“That’s beside the point,” Andrew said.
“Well, it’s all speculative. You didn’t go here as an undergraduate.”
“I know that. Why do you keep saying that?”
In the beginning, Sam had thought Andrew was like his father, coming from nowhere. He even found Andrew’s anger attractive. It had none of Harry’s self-righteousness but bristled with working-class resentment. As the years went on, these charms waned. Andrew was nothing like Rupert and he was no longer poor, but upper middle class, complaining about co-op prices, like everyone else who lived in Chelsea. Sam was tired of hearing how indulged and spoiled he and his brothers had been.
“Andrew likes my money,” Sam said to his mother. “And he likes insulting me about my money.”
“I think you’re rewriting your past,” Eleanor said. “You loved him. Now you don’t.”
“I thought I maybe loved him, in the beginning. He loved me. He probably still does. He’s a romantic. He thought I was the most wonderful person he’d ever met. It was irresistible, once upon a time,” Sam said. “You know the feeling. Dad adored you—I saw it in the way he looked at you.”
“It’s so interesting hearing my sons’ view of my marriage,” Eleanor said.
“We’re still not willing to see you and Dad as people who exist separate from us. We all had this fantasy of our family life—until the Wolinskis. Now we’re trying to reclaim it.”
“Why don’t you start with Bup? Take him back to your new apartment.” Eleanor nodded toward Limbo. “Would you like a case of Black Label?”
—
Sam began to court Susanna. He started by not apologizing. “I’ve been selfish. I am selfish. That’s not going to change. But I love you and I think we’d be good parents.”
“I used to think so, but not anymore. And the way you dumped Andrew was chilling,” she said. “Gone in sixty seconds.”
“No, no,” Sam said. “It was at least a year in the making. You know that. I kept thinking I could bring him around to a baby.”
“I knew he’d never want a baby, especially my baby. He wanted you all to himself.”
“I was used to getting my way,” he said.
“How do I know you won’t dump me and the baby? You might meet some cute guy at a bar one night and decide the two of you should live in San Francisco. On the water. You have too much money.” She shook her head. “If Charles piked off, it would be OK. He’s first-rate genetic material and a decent person but not someone I care for especially.”
Sam was slow to answer. Susanna’s scenario was not so outlandish it couldn’t happen. “I think I’d love the baby and want to stick around to see him grow up.”
“What if the kid turns into a thirteen-year-old goth with violent tendencies? Where will you be? It’s not enough to pay for Austen Riggs. Are you going to stick around then?”
“My mother and brothers would never speak to me again,” Sam said. “I’d be leaving their grandchild, their niece or nephew.”
“You’re so attached to Team Falkes. They’re the only ones who ever really matter. A baby is not going to make up for your dad’s…” Susanna trailed off, not knowing how to say what she thought. “Be a better son, a better brother.”
“I didn’t know you had such a low opinion of me,” he said.
“I love you, Sam. I always will, but I don’t think that I can count on you for the next twenty-five years.” She looked at him, then away, blinking back tears. The thought she might cry made her angry.
“Have I let you down?” he asked.
“Yes. You sidelined me. Andrew always came before me, between us. We had our dinners, our movies, but I could never drop by, I could never call you spontaneously to go for a drink or meal. You never came to any party I gave, not one.” She shrugged. “And now you’re telling me you’re always going to be selfish. Not exactly a selling line. A Darcy proposal.”
Sam went home to his empty apartment on Gramercy Park. There was no one to call. His mother and brothers would only jump in where Susanna left off. When had he become just a cad, not a charming cad? He loved Susanna but not with the same devotion he loved his mother, his brothers, his grandfather, his father. Andrew had said the same thing. “Team Falkes. Always Team Falkes.”
Sam poured himself a tumbler of Black Label and sank into an ancient armchair that had once been his father’s, the only piece of furniture in his living room, rescued from the West Sixty-Seventh Street purge. How had it come to pass, he asked himself, that at thirty-seven, he was fatherless, husbandless, childless, homeless, friendless? A wave of self-pity swept over him, followed almost immediately by a tide of indignation. He took a swig of scotch. It was Andrew’s fault he hadn’t grown up. He was only twenty-one when they moved in together; Andrew was thirty. Back then, unlike now, being thirty was being an adult. Andrew had taken advantage of him, robbed him of his youth. He’d been old young, like his mother. His mother too was to blame. Swamped by three boys under four, she had shunted him off to his father and grandfather. He’d never known a mother’s love, not the way his brothers had. His brothers too were to blame. Harry and Will had oppressed him. Tom was needy, Jack obnoxious. What were Andrew and Susanna talking about? Team Falkes was nothing to him, not anymore. He took another swig of scotch. The tumbler was half-empty. Or was it half-full? He couldn’t remember which he was, a half-empty or a half-full type. Tom was half-empty, no question, and Jack was half-full. Harry could go either way, depending on the circumstances. Will liked to refill his glass before it got too low. “Topping up, keeping it full,” he’d say.
Will might understand, Sam thought. He wondered if he should call him. He looked at his watch. It was only five thirty in L.A., too early to whine. Will would still be at work, brusque and efficient. Sam sat back, imagining his conversation with Will.
Jesus, Will would say. You’re not even drunk yet and already you’ve thrown everyone overboard….Will would then pause, the Hollywood touch. Except Dad, he’d say softly. What about Dad? Sam tried to think what Dad would think. He could almost hear him say, Susanna’s a great girl. You’re lucky to have her in your life. That would be it.
What is wrong with me? Sam thought, I used to be a decent fellow, more decent than not. People used to like me, people relied on me. I’m worse than Harry. It’s Dad’s fault, dying before we were ready. It’s the Wolinskis. They’ve ruined everything. Sam emptied the glass and went to bed.
—
Sam was home nursing a scotch when Eleanor called. He hadn’t heard from her or Susanna in a week, though he’d called both. Eleanor told him Susanna had had a miscarriage that morning. She had been nine weeks pregnant. Eleanor had spent the day with her. “She’s heartbroken,” Eleanor said. “She has a D and C scheduled for tomorrow afternoon, three thirty. I said I’d go.”