The Knicks lost at the buzzer.
Deanna asked me what was wrong, and that’s what I told her — the team lost and I’d been pulling for them.
“Poor baby,” she said.
Which is exactly what Lucinda had said to me that day on the train. Poor baby, as she’d patted me on the arm and whispered something into my ear. Something about me being sexy.
Which maybe I was, back before I’d turned into a clown.
Vasquez wanted ten thousand dollars.
I didn’t have ten thousand dollars just lying around. It wasn’t sitting under the mattress or accruing interest in a bank account, either. What I did have was approximately $150,000 worth of stock certificates sitting in a file cabinet in my office attic. Company stock, handed out to me each and every year thanks to Eliot’s beneficence.
Deanna and I had a name for those stock certificates—a designation that left no doubt as to their purpose. Not our vacation fund, or our retirement fund, or even our rainy day fund. Anna's Fund. That’s what we called it. Anna’s Fund, there for whenever and whatever might come in the future. Call it a hedge against a coming depression.
An operation, for instance.
Or ten operations. Or other things I didn’t necessarily want to contemplate.
Anna’s Fund. Every paper penny of it.
But what else could I do but pay him?
I lay in bed with Deanna, Deanna already starting to doze even though it couldn’t be much past nine. Those twenty-six third graders take a lot out of her—and now this, what would this take out of her? If she knew, that is—if she found it. If I broke down and told her, not breaking my promise to Lucinda, not exactly, not telling the police. Just her.
Then I wouldn’t have to give Vasquez his money, would I? Unless . . .
Unless Vasquez threatened to tell someone else. Unless he said, Fine, your wife knows — great, but Lucinda’s husband — he doesn’t. Lucinda’s husband, whom she’d sworn would never know, no matter what, never know she’d gone to a hotel room with another man to have sex and ended up having more sex than she’d bargained for.
If I can manage it, then you can, Lucinda had said to me.
I owed her that, didn’t I? After letting another man rape her—after sitting there and watching another man rape her? We were in this together.
Besides, I could fantasize all I wanted about telling Deanna, but the truth was, I could no more imagine telling Deanna what I’d been up to than I could imagine telling Anna. I could rehearse the very words; I could imagine the burden being lifted. See? No burden. But it was make-believe — it wasn’t real.
After Deanna was safely asleep, I went upstairs to the attic to rummage through our file cabinet. Under A for Anna’s Fund.
Only to find it, I had to wade through a few other things first, the file cabinet having surrendered over the years to general disorganization and chaos. High school diplomas, college degrees, birth certificates—a record, more or less, of us. The Schines. Milestones, achievements, life-changing events. A tiny pair of footprints courtesy of Anna Elizabeth Schine. A degree from Anna’s kindergarten. And farther back — a marriage certificate. “Charles Schine and Deanna Williams.” Promising to love and honor — a promise I’d callously discarded in a downtown hotel.
There was a surreal quality to taking my stock certificates out of the file cabinet in order to pay off a rapist. There was no manual for this sort of situation, no self-help books promising to make it all better.
On the way out of the den, I passed Anna’s room — a sleeping Anna bathed in moonlight, or was it simply her night-light? She’d begun plugging it into the wall again soon after she’d gotten sick. Because she was suddenly scared to death to be alone in the dark. Because she worried she’d wake up hypoglycemic and wouldn’t be able to find her sugar tablets — or maybe that she wouldn’t wake up at all.
Sleep seemed to relieve her of all her anger and sadness, I thought.
I tiptoed in and leaned over her bed. Her breath brushed against my face like butterfly wings (remembering now how I’d once pinched a monarch’s wings between my thumb and forefinger to show it to a four-year-old Anna before carefully placing it into a cleaned-out jelly jar). I planted a kiss on one cool cheek. She stirred, groaned slightly, turned over.
I went downstairs and slipped the stock certificates into my briefcase.
FOURTEEN
I met Lucinda at the fountain on 51st and Sixth.
When I called and told her what Vasquez wanted, she’d lapsed into silence and then asked to meet me there.
I’d been sitting there ten minutes when I saw her cross 51st Street.
I stood up and began to raise my hand in greeting. But I stopped — she was with another man. She continued toward me, and for a moment I was caught between sitting down and standing up, between saying hi and saying nothing. I sat back down; something made me lie low.
I stayed seated right there on the rim of the fountain as Lucinda and the man walked right by me without a glance.
The man was dressed in a respectable blue suit and recently shined shoes. Fiftyish, hair just beginning to thin, lips pursed in thought. Lucinda looked almost normal again, I thought, which was to say gorgeous, if you didn’t look too closely. If you didn’t peer intently at the faint rings under her eyes — not like the rings under mine, which resembled football black, but undeniably there. A woman who looked as though she hadn’t slept much lately, who’s tossed and turned despite the two Valiums and glass of wine.
She seemed to be speaking to the man, but whatever she was saying was swallowed up by a cacophony of New York clatter — car horns, bicycle bells, piped music, bus engines. They passed within five feet of me and I couldn’t hear a word.
I waited as they headed for a side street. I was surrounded by the usual mix of tourists with craned necks, afternoon smokers puffing away with undisguised desperation, and the odd street person mumbling to himself.
I stared at the Christmas decorations on Radio City Music Hall across the street. “Spectacular Christmas Show,” it said, the entire marquee wreathed in holly. A sidewalk Santa was ringing a bell by the front doors and shouting, “Merry Christmas, everyone!” Here by the fountain it was cold and raw.
I waited five, then ten minutes.
Then I saw Lucinda coming back, hurrying around the corner and staring straight at me. So. She’d seen me after all.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome. For what?”
“For not saying hello. For not saying anything. That was my husband.”
That was my husband. The golfer. The one who would never know.
“Oh,” I said.
“He surprised me at the office. With flowers. He insisted on taking the cab uptown with me. Sorry.”
“That’s okay. How have you been?”
“Just terrific. Couldn’t be better.” The tone of her voice suggested that I was kind of stupid for asking her that, like one of those TV reporters at a scene of unimaginable tragedy asking the victim’s remaining family how they’re feeling these days.
“Has he called you again?” she asked me.
“Not since he asked for ten thousand dollars. No.”
“And?” she said. “Are you going to give it to him?”
“Yes.”
She looked down at her hands. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” And I didn't want her to mention it, either. Because every time I mentioned it, it became realer, something that was going to actually take place.