“It looks like she’s going to lose it.”
“What do you mean?” Gordon asked. “She’s going to lose her sight?”
“Well, yes, on that side,” the doctor said. “She’ll have some trouble with depth perception, possibly get headaches while her brain adjusts to the new reality.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” said Gordon. “A few headaches.”
“And also the eye.”
“What’s that, now?”
“The eye,” the doctor repeated. “Ball. She’s going to lose the eyeball.”
Years later, looking back, Gordon could never be sure who had first noticed Kelly was awake.
What he remembered perfectly was the whoosh of the Baccarat vase missing his face by mere inches, and then Kelly’s voice, clear as a bell, saying, “I want a divorce!”
Twenty
The idea that one’s marriage should be a primary arena for self-actualization can be profoundly destabilizing. The truth is that growing while married often means growing apart.
—Constance Waverly
The Eros Manifesto
Three days after the Death of Fat Black, Owen and Lucy received an e-mail from Gordon Allen’s attorney. He arranged to meet them at their house while Wyatt was off at school late the following week in order to discuss “the events that transpired inside the church.”
“What does he mean by that, ‘the events that transpired inside the church’?” Lucy said to Owen. “Gordon Allen’s Doberman killed our son’s chicken. Is he going to try to turn this into our fault?”
“I think that’s just the way lawyers write e-mails.”
The attorney introduced himself as Hugh Willix—Lucy remembered him from the school-board meeting; he had a very distinctive look, bald and birdlike, with a razor-sharp nose—and he accepted Lucy’s offer of a cup of coffee and complimented them on their lovely home and asked about their experience with the local school system and basically chatted for a good ten minutes like this was a purely social visit.
It wasn’t until Lucy topped off his cup of coffee that he brought things around to the matter at hand.
“I’m guessing you two realize why I asked to meet with you,” he said. “Gordon Allen is very upset about what happened at the church. He wasn’t there, as you know, and his son Rocco was in the charge of his nanny, but Gordon is very concerned about what took place and he would like to offer you compensation for the, uh, chicken and for any and all emotional toll that might, either now or at some unforeseen time in the future, spring from the events in question.
“Perhaps an education fund for your son,” he continued. “Or a trust to make sure he is taken care of in the event you are no longer able to care for him. Even some money to make your lives easier. I understand, and I hope I’m not out of line by mentioning this, well, I understand Wyatt has some special needs. Mr. Allen is truly sorry for what transpired in that church, and he wants to make sure your family and your son are well taken care of.”
“We’re not going to sue Gordon Allen,” said Owen. “We’re not those people.”
“See, I appreciate that. And Mr. Allen appreciates that. But here’s the problem. I’m an attorney. I get paid to worry. Right? That’s what I do. I worry, I wake up in the middle of the night worrying, and in order to stop worrying, I have to do things a certain way to protect my clients. I have to dot my i’s and cross my t’s. And if I just walk away now, and we all agree nobody is suing anybody, and everything is fine, I will have to worry about this for the next forty years or so. I’m kindly asking you to save me from that.”
“What do you want us to do?” asked Lucy.
“I want you to take a few days, a few weeks, even, talk about it with each other, and think about what you want. Mr. Allen is in a unique position to be generous, and he is deeply saddened by any distress he has caused your family and your son.”
This is my blank check, Lucy thought.
It could all be so easy. Life had been so hard for so long, and now she could feel the tide turning, and she was floating on a raft down a stream with the sun on her face. She could feel problems falling down in front of her like dominoes, and this one, the last one, how to make it all work, had, by some miracle, been solved.
“Here’s my card if you have any questions or concerns,” he said on his way out the door. “And I’ll get in touch with you before too long. Just give it some thought.”
Later that night, after dinner, Lucy was loading the dishwasher when she said quietly, “I don’t want to say no to the money.”
“What?” said Owen. He looked up from his laptop. “You mean Gordon Allen’s money? Are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious. I’m very serious.”
“It was a chicken, Lucy.”
“It might have been traumatic for Wyatt,” she said. “We don’t know if it was or not. There’s no way to tell for sure.”
Just then, Wyatt hurried down the stairs pulling his six-foot-long stuffed boa constrictor behind him like a tail. He walked through the kitchen on the balls of his feet.
“Heels down, Wyatt,” said Lucy.
Wyatt put his heels down for two steps and then unthinkingly resumed his toe-walking into the playroom.
“Do you want to be that kind of people?”
“What kind of people, Owen? Rich, lucky people? Yes. Yes, I do want to be those people, Owen. I’m tired of everything being so hard.”
“You want this to be the story of your life?” said Owen. “That you sued a billionaire over something that was truly nobody’s fault? I mean it, Lucy, have a little integrity.”
“We don’t have to sue anyone,” said Lucy. “You heard him. He’ll give us whatever we want.”
*
Owen went into the downstairs bathroom with his cell phone.
He sat down on the toilet and powered it on. Ninety-eight texts, all from Izzy.
He scrolled through, not really reading them. This was not going to be easy, it seemed. No matter what he did, Izzy would not stop with the texting. It was getting to be a problem. He thought about changing his number. He really didn’t want to, his entire work life was tied to that phone number, but it was starting to look like it might be his only option.
A slew of new texts started popping up on his screen while he was scrolling.
I know you’re getting these
I can see you reading them
You’re sitting on the fucking toilet Come outside, please
I’d rather not have to knock on your door I’m going to knock on the door in three minutes, Owen.
Owen quickly fired off a text that said, Can we do this later? At your place?
No.
Now.
Two minutes till I knock.
Owen walked into the kitchen and told Lucy he had to go outside for a bit.
“How come?” she asked.
“There’s, um, kind of a situation I have to deal with.”
Lucy just stared at him. “Is she here, Owen? Is she on our property? That is not okay. Tell her I’m going to call the police. No, actually, let me tell her.”
“Let me handle it.”
“You’re not handling this well, Owen. You seem to have lost control of things,” said Lucy.