…
At precisely eight-thirty that morning, Richard called a lawyer from his mother-in-law’s guest bedroom. He was beyond tired, but his hangover was responding to the Advil and the gallons of water he had been drinking; he no longer worried that the excruciating spikes of pain behind his eyes were going to cause him to wilt like a flower in a fast-motion film—to just collapse against a door or a wall with his head in his hands. He rang the fellow who had drawn up Kristin’s and his wills and set up their trust, relieved that he had the attorney’s home number on his cell phone and that the guy actually picked up. He was pretty sure that Bill O’Connell knew next to nothing about criminal law and probably wouldn’t end up representing him—if, please, no, he actually needed representation—but he had to begin somewhere. He was glad now that the attorney was male. The last thing he wanted to do was explain to a woman what happened last night. And, as he expected, Bill told Richard that he wasn’t his man. But the firm did have a couple of people who could help him, one who was indeed female, and one who was male. Immediately Richard asked for the home phone of the attorney who was male, but Bill surprised him.
“I think you should call Dina. Sam is very, very good, but Dina is a lot smarter than me—and probably, based on what went on in your home last night, a lot smarter than you. She has to be the smartest person I know. And if you ever do need her as a face—in depositions or in court—it would be great to have a woman.”
“I’d really prefer a man, Bill.”
“Get over it. Sam is terrific—he really is. But in this case, you’ll be a lot better off with Dina.”
He swallowed hard. He thought of his wife and his daughter. He had to be smart about this. He took down Dina’s number.
“One more thing,” Bill said.
“Sure.”
“Don’t talk to reporters. If you get a call and don’t recognize or can’t see the number, don’t pick up.”
“Reporters,” he murmured, repeating the single word to himself. He recalled what the detective had said in his living room. “Fuck.”
“Yup. Be smart about that, too. Don’t say anything. Eventually they will find you. It’s their job. When you don’t take their calls, they might come to your house. They might come to the building where you work. So postpone the inevitable. By the time they corner you, you can just send them to Dina.”
He thought again of Kristin and Melissa, this time imagining what they were going to read about him: his looming public mortification. He wanted to crawl into the bed on which he was sitting and pull the covers over his head. He really did need to sleep. Almost desperately. But he couldn’t close his eyes. Not yet, anyway. As soon as he said good-bye to Bill, he called Dina. He must have sounded so pitiable, so pathetically in need, that she agreed to meet him in ninety minutes in her office in midtown. He would have used that time to nap, but he had to shower and shave; he needed to wash last night from his body.
…
In his mother-in-law’s elevator, he realized that he was murmuring to himself. He shook his head and told himself he was doing this only because he was overwrought and he was alone. He was in no danger of becoming a street mumbler.
But he did recall how strangely sensitive he became on airplanes, especially when he was traveling alone on business. Movies seemed sadder, novels more poignant. He recalled watching a comedy—a wistful little bauble about a pair of aging lovers—he had seen a few months earlier with Kristin, and this time having to dab discreetly at the edge of his eyes. Another time, about fifteen minutes after takeoff, he had pulled a werewolf novel from his bag and started to read. When the werewolf was killed, he had put the book down and found himself…unmoored. Wow, he remembered thinking, you’re losing it over a fictional dead werewolf? Seriously? He considered whether he was emotionally stunted.
But maybe it was merely his lack of control on an airplane—every passenger’s lack of control on an airplane. A subconscious fear of flying. The reality that flights are often about beginnings and endings.
Then again, perhaps it was just the loneliness—the being alone.
Outside his mother-in-law’s building he stood for a moment on the curb. This, he decided, was being alone. It dwarfed the loneliness that could besiege a person at thirty-five thousand feet. He was as alone as he’d ever been in his life.
He shook his head. He gathered himself. He hailed a cab.