“How is Birdie?”
“Great. So are the girls. They’re both at Georgetown now. Stephanie is still quiet and much too serious. She’s dating this whiz-kid who won the Westinghouse Award. Her grades are perfect. She’s graduating this June—with a degree in micro something or other.”
“Just like her mom, huh? Birdie was the only straight-A student I ever knew.”
Jack had forgotten how much his wife loved school. For years after graduation, she’d talked about getting a master’s in fine arts, but she’d never done it. Elizabeth was like that; she talked about a lot of things.
“Jamie’s like me. If she weren’t one of the best swimmers in the country, she’d be fighting like hell to make it through junior college.”
“Remember Callaghan’s Pub? Throwing back brewskis with the boys.”
And picking up girls. At least Warren hadn’t said it out loud. Still, silence didn’t change the past. Jack had spent a chunk of his youth in that bar, flirting with the endless stream of girls that followed football. Taking them to bed.
And all the while, Elizabeth had been in a ridiculously big house on Long Island, raising their children alone. When he’d finally come home, smelling of booze and smoke and other women’s perfume, she’d always pretended not to notice.
How had they made it through those days? And how was it possible that they’d been happier then than they were now?
It was the kind of question that bugged the shit out of him.
“There’s the station,” Warren said, cocking his head to the left. “We’ll meet the head honchos tomorrow for breakfast. Your audition is scheduled for ten-thirty. I’ll read with you.”
Jack loosened his tie. “Any pointers for your old buddy?”
Warren pulled up in front of the hotel, then turned to Jack. “I saw your interview with that college girl. My only suggestion is to relax a little. You know the camera is like a woman—it can sense fear and desperation—and desperate guys never get blow jobs.”
Jack laughed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten a blow job. Maybe desperation had been his problem all along.
His door opened. A uniformed man smiled at him. “Welcome to the Carlyle, sir.”
Jack got out of the car and handed his bag to the bellman. “Thanks.”
Warren leaned across the empty passenger seat. “Do you want to come over for dinner tonight? Beth is a shitty cook, but she makes a dangerous martini.”
“I’ll pass. I need to get my head on straight for tomorrow.”
“You always did go underground before a big game. I’ll swing by around eight. We’ll have breakfast at the hotel.”
“Great. And, Warren—thanks for all of this.”
“Don’t thank me until they offer you the job. Then I’ll take cash.” The electric window rolled soundlessly upward.
Jack watched the red Viper roar down the street and skid to a jerking stop at the light. Then he checked into his hotel and went up to his room. The first thing he did was pour himself a drink. It didn’t help. He was as jittery as a rookie on game day. All he could think about was how much this chance meant.
Please, God. He glanced down at the phone and knew he should call Birdie, but the thought exhausted him. He’d have to pretend he was in town to see some college athlete—as if—and she’d blather on about sofa fabrics. Neither one of them would really listen to the other.
It had been that way for years. So why was it bothering him so much lately? With a sigh, he picked up the phone and dialed his home number.
On the fourth ring, the answering machine picked up. Birdie’s recorded voice said, Hi, you’ve reached Jack and Birdie. We’re not here but the answering machine is. Leave your message.
“Hey, honey,” he said, “I’m at the Carlyle Hotel, room 501. The number’s on the fridge. Call me. I love you.”
Those words came automatically, but in the silence that followed, he found himself thinking about what they meant … and how long it had been since they were completely true.
He went to his window and stared out at the glittering Manhattan night. A watery, faded reflection of his own face stared back at him. He closed his eyes, and in the sudden darkness, he saw a younger, brighter version of himself. A man still puffed up with the certainty of his own greatness.
That man walked through another time and place, far from here. Seattle.
Dusk, on a cold winter’s day …