One Last Lie (12 page)

Philip crouched by a lamppost and slowly turned his head side to side, like the Terminator scanning for Sarah Connor.

Jonathan grabbed Philip’s shoulder. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Philip said, still gazing around. “I’m just trying to see what this place looks like from a five-year old’s perspective.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes and put his hand back into his coat pocket. “You don’t need to squat down to do that.” He laughed.

“Oh, whattaya know, someone got their sense of humor back,” Philip said, using Jonathan’s arm to help him up.

“Yeah, and before it leaves again, can we just get to Angela’s already?” He pointed up the street. “I think it’s that brownstone on the left.”

*

After pressing the button next to Angela’s name, they waited for the buzzer that would allow them entrance to her building. Silence. Philip buzzed again while Jonathan peered through the door’s window. Still silence, until they saw Angela running down the stairs toward them. She pulled open the door and threw her arms around Jonathan’s neck.

“You didn’t think I’d just buzz you in on your first visit here, did you?” She kissed his cheek and moved aside so he could step into the hallway. Philip followed and she lifted herself onto her toes to hug him. “I am
so
excited you guys are here. This is gonna be great.”

Her bare feet didn’t make a sound as she jumped onto the first stone step. “I’m at the top,” she said. “Third floor.” She smiled at Jonathan, who’d been searching for the elevator. “No elevator, Jonny. Just stairs.” She moved her open palms up and down her body. “How do you think I came to look so svelte?” She laughed. “Now get your butts up here.”

Jonathan looked at Philip. “You first.”

“No prob. It’s the best exercise we’ve had all week,” Philip followed Angela, taking two steps at a time.

Jonathan moved slower in order to get a better flavor of the building. His first impression was one of comfort: the seasoned blend of early 1900’s charm with flashes of contemporary art and architecture. This was definitely Chelsea at its finest.

Quiet and solid, the building oozed a sense of warmth, both in temperature and sensitivity. As he climbed the steps, he thought of how different this was from where he and Philip lived; the openness of their property opposed to the density of New York City, an intense concentration of so many people living in such a small part of the world. There were so many things about the city that he didn’t like, but mostly it was the stimulation that overwhelmed him: the crowds, the hustle and bustle, piercing fire engine sirens that vibrated his spine. There was too much of it for him, too much of everything for him and it’s what made Jonathan suddenly realize New York City was not the place for his child to grow up.

Halfway up the stairs to the third floor, he heard what sounded like a door open behind him. When he turned around, the door to 2F was ajar, movement barely visible through the opening. Knowing someone was watching him, he paused and tried to adjust his eyes to the dim lighting. . At that moment the door slammed shut and he heard the sound of a locking bolt.

“Weird,” he whispered, restarting his climb.

*

Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 22 in E flat drifted down the hall, leading Jonathan into Angela’s apartment like the scent of fine wine. Next to Vivaldi, Mozart was his favorite composer. He didn’t know if he’d previously discussed his love of Mozart with Angela, or if their similar taste in music was just coincidence. If it was happenstance, then so was their uncanny similarity in décor selection — unmistakable once he entered the apartment and saw style and elegance almost identical to his own.

While decorating the Westport house, he’d tried to combine what he called Casual Chic with “Contemporary Classical. Philip teased him, saying the decorating styles opposed each other and he’d be going around in circles trying to get the house like he wanted. But from the moment they stepped inside their vacant house, Jonathan had a plan in mind, instinctively knowing which classic tones would catch the light and shadow in certain rooms, while other rooms needed softer, more mercurial hues. He chose functional furnishings with clean, horizontal shapes that blended metals, wood, and leather into a harmonious, non-obtrusive flow from one room to the next. In the end, it worked out exactly as he’d imagined and other than a few plants and paintings, they hadn’t changed a thing for over five years.

And here he was, standing in Angela’s apartment, taken aback by the amazing similarities in décor. The livingroom walls were painted the color of the café latte he’d drank that morning, blending perfectly with the honey-colored accent wall leading into the bedroom. The furniture was almost undistinguishable from his own: tan chenille loveseats with rolled arms and saber legs placed on either side of a zebrawood coffee table. In the center of the table was a single white orchid flowing from a silver tube vase surrounded by platters of crudités, crackers and what appeared to be specialty cheeses from Grand Central Market. It looked like he’d set the table himself.

A sepia floor runner extended from the edge of the livingroom into the kitchen area. It was obvious the galley kitchen had been renovated since its pre war days, with new appliances, an Italian stone floor and backsplash and a granite countertop that served as a pass-through to the small, oval dining room table placed in front of the window. Silk curtains hung from a copper rod, their hem stopping less than half an inch from the polished wood floor, adding an intriguing element of depth to the entire room.

Jonathan strolled to the arched wall and peeked into the bedroom. He didn’t want to appear excessively curious so he turned himself around, stood beneath the archway and shrugged his shoulders.

“Wow, this is great,” he said, slipping off his coat. “It’s beautiful.”

Philip nodded. “I knew you’d say that, because the place looks like you decorated it!”

“Stop, boys!” Angela said. “This looks
nothing
like your house. I couldn’t come close to that.”

“No, really,” Jonathan looked scanned the room again. “It does resemble our house. When did you have it done?”

“Have it done?” Angela pulled her hair into a pony tail, twisted it into a bun and clipped it in place. “Sadly, I can’t afford to ‘have it done’. I did it myself.” She walked back into the room and ironed the front of her shirt with her hands. “I redecorated about a year or so ago. So do you honestly like it?”

“He loves it,” Philip said. “Can’t you tell? It’s exactly his taste. And anyone with his taste is a-ok. Right Jonny?”

Jonathan smiled and shook his head. “Not everyone. Your friend Jason from work has my taste and you know how I feel about him. He’s one of the last…”

“Okay, let’s not go there.” Philip gave Angela a shrug. “Wanna give us a look around, Angie?”

*

Although the tour lasted less than four minutes, Jonathan was impressed with how Angela had made such small surroundings appear so unconstructed and hospitable. She had a great sense of working with space and the rooms appeared functional and accommodating enough for a child. But his mind wandered back to the city streets: the noise, throngs of people, the silky layer of soot that covered everything. His concern about nurturing a child in the city resurfaced like an itchy rash. He pasted a smile on his face, trying to disguise his thoughts.

He and Philip sat on the brown, suede sofa, crudités and prosciutto-wrapped mozzarella beautifully presented on a black, tiled serving tray sitting in the middle of the oblong, cherry coffee table. She brought a large pitcher of homemade iced tea from the kitchen, set it on a coaster next to the tray, and perched on the ottoman across from them.

“Now, what I figured we’d do today is walk around Chelsea a bit. You know, I’ll just show you the area, some of the hidden gems, stuff like that. Then we can hang around, go out for dinner, or do whatever you want to do.” She looked at Jonathan and pushed the tray of crudités closer to him. “There’s a great art exhibit a few blocks away in SoHo. It’s by this new artist who uses miniature doll parts on large canvases. Makes it look like people being sucked into outer space or something. I read about it in New York Magazine. It looked kinda cool.”

Jonathan tightened his lips and raised his eyebrows in a “maybe” “maybe not” sort of way. His mind wasn’t on artists or hidden gems. Nor was it on SoHo or outer space. He was consumed with how to tell Angela and Philip he couldn’t go through with the sperm donation — not if his child would be raised in New York City. He imagined himself lying in bed at night, wondering what toxic fumes his son had breathed that day and the side effects might be. Images of tiny, sandaled feet, soiled with the city’s soot and grime shot through his head; a piteous street-child buried in the filth of the most merciless city in the world. He closed his eyes, attempting to rid the thoughts from his mind, but his mind wasn’t hearing any of that.

Angela crossed her legs and shot Philip a bewildered look. She unfastened the top two buttons of her pink, cashmere sweater and clasped her hands on her knee.

“Okay, what’s up with you?” she asked, darting glances at the two of them. “Something’s not right here.”

Jonathan looked at the appetizers. Philip peeked at Jonathan, then back to Angela.

“He’s been a weirdo all day. Not sure what it is. He thinks he has a chemical imbalance.” He grabbed Jonathan’s neck, leaning him into his own shoulder. Kissing the top of Jonathan’s head, he made a grumbling sound. “But he doesn’t have a chemical imbalance. He’s just moody today.”

Angela smiled and laid her hand on Jonathan’s knee. “We’re all moody sometimes. It’s part of the way things are. Don’t even think about it. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. We can just sit around and watch television. I don’t care.”

Jonathan pulled himself away from Philip, sitting himself up straight. The piercing heat of tension was beginning to rumble in his gut and he knew if he didn’t speak his mind or run out the door, he’d sink into a much darker frame of mind. He played with his fingers, exhaling loudly to break the awkward silence.

“What is it, Jonny?” Philip grabbed his hand. “What’s the matter?”

“I can’t do it,” Jonathan blurted. “I can’t.”

“Can’t do what?” asked Angela, now leaning forward, her head above the uneaten appetizers.

“Have a kid.” It was all coming out now and with each word, Jonathan felt the heat in his stomach gradually extinguish.

The silence grew heavier, nothing but Jonathan’s uneven breathing and the faint echo of water running through pipes filtering through the room. Angela removed her hand from Jonathan’s knee as Philip tightened his grip around his hands. Fearful of their facial expressions, Jonathan still hadn’t looked up. His mind had raced, he’d thrown out his thoughts for all to hear and now all he wanted to do was run from the reaction.

“Shhh, it’s okay, Babe. Don’t sweat it. I told you that on the train. It is what it is. Calm down. We’re okay with it.”

Jonathan glanced up at Angela at the same moment she placed her hands atop theirs.

“It really is fine, Jonathan. You have to be comfortable with something like this. It’s a big step and I totally understand.” She stood up, walked to the window, and spread the sheer draperies further apart to let in more light. “Maybe it’s not the right time for you. Maybe you don’t think I’m the right woman. Maybe you just don’t…”

“It’s not that,” Jonathan struggled out of his coat, his internal heat creating droplets of perspiration that soaked the back of his neck. “We really do want to have a child. And right now, I don’t think there’s anyone more perfect than you. The problem is…”

Angela leaned against the wall; eyes wide open, tensely anticipating the end of his sentence. Jonathan looked at Philip, who held the same expression.

“Shit, okay, the issue is with this place, this city.” He rose, took a few steps toward Angela, then back toward the front door, and finally positioned himself against the granite counter that separated the kitchen from the livingroom. “No offense, Angela, but for me, New York is a great place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live here. And basically that means, I wouldn’t want my child living here.”

He looked across the room at Philip.

“So in essence,” Philip said, “it’s a geographic thing.”

“Don’t make me sound crazy, Philip. You know as well as I do, growing up in New England is a lot different than growing up in New York. The people are different, the environment is different. The
air
is different, for Christ’s sake.”

“No one’s saying you’re crazy, Jonathan.” He leaned back on the sofa and blew out hard, his cheeks swelling like a balloon. “It’s just that you come out and say you don’t want a kid, without giving any kind of reason. If it’s a location problem, then say it’s a location problem. Maybe that’s something we can work out. But don’t just flat out say ‘I don’t want a kid,’ how do you think that makes Angela feel?” They both looked at Angela, still leaning against the wall by the window, now with a wide grin on her face. “What?” Philip tilted his head, baffled by her untimely smile. “What’s so funny?

She slid over to the small roll-top desk in the corner of the living room, pulled open the top drawer, and took out a sheet of paper. With both hands she dangled the paper out in front of her, arms at full length as she took slow steps toward Jonathan. He struggled to see the writing, but could only make out a strange looking blue logo resembling a butterfly. When she finally reached him, he gently took the paper from her hands.

“What is this?” Up close, he realized the butterfly looked more like the letter Y, part of the Yale New Haven Health System logo he’d seen on billboards along I-95. It was a letter, addressed to Angela and signed by the Human Resource Manager at Bridgeport Hospital.

“What is it?” Philip asked, walking toward Jonathan.

“It looks like a job acceptance letter,” Jonathan said, looking at Angela.