One Last Lie (5 page)

Without pause, he scooped papers in his arms, threw them into the container, then scooped up more. When he finally stopped, he stood and rested against the bin to catch his breath. He noticed Karen’s office was dark. She’d snuck out while his head was buried in the recycle bin.

He’d just finished placing the lid back on the bin when he heard the vacuum cleaner down the hall. Just in time. He ran to his desk, shut down his computer, grabbed his bag, and looped the strap around his shoulder. Looking at his desk phone, he thought again about calling Angela.
Smothering,
she’d said.

“Screw you!” he said to no one, and was out the door.

*

Two hours later, Tommy glanced up and down the street, unable to say for sure where he was. Except for the fact that he’d been thrown out of Brodsky’s bar on 16th Street and remembered walking south on 9th Avenue a short time ago, his location was a mystery to him. He looked upward and almost fell over when the streetlights wobbled above him, blotches of yellow fluorescence streaking across the night sky onto the pavement below. Mist hovered above the sidewalk in front of him, lurking like the cryptic fog in horror films. Tommy kicked at the vapor, half expecting a monster to lunge at him, wishing he could rip its face apart with his bare hands. Instead, he fell backwards, the strap of his shoulder bag slapping his face. He went down hard and the back of his head slammed into the pavement.

“Fuck!” he cried out. “Help!” He looked both ways, searching for help, but the sidewalk was empty. For a moment he saw people on the other side of the street, but they vanished in the mist. The world around him was spinning so fast, he couldn’t distinguish reality from mind play, so he wasn’t sure the people actually existed. His head hurt too much to attempt another scream, so he pressed his palms against his eyes and pushed his fingers into his scalp, slowly rocking his head back and forth.

“God
damn
it!” he shouted, but only loud enough for him to hear.

He dragged himself toward a tree that stood about seven feet away, scooted up the wrought iron grate around it, and squeezed his spine as far as it could go into one of the spaces. Trying to stop the dizziness, he tipped back his head in an attempt to focus on a branch… one branch… any branch. That helped for about ten seconds, and then a wave rose inside his stomach and forced out the vodka he’d been drinking. He spewed a liquored volcano into the bushes surrounding the tree. Relief, for another ten seconds, until a second wave hit. Then a third. And finally, the last.

Beads of perspiration and humidity hung on his forehead. He wiped them with his forearm, which didn’t do much good since every pore of his body was oozing sweat. His throat burned from the acidic saliva lining his esophagus. He coughed, inhaled, and swallowed hard, to no avail. The burning continued… all the way down his throat and deep into his solar plexus… the anger working its way back down to where it started.

He stumbled to his feet and rummaged in his bag for the cell phone. Squinting in the dim light, he pressed the CONTACTS key — and there she was, first in line: Angela. The sound of her voice would calm him. He’d be able to go home and forget this day ever happened.
For God’s sake, give me some room, Tommy. You’re smothering me!
Ignoring her voice in his head, he pressed the key and held the phone to his ear.

He stopped breathing the second she picked up.

“Angie… Angie… I’m sorry to call… I know you’re in Connecticut… I know you’re with that guy… I just wanted to…”

“Hold on, please.” He heard her hand covering the phone with a scratching noise on the mouthpiece that vibrated something sharp inside him. His body shook and he started to worry he’d throw up before she came back. He took a deep breath and leaned against the tree.

“Ang? Are you there?” His voice quivered from fear, desperation, and the vomit residue stuck to the back of his tongue.

“Gentlemen, I’ll be right back,” he heard her say. “And only one more double G and T for me!” He heard her heels clack against the floor and waited for her to speak, to give him her full attention.

“Why the
fuck
are you calling me?” Her voice was a loud whisper. “I told you to give me some God damn space, Tommy.” The deep echo of her sigh created static.

Tommy’s mouth hung wide open. He wasn’t ready for those words, that tone, and the sound of something that resembled, but only if he dared to admit it, hatred.

“I’m… I’m….” He stammered, running one hand through his hair. “I said I was sorry. I just needed to hear your voice. This day has really sucked and I thought…”

“Jesus, Tommy. That’s the problem. You
don’t
think.” She took a deep breath, the way she always did when she got angry with him. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow. Please let me enjoy my evening.”

“Okay, I promise, I won’t bother you again.” He shoved his hand into the front pocket of his chinos and fingered a few coins. Calling her was the right thing to do. He could feel it. The sound of her voice, no matter what words she spoke, had calmed him. He smiled. “As long as I can talk to you tomorrow, it’ll get me through the night. I’m sorry I bothered you. I love you.”

Silence.

“I love you, Ang.” Tommy waited. Nothing. He held the phone out in front of him: CALL ENDED. “She hung up! The bitch hung up on me!”

He glanced around wildly, searching for someone to hear him, to tell him what had just happened — on the phone and inside his soul. But no one was in sight, no one to put out the raging fire within his gut. He held onto a scream that caused stinging tears to teeter on his eyelids knowing that if he’d opened his mouth and let out the scream, it would have cracked the earth beneath his feet.

5

Philip watched Angela walk into the livingroom. She gave him a smile and a wave, then rolled her eyes at the cell phone.

He returned her wave and leaned back into the soft velour pillow lining the back of the dining room chair. It was still difficult for him to believe this was the same girl he knew in college. The woman standing in his home was so unlike the Angela from BU that at times during the evening he couldn’t help wondering if she was an imposter. But once in awhile he’d see her eyes change, a glimmer of sadness from long ago creeping through her new exterior. In his imagination the puffiness of her forehead would reappear; the flaps of loose skin that used to cover her neck re-emerged like a rooster’s wattle. And then he’d know she was real, and the guilt of abandoning her fifteen years ago sent a cold shiver up his spine.

Jonathan walked up behind him and whispered in his ear. “What’s going on? You look like you’re in a daze.”

Making sure Angela’s back was still toward them, Philip turned to Jonathan and gently kissed his mouth. “I am in a daze. I’m in a love daze. With you!”

Jonathan rolled his eyes and sat in the chair next to Philip. “You’re so full of shit.” He looked at Angela, then quickly back to Philip. “So what’s up with her? Who’s she talking to? Why is she here? Are you going to ask her already? I really do like her. I can’t help it. But what’s she up to?”

Philip placed his index finger over Jonathan’s lips. “Shhhh. Stop asking so many questions for God’s sake. I can’t remember them all. Now go get another G&T for our guest, please. It looks like she’s annoyed at whoever is on the phone and will definitely want her drink when she gets back.”

Jonathan heaved a sigh and grabbed Angela’s empty glass off the table. “Okay,” he whispered, “but can we get to it? I still have an article due tomorrow and I’m only halfway through. And look at this table. There are enough dirty dishes to fill up the dishwasher three times. We can’t entertain your ex ‘whatever she is’ all night. Plus…”

“I’ll clean up, Jonny, don’t let it worry you.”

“Actually, that
is
what worries me.” Jonathan smiled back. He kissed Philip’s cheek as he stood. “That’s why I’ll be helping.”

Philip shook his head as Jonathan walked away. He put his elbows on the table, rubbed his eyes, and kept his hands over his face, allowing the sensation of happiness to run through him. He was still amazed at his good luck — finding someone with whom to share the rest of his life. He and Jonathan were polar opposites in many ways, but those differences made them compatible and created a strong attraction the day they met at his twenty-fifth birthday party.

“I told you not to go to any trouble, Max. I don’t need a party.”

Max poured Margarita mix into the blender, barely paying attention to the amount of liquid flowing into the glass jar.

“Oh, stop it, Philip. It’s just a few people. You’re a quarter of a century old today
and
one of my best friends. Plus, it’s the perfect way for you to meet Luc.”

Philip leaned against the marbled kitchen counter and crossed his arms. “Max, you know I don’t like to be set up. Especially on my birthday. It feels so obvious.”

“Obvious, shmobvious, Philip. Luc is the one, I’m telling you. When I saw his sculptures at his show in Manhattan, I thought of you right away. I know how you like the creative type. I’m telling you, he is
it
.” Max poured the blended Margarita into a martini glass and passed it to Philip. “Would you like a cherry?”

“No. This is great, thanks.” Philip used his top lip to pull some of the iced Margarita into his mouth. He tasted the faint orange flavor of cointreau in the back of his throat and smiled. “Perfect, Maxi.” He took another sip. “But I’m wondering why Mr. Frenchy is the one for me, and not for you.”

Philip knew the reason, but gave Max the opportunity to explain.

“He’s a little too foreign for me,” Max responded, cleaning up the spills around the blender. “You know me. I like my men American, through and through.”

Philip smiled and took another sip of his Margarita. For now he’d let Max think he believed the “country of origin” explanation, when the truth was, it was more an issue of age than ethnicity. Six months earlier when Max turned forty-five, he made a rule not to date anyone older than thirty. “It’ll keep me young!” he announced on the night of his own birthday party, surrounded by fifty of his closest friends. They all cheered him on, clinking their glasses to his new code of misconduct — none of them expecting him not to have a date for six full months. Philip loved Max like the older brother he’d never had and couldn’t muster the nerve to tell him that if he truly wanted any kind of relationship, he’d have to break his new rule — it just wasn’t working in his favor.

“So, can you tell me who’s coming?” Philip asked, breaking the awkward silence.

“The usual,” said Max, repositioning the glass vase of tulips he’d placed on the buffet table that separated the dining room from the living room. “I kept it small and intimate, just for you. Soft music, high end wine, and eight filet mignons grilled to perfection by yours truly.”

“And what time are they arriving?”

Max glanced at his watch. “Well I told Marina and Wayne to come at seven, knowing they’ll show up at six-thirty.” Philip nodded his head and smiled. “Ahhh, yes, he’s your boss. You already know how over-punctual he is.”

Philip continued to nod, refusing to say anything that could get him into trouble. “And then there’s Taylor and Jacob. Couple of the year.” Max rolled his eyes. “I told them six, hoping they’ll show up by seven.” He tapped his watch as though making sure it was still working. “But if they’re fighting, I have no idea when they’ll actually get here.”

“And Luc? What time is he getting here?”

“I sent a car to pick him up so he wouldn’t have to take the train. The taxis at the station can never find this house anyway. I swear to Jesus, I don’t know what it is with those cabbies. You’d think I lived in the boonies of Tennessee.”

Philip walked across the kitchen toward the dining room.

“So that means he’ll be here at
what
time?” Philip asked, pushing for some sort of definitive answer.

“Within the half hour, I’d say. I wanted the three of us to spend a little time together.” He shuffled his slippered feet across the kitchen floor and into the hallway that led to his bedroom. “But first I wanted some private time with you before everyone showed up, so I could give you your gift.” Max was now shouting from his bedroom at the other end of the house. “The sun should be off the deck by the time everyone gets here.” Silence. And then the sound of boxes sliding. “But who knew it would be so cool in June?”

“Who knew?” Philip echoed in his mind. He turned toward the dining room table and shook his head. It was classic Max, set with majestic elegance that looked like a scene from Martha Stewart’s Living magazine. Solid, chocolate-brown silk covered the rectangular maple table — an embroidered silk fabric running along its rim. In the center sat a large crystal vase perfectly clustered with white, pink and violet rose blossoms, with petals of the same colors lying randomly from end to end of the silk cloth. Two white tapered candles, each in a hand-blown crystal holder, sat on either side of the vase, bringing symmetry to a table setting that only Max could accomplish.

Eight place settings with Max’s finest bone china and silver lined the edges of the table. Counting one setting on each end and three settings on each of the longer sides, Philip wondered who the eighth setting was for. He knew Max would occupy the head of the table and, as guest of honor, he’d sit at the other end.

“Who’s the eighth person?” Philip called, strolling back into the kitchen.

“What?” Max screamed from the bedroom, still skidding boxes along the closet floor.

“Who’s number eight tonight?” Philip shouted back.

He looked out the kitchen window and for a full five seconds felt almost paralyzed. Walking up the extended driveway toward the house was a man almost six feet tall, with dark, wavy hair that fell down his forehead to the rim of his Armani sunglasses. His dark blue polo shirt showed off a muscular body, a v-shaped torso Philip himself had worked so hard to achieve. His slim waist and long legs were covered in sand-colored chinos that fell the perfect length to the top of his loafers. Philip couldn’t take his eyes off the man, watching his every move as he walked up the middle of the two walls of rose bushes that led to the front door.