And there it was. All of a sudden the whole mess seemed to resolve into clarity. My wife of twelve years wanted to get away from me so badly that she had resorted to entrapment, and Andie couldn’t stay away from me. My silence must have scared her, because her next words were spoken in a tone that was all business.
“Listen to me,” she said. “This will be a long fight and most definitely a court battle, but no matter what happens to my career, I will testify about what I’ve done and what we haven’t. I can testify to her attempt at collusion and procurement. It won’t be easy, but she will leave your marriage with nothing more than she came in with.”
Scenes from every divorce movie from Kramer vs. Kramer to The War of the Roses ran through my head. The fountain in front of the Plaza began to spin again. I squeezed my eyes tight. Maybe it was the cinematic setting, maybe it was the sudden moment of clarity, but I knew what I had to do.
In one of the most storied spots in all Manhattan, I took Andie Rand’s face in my hands and kissed her with a passion I had not felt in years. In my head I imagined I could hear the shutter of the photographer’s camera.
She broke away in protest. “What are you doing? Are you crazy?”
I smiled at her, feeling sure of myself for the first time in a long time. “Kiss the girl or waste months in a drawn-out court battle with my cheating wife and, let’s not forget, the mother of my child? I am most definitely not crazy.”
I kissed her again. This time she gave in. When we finally came up for air, she laughed. “That kiss is going to cost you.”
I laughed as well. “What’s five million dollars, give or take, when you have more money than you could ever use?”
She smiled. “I meant lunch.”
“How about the Oyster Bar?” I asked.
“It’s a date.” She laughed again.
“Our first,” I said, taking her hand in mine as we both practically skipped down Fifth Avenue, our own personal photographer in tow. I knew I had a lot of important decisions ahead of me, but for now I would just concentrate on the first: lobster bisque or clam chowder?
CHAPTER 33
’Til Death Do Us Part
By Seth Carson, Five-Time Loser (Soon to Be Six)
Age: Old enough to know better
I work at the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Chapel on Madison Avenue. It might sound to you like I’m saying that with pride. I’m not. The only thing I’m proud of is my biceps. Other people who work here definitely do it with pride. Even the security guard who works the night shift acts like he’s guarding the crown jewels. I will say, if you die in New York City, the Frank E. Campbell funeral home is the place to go—the last club worth becoming a member of. You would be counted along with famous actors, singers, politicians, and a whole slew of over-the-top rich people. My boss still goes on about Judy Garland’s and John Lennon’s funerals, but if I was going to name-drop, I would mention Biggie Smalls and the mobster Frank Costello. I wouldn’t have minded being here for those two. Most days are just normal people—normal dead people, that is.
Today I was hoping to be out by five so I could pick up a present for my new girlfriend’s birthday, but the undertaking business is so damn unpredictable. That’s what my boss was always preaching: You have to be available, Seth. “People don’t phone us on Tuesday saying, ‘We’ll be pulling the plug on Aunt Becky on Thursday.’ No one forwards an advance copy of his suicide note to the mortician—‘Feeling desperately depressed and will not be able to hold on much longer. Please expect me next Thursday by three.’?”
He thinks he’s being funny, and everyone makes it worse by laughing at him. Personally, I don’t think it’s funny at all. Everything else has to be booked in advance—dinner reservations, back waxing, car detailing, everything but death. And that’s how the woman from the front page of today’s Post has jammed up my Friday night.
They brought her in at two to be embalmed. Embalming usually takes around three hours, dressing and casketing around one. My job was just the last part, to dress and casket the body. I wasn’t trained to be an embalmer, and I’ve been told I’m not nice enough to handle the intake process—dealing with grieving family members takes some kind of sensitivity that I apparently don’t have. I’m better with dead people. Whatever. I’d been here longer than at any other job I’d had since failing college, and I was getting used to it. Though believe me, it took some getting used to.