroom job he starts on Monday, the fact that we’ll have an extra three hundred dollars a week. well, there will finally be a little breathing space. Not exactly “take the family skiing in Aspen” breathing space. Just “we can now meet our basic bills” breathing space. God knows I don’t begrudge anyone their success or wealth. I chose my profession, my career. I also chose to stay in Maine where I knew that the salary would be small. And I am also someone who hates to complain.’

‘There you go again, making apologies for yourself, instead of just speaking the truth. Which is, in America nowadays, you either have big bucks or you just about get by. And I speak as a Republican — yet one who was raised with the idea that the middle class could actually have a very good life; that if you were a teacher, a nurse, a cop, an ambulance driver, a soldier, you could still have the house, the two cars in the garage, the two weeks by the lake somewhere every summer, put your kids through college without having to take out crippling loans, cover your family’s monthly health insurance bill without worry, even heat your home throughout the winter without fear. Now, the amount of clients I see who, even in full-time jobs, find the cost of living impossible. well, it’s a good thing that your husband took that job.’

‘Even if it’s going to make him even more miserable.’

‘Better to be miserable earning a salary than be miserable earning nothing. I wish I could say something upbeat and Horatio Alger-esque like, “If he hates the job so much, he can always find another.” But in this market. ’

‘Tell me about it. I keep thinking, maybe we should change our lives once Sally is off at college next year. But. ’

I didn’t complete the thought. Because I didn’t know how to complete the thought.

‘Change,’ Richard said. ‘That ferociously loaded word.’

We started walking up Commonwealth Avenue. I’d been along this boulevard several times before, and had always admired it in a half-fleeting touristic way. Today, however, I began to closely regard the townhouses and apartment buildings and mansions that lined the avenue, and seemed part of a Boston more rooted in Henry James than any contemporary realities. Maybe it was the way the venerable stone and brickwork interplayed with the late-afternoon sun. Maybe it was the matchless autumnal palette of the trees interspersed with the nineteenth-century streetlights. Maybe it was Richard’s animated commentary about the history of this avenue and the way he seemed to have a story about every residence we passed. and from the immense knowledge he displayed it was clear to me that he hadn’t gleaned all this off the Internet late last night; that, in fact, he had made quite the study of this historic thoroughfare, as he knew it with an intimacy and verve that bespoke of serious erudition.