The Cousins (22 page)

26

R
OGER MET HIS BROTHER
at a Midtown steak house. It was, as always, Michael’s choice. It was also across the street from Michael’s office, which made it convenient for him and inconvenient for Roger. He was a successful corporate lawyer, and lived in a large cooperative apartment with his wife and two sons. In the summers they had for many years rented the same house in Sagaponack where the rent for one summer would have made a tidy down payment—something Roger liked to mention to annoy him. They did not choose to have any pets. The two brothers bore a definite family resemblance, but while Roger looked pleasant and accessible, Michael always looked as if he were smelling something slightly offensive. Roger used to say it was himself. He could not remember any time, even as small children, that they had liked each other. He did remember Mike leaving him tied to a tree for an entire day, an event of such betrayal and cruelty that it had traumatized him for years.

When he got to the table Michael was already there, which made it unnecessary for them to shake hands, hug or make any other pretense of affection. Roger slid into his seat. A frosty martini was in front of his brother’s place.

“If you want the charcoal-broiled chicken you’d better order it now,” Michael said by way of greeting. “It takes a long time. I ordered mine.”

“I think I’ll look at the menu first,” Roger said, picking it up.

“I always have the chicken.”

The waiter came over and Roger asked for a glass of white wine and, annoyed at himself for it, the chicken.

“He wants it very crisp,” Michael said to the waiter. “No salt and no butter.”

“I’ll have it the way it comes.”

“My doctor says I have to watch myself,” Michael said.

“Don’t we all.”

“How’s Olivia?”

“Fine, thanks. How is Norma?”

“She’s fine.”

They sipped their drinks. “I think Mom’s deteriorating,” Michael said. “Last time I was there she thought I was a little boy again.”

“She does that sometimes.”

“Didn’t know Norma.”

“Norma’s not from her past.”

“So.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “As I told you on the phone, I have ongoing financial pressures. Two kids still at home, still unemployed. Norma does a great job taking care of all of us, but she can’t contribute money. It’s up to me, and frankly, I don’t think it’s right that you, with an easy life, aren’t taking on more of the responsibility of Mom’s upkeep.”

An easy life
. How resentful he sounded. “When we wanted to put her in a nice place we knew it would be expensive,” Roger said. “We agreed to share.”

“You don’t have two grown children at home.”

“Why is that different from when they were in college?” Roger said. “It cost more then; you had to pay for school.”

“You wouldn’t understand. You have no kids.”

On the few occasions he had seen his brother’s sons—he thought of them as that, never his nephews—they seemed like two hostile, unkempt louts with attitude. They behaved as if they were stoned, did not speak unless spoken to and when they did answer they acted as if they were doing you a favor. “What I do understand,” Roger said, “is that they’re adults and they should work.”

“It’s hard to get a job.”

“Let them do
something
. Work in a record store. Get an MBA. Anything.”

“Even people with MBAs can’t get jobs these days,” Michael said.

Especially if they lie in their rooms all day smoking dope, Roger thought, but he said nothing.

How could this have happened? What had gone wrong? They were probably spoiled. He wondered what kind of father his brother had been, and if that would have mattered. Their own parents had been well meaning, and look how he and Mike had turned out. Why do you hate me? he wanted to say. Why did you have such terrible jealousy of me? Mom and Dad loved both of us the same, they were proud of both of us. Why did you always wish that I had never been born?

The waiter arrived with their chicken. Michael’s looked burned to a crisp and he apparently liked it that way. He cut into it enthusiastically. Roger’s looked burned too, but he had very little appetite at the moment and didn’t want to make an issue of it. He’d be out of here soon and could find something at home where he could eat in peace.

“Unless you want to take Mom out of there,” Michael said, chewing. “Unless you’re that kind of person.”

“She’s happy there!”

“So. Your move.”

“What does that mean?”

“I can’t afford it.”

“You seem to be able to afford all the other things you do,” Roger said.

“What does
that
mean?”

“Just what I said.”

“You know nothing about responsibilities,” Michael said.

“Setting up my own practice wasn’t a responsibility?”

“With a rich woman?”

He wanted to punch that pinched and sneering face. “Leave Olivia out of this.”

“Nothing wrong with money,” Michael said. “I don’t know why you don’t marry her.”

The man in front of Roger was a stranger. He always had been, always would be. “She’s too good for me,” Roger said lightly. “I think we should get on with our discussion. You don’t seem able to pay half at the present time, so I would accept your paying a third.”

“That’s too much.”

“You can manage.”

“I can’t.”

“A fourth,” Roger said. His stomach turned over and he pushed his untouched food away. This was his mother they were talking about. A sweet old woman who offered him milkshakes, who sang little songs. He wondered what would happen to her if something happened to him and she was left to his brother’s mercies. Roger was glad he had thought to put her in his will.

“You like to be in control,” Mike said.

“No, you’re the one who always has to win.”

“I could never figure out why Mom liked you better than she liked me.”

Better? She had loved them both equally. Never in his entire life had Roger gotten the feeling that their mother had played favorites. Her only flaw was in not noticing that his older brother was terrorizing him, but then he hadn’t told her, for reasons that now seemed pathetic and ridiculous. He had hoped that somehow, if he didn’t tell their parents, that his brother and he could turn out to be friends.

“Yes,” Roger lied, “she did like me better. Because I was nicer to her than you were.”

There was a long silence. He watched the rage play over his brother’s face. “I’ll pay a fourth,” Michael said finally. “Only to keep you from having control. I don’t want you thinking you can move her without consulting me.”

“Thanks for your gesture of filial love,” Roger said. “I know she’d appreciate it if she knew.”

There was nothing else to say. They decided to forgo coffee and called for the check, which they split on two credit cards.

When they left the restaurant Michael took a taxi without offering to share, and Roger decided to walk for a while, even though it was cold, to clear his head. His father was dead, his mother lived on another planet, his brother was a hostile bully. He had no feelings for his two nephews at all, nor had they for him. His family, such as it was, was an accident of birth and a casualty of time. He was alone.

But he was not alone. He had Olivia. When he thought of her—her love and comfort, her warm, sensual body, her child’s smile, the way she could make him laugh, the safety he felt just by knowing she was in the same room with him—he realized she was all the family he needed. And that was good, because she was all the family he had.

When he remembered how he had hurt and betrayed her with Wendy, he felt saddened. There would be other temptations, he suspected, because what he had discovered about his secret self would never change, but he was not so interested anymore, and determined not to give in to them. The destruction wasn’t worth it. And maybe, after a long while, his fantasy of the seduced stranger would let go and disappear, and he would just be happy: with Olivia, the way he was now.

He stopped at the Korean market on the corner, the only place still open, to buy Olivia flowers. He never brought her flowers. He would bring them home to her and she would be so pleased. He was unexpectedly turned on by the thought of her waiting for him.

27

O
LIVIA MET
M
ARC
at a tiny, romantic French restaurant he had chosen near his apartment. She thought about how in each neighborhood there were these little places tucked away, known to only the local people, many of whom had become regulars, and felt a part of his private life. There were lace curtains on the windows, and small round vases of red and purple anemones on the crisp white tablecloths. He twined his fingers around hers and kissed her, and as always, she was lost.

“I’m going to order champagne,” he said, and did.

She watched the waiter performing the ritual of uncorking and popping, pouring the festive bubbly liquid, and felt as nervous as a virgin bride. This is just dinner; I don’t have to do anything, she thought, trying to reassure herself, but already she felt the damp throbbing that had become even more powerful than the guilt. She looked at Marc’s sweet, eager face and dared to let herself fall a little in love with him.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“That we’ve never had a whole evening before.”

“I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

They held up their glasses in a toast and drank. She didn’t want to get high, but she wanted to take the edge off her inhibitions a bit. Not her lust, her inhibitions. If it were lust alone from which she operated, they could have left the table now.

They looked at their menus. After all, they were here to have dinner. She couldn’t have salad—bits of green might get in her teeth—no onions or garlic, nothing heavy, and nothing that could give you gas. The waiter assured them that the maigret of duck was very lean, very good, so they ordered it, although she doubted if she could manage more than a few bites. People should eat after lovemaking, not before, she thought—at least the first time.

Neither of them mentioned sex; it was too close.

“How did you manage to get away?” Marc asked.

“Roger had a meeting.” She didn’t want to think about Roger and feel guilty again. She smiled at Marc and cleared her mind of everything but him.

“I went to the museum by myself this afternoon,” he said. “The Met. It’s very relaxing. I like the Egyptian rooms.”

“Yes, I loved to go there when I was growing up,” Olivia said. “Those were my favorite. And the armor.”

“The armor?”

“The men were so small. They were smaller than I was. Of course, I was a tall child.”

“That’s funny. I like thinking about you as a child.”

“And I thought the Middle Ages were romantic,” Olivia said. “I was particularly partial to the knights. All that love at a distance and longing. Being rescued.”

“But they were so brutal,” Marc said. “When they went away to battle they put their wives in chastity belts.”

“I found out about that much later. What an appalling thing to do!”

He looked into her eyes rather mischievously. “It’s lucky we live in the present time, isn’t it,” he said.

They were talking about sex anyway.

The waiter brought Marc’s green salad and the sliced tomatoes Olivia had ordered. As she watched Marc eat she noticed he had those straight, even teeth that never got food caught in them; he was so fresh and clean and perfect she wanted to bite his neck.

“What?” he said.

“You’re edible.”

His knee touched hers under the table and his hand followed. “I’m yours.”

She smiled.

“You know how much I want to make love to you,” he said. “I’ve wanted you for so long. I said I wouldn’t ask you again, I’d wait for you to ask me, but . . . I lied.”

“I suspected you did,” she said.

The hidden little packet of condoms she had bought secretly before coming here nestled in her handbag, seeming radioactive. They were just in case she gave in. It had seemed strange to buy them—when she had come of age, women were on the Pill; then, when unwanted pregnancy became the least dangerous thing about sex, she was already safely with Roger. They aren’t a commitment, they’re a precaution, she told herself.

“I’ll be careful,” he said.

She didn’t answer.

“We would make each other so happy,” he said. “You know we would.”

They put on politely enthusiastic faces at the intervention of the waiter arriving with the duck. The small rare slices lay neatly fanned on the white plate, surrounded by pureed vegetables, and she was sorry about the obvious effort that had gone into something in which she had no interest at all.

“Red wine, or finish the champagne?” Marc asked her.

“The champagne.”

He devoured his food with the energy of the young and healthy, as if he wanted to get it over with, and she picked and pretended.

“You’re not eating anything,” he said, sounding concerned.

“I’m fine.”

“This is a pretty place, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Do you want coffee?”

“Only if you do.”

“I’d like you to see my apartment. You never have, and it’s right up the street.”

I can say no, she thought. I always say no. Then I’ll go home and wish I had said yes. She glanced at her watch. There was still time. The evening stretched ahead of her, tantalizing, sexually charged. Her heart began to pound and she could hardly breathe.

“Please?” he said. “Just for a minute?”

She nodded. She didn’t trust her voice.

* * *

His apartment was on the second floor of a brownstone. The front room had bowed windows overlooking the tree-lined street; the back room, which was his bedroom, overlooked the small private gardens of his and the other buildings. There were books piled everywhere, and he seemed to be the only person in New York who had not yet thrown out his withered Christmas tree. That was all she saw, because as soon as they were inside his door they were kissing and tearing off each other’s clothes as they headed for his bed.

His body was as lean and silky as she had fantasized and his lovemaking was even better. She knew how wild she could be, but he had not, and the look on his face was amazed rapture. In a few minutes she even surprised herself. There was no guilt, no hesitation, no outside world—only the culmination of everything she had been dreaming of for so long. It was as if all this time she had been celibate and longing, waiting for him.

“You are . . . amazing,” he whispered.

“No, you are.”

They lay kissing, stroking each other’s skin, looking at each other with genuine affection, waiting to have the energy to start again. She touched the small crescent-shaped scar on his knee where he’d had stitches years ago, feeling somehow as if he were hers.

They knew each other’s secrets. They would never be nervous with each other now. The affair they had started shimmered tantalizingly ahead of her—if she wanted it. She couldn’t imagine not wanting it, for as long as it took to burn out. She felt trapped and doomed by her senses, and idiotically happy.

“Why haven’t you gotten rid of your Christmas tree?” she murmured.

“I don’t know. I thought it could be firewood.”

“You’ll burn your apartment down.”

“I hope not.”

“I’m going to worry about you.”

“Then I’ll put it out in the street tomorrow.”

“Good.”

They did not speak of love.

After a while they began again: insatiable, confident, new. When it was over she looked at the clock on his bedside table, and it was as if time had melted. She realized with a stab of panic that unless an unexpected complication with his brother had arisen, Roger had to be at home already. How had it gotten so late?

“I have to leave,” she said, and moved quickly out of bed. There was no time to take a shower. She went into Marc’s bathroom and splashed around at the sink, used his towel and comb, reapplied her makeup. She thought she had not looked so ripe and wonderful in a long time.

“You’re incredibly beautiful,” he said.

“So are you.”

They rescued their strewn clothes and dressed quickly. “I’ll put you in a cab,” he said.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

It was very cold out. A tiny winter moon hung in the black sky like a coin. “When will I see you again?” he asked.

“Soon.”

“Sooner.”

“Soonest.” They kissed gently at the door of the taxi.

“Take good care of this woman,” Marc said to the driver, as if the driver cared. He stood in front of the steps to his building, his coat collar turned up against the wind, his long black hair blowing, until her cab turned the corner and she couldn’t see him anymore.

In the taxi going home she tried to collect her thoughts, to be again the Olivia she had been a few hours ago. But she couldn’t be. Everything was different. She didn’t know how she felt; she was afraid even to think about it. She had never cheated in a relationship—not in her two marriages, never on Roger and not even during those brief affairs of the distant past. For her, cheating had meant it was already over. But it certainly wasn’t over with Roger, not at all. She knew he would be waiting for her and she only hoped she would be able to handle it.

* * *

Roger was in the living room in his bathrobe, watching television with the dogs. He looked unexpectedly vulnerable, or maybe that was only because she realized how much she could hurt him. She hoped she didn’t look different from the last time he had seen her. “Hi,” she said.

“Hello.” He sounded happy to see her, and not suspicious. “You went out, too,” he said mildly.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Dinner with Alys.”

“How is Alys?”

“Complaining as usual.” She went over to kiss him hello and then noticed there was a bunch of flowers in a glass vase on the coffee table. He had obviously put them there. “What’s this?”

“For you,” he said.

He never brought her flowers. She wondered why he had this time, but she was touched. “Thank you. They’re lovely.”

He smiled. “I wanted to come in with them in my hand like a suitor, but you weren’t here, so I had to put them in water so they wouldn’t die.”

“It’s even better this way. Such a nice surprise.”

He turned off the TV, got up and put his arms around her. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you,” he said.

Why? she thought in panic. “Oh?” she said.

“I feel like I’m back from the enemy and safe at home.”

“Ah . . . your brother. Was it awful?”

“Mr. Milk of Human Kindness is willing to pay a fourth,” he said wryly. He stroked her hair and touched her neck, as if he needed to feel the solidity of her. She hoped he needed only comfort and not sex; she didn’t know how she could handle having sex with him tonight.

“At least you don’t have to see him again for a long time,” she said.

“Yes, there’s that. This evening was a horror. Not unexpectedly.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“As far as I’m concerned I don’t have a brother.”

“As far as I’m concerned you never did.”

“I love you,” Roger said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. I realized tonight that you’re my real family. You’re what holds me together. You’re what stands between me and that abyss, that cosmic loneliness. . . . I don’t think I ever tell you often enough how much I love you.”

He had never been so emotional. She loved him, she always had. She hugged him and fought back tears. She didn’t even know why she was crying. “I don’t want to lose you either,” she said.

“But you won’t.”

He kissed her then, and she went numb. “Let’s go to bed,” he said.

“All right. I’ll just wash up.”

She changed into her robe and fled into the bathroom. She brushed her teeth, removed her makeup and again hurriedly washed away every trace she could find, real and imaginary, of Marc’s body scent and her own from the past two hours. When she came out of the bathroom Roger was waiting for her in bed. She knew that look on his face. He held the covers up for her, welcoming her into their cave of delights. There was nothing she could do about it.

As soon as she got into bed he began to kiss her again. She knew if she turned away, if she refused him, this special moment he had started with his declaration would be gone and the damage might be irreparable. No matter what Roger had said, she would lose him. She was sure of that. She would just have to do the best she could, even if she had to pretend.

But then quickly, entwined with him, her need for him surprised her. Feeling the familiarity of his body, her desire came pouring back, and she wanted him more than she had in a very long time. He felt so
real
. They were the two halves of one whole. She knew what he liked, and he knew what she liked, and he made her feel safe and cherished. Their passion for each other had always been there, it had just been hiding for a while. Those things happened. She didn’t have to fantasize about Marc, or even think of him. All she thought about was Roger.

Afterwards she lay there listening to Roger’s breathing and thinking, stunned, about what she had done. She had made love with two men in the same night. She had never considered that in her life. She could hardly believe it had happened to her. Something to tell my grandchildren, as they say, if I had any, she thought, and smiled.