Tilting at Windmills Read online

  What a difference a few days makes. Just as Justin and Maddie were wrapping things up, the doctor proclaimed me well enough to venture out—but said that I should still take it easy. The office was my first destination.

  Now, as I tried to hail a cab outside my Upper East Side apartment, the irony was not lost on me that, here, on my first day heading back to the office, the virus gone from my system, I’d missed the presentation I’d worked so hard on. Justin and Maddie, I knew, made a formidable team, and so I had little doubt that the client was bowled over by the plans. Our plans.

  Finally, luck came my way and a stray cab stopped. I climbed in, and told him 50th and Broadway. Home to the Beckford Group, where I’d made my living for the last seven years. I was eager to catch up on the latest office gossip.

  The latest news, it turned out, was my return, and I spent much of the day educating folks about the particulars of my illness. It was the last topic I wanted to discuss, but maybe hearing someone else’s misery helped my colleagues enjoy their own good health. Or maybe they cared. I did manage to squeeze in some work, and by the end of the day, I was exhausted.

  My doctor had warned me not to overdo it—the virus was gone, but now came the crucial healing period. The best thing to do was go home. I’d heard the good news from St. Louis—Justin and Maddie had secured Voltaire, ensuring millions for our small agency. If there was one damper on hearing this good news, it was hearing it all secondhand. After all the work I’d done, I might have expected to get the first phone call, or for Maddie to have told me this morning. In fact, she’d said very little.

  In the six weeks since I’d been sick, I felt Maddie begin to drift away, in direct opposition to the plans we had hammered out at Christmas. Plans that included taking our relationship to the next level—moving in together when my lease was up this coming summer. Then came the Voltaire account and my sudden contagious status. And our quality time waned liked the long days of August.

  Truth was, though, I hadn’t expected to fall in love, and not with Maddie. Madison Chasen, graduate of New York University, had worked for two high-powered agencies before coming aboard at age twenty-seven as an account director, my equal and three years my junior. Still, we weren’t competitive; instead, we gravitated toward each other, professionally at first, until one weekend at her Southampton share, we’d fallen drunkenly into the pool first and then her bed second, and on waking sober the next morning, we’d found we had little regret and a great deal of passion left. She’d been working at Beckford for only four months when we became an item. No one cared, Justin Warfield in particular. He knew we were both workaholics and that we didn’t mind the late-night hours as long as we were together.

  Spending time together. For the past few weeks we’d spent little time together, and little of that could be termed quality. What I needed was to feel her in my arms again, to know we were all right and still on the course we had charted, and these thoughts were occupying my tired mind when a knock came at my office door. The day had gotten away from me—I noticed it was five-thirty. One of our junior associates, Bill Ettman, was standing in my door frame with his suit jacket on. He looked ready to leave.

  “Hey, Brian, the gang’s going to McHale’s for drinks. What do you say—wanna join the party? First day back and all, I think you owe us all a round.”

  Bill was a nice guy with an easy familiarity with the entire sixteen-person staff and clearly the group leader when it came to out-of-the-office activities. Trouble was, they all wanted to drink, celebrate our windfall, and my body was telling me no way, no how. One of the many shitty aspects of hepatitis—you can’t drink. Not for six months, the doc said, and I took him at his word. And there was nothing worse than being the only one sober among a group of silly drunks. So I declined the offer.

  “Thanks. I’d better not. I’ve overstayed my welcome anyway. Told myself two hours, max, and here it is—oh, shit—eight hours later.”

  Bill was about to leave when I called him back.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “What time are Justin and Maddie due back—any idea?”

  He checked his watch. “If the plane’s on time, they should be landing soon. But don’t expect them at McHale’s. Bet they’re plenty tired. We’ll have another celebration, probably tomorrow. You in tomorrow?”

  I already knew I wouldn’t be. “Today was a trial run. Gotta give myself the rest of the week. Next Monday, for sure. Life returns to normal soon, and I for one can’t fucking wait.”

  “I hear ya,” he said, and then was gone. The beer was calling.

  The office cleared out soon after, reminding me of the old days when just me and Maddie and a bunch of take-out cartons from Westside Cottage remained. I gathered my jacket, flicked the light off, and before I left, stole one last look at my office. Secretly I was pleased no one had been using it in my absence, not a temp or some junior upstart who needed the view for creative purposes or some such lame excuse. Being away, paranoia sometimes creeps in and you begin to wonder if work goes on without you.

  On my way out, I passed Maddie’s darkened office, a rare sight. Her desk, piled high with paperwork, reflected her workload. I missed her a great deal, and I couldn’t wait to see her again.

  I should have gone directly home, no passing Go, no collecting two hundred dollars, and certainly, no stopping at Maddie’s Upper West Side place for a surprise visit. But that’s where my feet took me when a new wave of paranoia overtook my better judgment. And on my way, I should have purchased one of those small collapsible umbrellas from the vendor hawking them on the street corner. Only five bucks (ten once the rain began), and I was staring straight into a dark sky threatening to purge.

  It was now six-fifteen and the streets and sidewalks of Midtown were flush with cars and people going every which way they could and, more often, where they shouldn’t. Horns blared as people crossed against the light, all in a hurry to be anywhere but where they were this moment. I dodged a quick-turning cab, passed another umbrella vendor without stopping, and headed uptown. Maddie lived just off the park in a brownstone on West 76th Street. She’d started with two roommates, whittled it down to one a couple years ago, and, six months later, had the place to herself. Unless I was there, and I often was. Hers was a two-bedroom main-floor apartment with a big bay window and flower boxes and the sweet smell of a woman’s touch, a noticeably sharp contrast to my East Side studio. She’d often asked me to move closer, but I’d stood firm. I liked my place, and I liked my rent, too. So we ended up spending a lot of time at Maddie’s. I had my own keys.

  I began to feel droplets of rain, big wet ones that spotted my suit jacket, and I was still fifteen blocks from Maddie’s. I searched out a cab, but all the available ones dried up at the slightest hint of rain, suddenly off duty and racing homeward. What possessed me to walk these twenty-five blocks, I didn’t know—not exactly what I should be doing, healthwise. The walk had utterly worn me out. Luck, though, played on my side, as the M10 bus came up beside the curb. I hopped on with a few others, sliding my MetroCard in the slot. Traffic was nasty, and in fifteen minutes, we finally hit 76th Street.

  A minute later, I had crossed the street, gone halfway down the block, and climbed the stoop. I unlocked the outside door, and then Maddie’s front door, letting myself inside.

  The first sound I heard was, in fact, no sound. Then I detected noises from somewhere within the apartment, and I almost called out Maddie’s name. But she couldn’t be home, not yet, and for a moment I wondered if it was her cleaning person. Or maybe the sound was deceptive, drifting downward from the upstairs neighbor.

  I’d barely moved into the living room when the muffled sound came again, and I realized, no, it was not the neighbor. Concentrating on the noise, I almost tripped over a suitcase that had been placed in the middle of the floor. Whoever was here, I could have spooked them but good. But then again, my stealthy behavior here was going to spook someone eventually; maybe it was better to announce m
y presence. I continued down the hall, despite an inner voice telling me to do the complete opposite.

  Maybe she got home early; maybe she was on the phone. Maybe I should turn around and leave.

  The sound of voices intensified as I approached the end of the hall. My stomach was tight with tension and threatened an angry growl. Please, I began telling myself, let Maddie have given her place to a friend for these few days. Please.

  The door was half open. My palms had gone dry, as had my mouth. Finally my eyes caught the first glimpse of human activity. There was no doubt that the woman lying on the bed was one Madison Laurette Chasen, the woman I loved. I knew her sound, recognized her rhythm. I even recognized the man she was with, and although I’d never seen him in such a state of, well, undress, there was little question whom she was, uh, merging with. Justin Warfield. The boss. Or was that The Boss? Though it appeared their professional relationship had taken a decidedly more personal tone. They were clearly enjoying themselves, their slick, sweat-coated bodies indicating that they had really gotten down to business. And in all their excitement, they failed to notice me watching their every move—and what moves they were. Justin’s eager thrusting, Maddie’s willing squirms. Her pale skin in stark contrast to his olive tone. His mouth suckled her generous breasts; her fingers hungrily grasped the hair on his back. Beauty and the Beast without the music.

  I’d seen more than I wanted, more than I needed, but I couldn’t get my feet to move. I was frozen in place. Let’s just say that if I’d been a judge and they’d been an Olympic event, they’d have earned high marks. But did I wait for the conclusion of their program? Was it the short program or the long? And what then? Act shocked, upset, surprised, disappointed, pissed off? Did I applaud? I was fresh out of gold medals.

  As I stupidly stood there, what bothered me most, I think, was the familiarity they seemed to have with each other’s bodies, the sense that they knew where to touch and when to touch in exchange for mutual pleasure. A thrilled cry escaped from Maddie’s lips, and suddenly I found that my feet would move again, so I made a silent escape from the bedroom. They’d never even noticed me.

  I stopped in the kitchen to throw water on my flushed face. For some reason, I opened the refrigerator, saw a bottle of champagne on the top shelf and nothing much else. Maddie wasn’t a shopper, a stupid detail to recall. I considered taking the bottle, depriving them of their celebratory bubbly, and then feared they might realize someone had stopped by for an unannounced visit. Did I really want to risk discovery? Their passionate exchange shook the apartment, and I found myself grabbing the neck of the bottle and making a mad dash for the front door. Not only had I seen enough, now I’d heard enough.

  Outside the droplets were gone, replaced by a steady sheet of rain. And of course, no cabs, and no umbrella man either—and no buses in sight. They all seemed to be washed down the gutter along with the best relationship of my life.

  I opened Maddie’s trash bin and threw in the chilled bottle of champagne. It cracked against some other glass, and the crystal liquid spilled all over the inside of the can. Nice-smelling garbage, I thought, not without some irony.

  By the time I got home, I was soaking wet and numb. There was one message on my machine. Surprise—it was from Maddie.

  “Hi, Brian. Our afternoon flight was canceled because of the weather. I’m hoping to get a later flight, but who knows? I’ll call you tomorrow. Sorry about this morning; I wasn’t very awake. Hope you’re feeling better.”

  I nearly laughed. Of all the days to get out of bed.

  Just this morning I’d been so hopeful about reclaiming my life. Now, I was left with altogether another option: Could I restart my life? And if so, how? And with whom?

  As I deleted her message, an idea began to form, and for a brief second I found myself trying to smile. I failed.

  TWO

  An optimist might suggest that at least I had something new to worry about, a new distraction in a life that for six weeks had been consumed with issues of health. The new question that presented itself was a real easy one: When exactly did my girlfriend start sleeping with my boss? The choices were two—before my illness, which I immediately discounted, or during it, most likely in a hotel room in St. Louis where a connecting door between suites opened onto temptation. I suppose the when was irrelevant, really, leaving me to concentrate on the why. On that point, I came up shockingly empty. Of course I hadn’t spoken with either Maddie or Justin since my discovery, and truth be told, the longer I put it off, the better, since I had no idea how I was going to handle this little situation.

  The week had ended by this point, Thursday and Friday passing in a blurry self-imposed seclusion, the only communication with the outside world courtesy of the answering machine. Maddie had left me a message each day.

  Thursday’s went like this: Beep. “Brian, hi. It’s Maddie. Well, I’m back, finally. The gang tells me you stopped by the office yesterday. I guess that means you’re feeling better. Anyway, it’s three o’clock; just had a quick lunch before the next meeting. Hope I didn’t wake you. ’Bye.”

  And then Friday’s went as follows: Beep. “Hi. It’s me, Maddie. Remember? Did you call? I think my machine must be broken. Anyway, don’t forget that we have theater tickets for Saturday night. The Lion King—remember, we bought tickets like a year ago. Hope you’re up for it. I miss your arms around me. Feeling better? ’Bye.”

  I ignored both messages, deleted them almost immediately. Okay, I played them each a second time, standing over the machine with my arms crossed and my jaws clamped so tightly my teeth ached. Maddie, I had learned, was very good at this public relations profession. Tweak the truth until it served your purpose.

  I returned neither call.

  I awoke, though, from a dream on Saturday to the realization that I had to act as normal as possible, not wanting Maddie to know that something was wrong. I had to take the next step; I had to call her. So I waited until ten o’clock when I knew Maddie would be out at the gym, no doubt working off the lunches of the past week. Though she’d seemed to have gotten a hell of a workout already during her Wednesday-night bedroom aerobics. Her answering machine was working just fine. The message I left was innocence personified.

  Beep. “Hi. It’s Brian. Sorry I haven’t called. Had a doctor’s appointment and then came home and slept. I’m still feeling down, and don’t think it would be wise to go to the theater tonight. Take a friend; have a good time. I’m dropping by the office Monday. I need to see Justin.”

  Before I explained why or lost my nerve or left an expletive-filled piece of my mind, I hung up. The rest of the day passed in silence, until five when my friend John called. We made plans for later that night. Me, Chinese takeout, videos with a friend. Maddie, a hit show, and a randy companion who would treat her to dinner and then treat her as dessert. No doubt they’d feel the love tonight.

  So curtain time arrived and so did my friend John Oliver. I let him in, grabbing a package of goodies from his arms, a bunch of white cartons from First Wok, videos—Beavis and Butt-head and The Incredible Mr. Limpet (with Don Knotts!), and a six-pack of beer. I popped a bottle for John, grabbed a Coke for myself, and we settled down to eat.

  “Sorry,” John said, lifting the beer to his mouth. “Forgot you can’t drink. Bummer.”

  Bummer indeed. I could have used a good stiff drink.

  John is one of my closest friends, a guy I met back in college who happened to move to New York about the time I did, and we’d been in touch ever since. We both shared an appreciation for dumb movies, and tonight he’d brought two that had somehow escaped me. A lot of people tend to write John off as a dumb jock because he’s a big guy, but really he’s an astute, thoughtful person, and at this time in my life, he was very much appreciated.

  Between bites of egg roll, he asked after my health, my job, and my girlfriend, and it wasn’t until that last topic did my voice betray me. I had wanted to keep the developments of the past week to myself, but
I guess that wasn’t going to happen.

  “Looks like things with Maddie aren’t going so well,” I said.

  “What’s the trouble?”

  I hesitated. If we got into this, we’d never get to the movies, and believe me, watching the cartoon antics of two pubescent idiots was preferable to opening up this can of worms. “Just going through a rough patch. What with my being sick and her being so busy with work. Gearing up for the new account has tapped everyone’s time and energy, but looks like it’s been worth the effort. The Beckford Group landed the gig to launch Voltaire’s hottest new drug. It’s going to mean millions. Anyway, it’s taken a toll on our relationship.”

  “Sounds legit,” he replied.

  “But . . .”

  “But? You mean like, sounds legit but it’s total bullshit? Yeah, that’s what it sounds like, and when you’re ready to spill your guts, I’ll listen. But . . .”

  “But?”

  “But right now, let’s watch some stupid movies. I recommend Limpet first. You have never seen anything like this, promise.” He put his hand to his heart, like the Boy Scout he once was. Except now he lacked sincerity.

  We grabbed more to drink (he was doing a bang-up job on the beer all by himself) and watched the story of mild-mannered Don Knotts becoming a fish and helping the government during World War II. The distraction worked—for the first time since Wednesday, my problems slipped from my mind—and I was able to enjoy the evening. We put in the second video and laughed for eighty-seven minutes straight, and then continued our night of idiot TV with Saturday Night Live, even suffering through the sketches after “Weekend Update.” At one o’clock, John cleaned up our mess, grabbed the last of the Sam Adams, and plopped back down on the sofa.