The Heights Part 2

That night, after a war was fought to get both boys in bed, I knew what was coming. In bed with the lights out, Kate turned on her side, faced me, and attempted to discuss certain pressing budgetary matters. "How can we cut back, spend less? How are we going to survive another year on your salary?" She said it innocently enough, but her question cut. I said, "Oh, please, honey. Not now. Not after tonight with the boys, not after the Bea Myerly of it all." Kate: "I'm worried." Me: "But we have more stuff than ninety-eight percent of the world's population. Do you know how far my salary could take us in Kenya or Mozambique?"

I'd used this tactic before, but always with different countries. Kate usually countered, "Tim, we don't live in those places." And I'd say, "Yes, and we should be grateful," even though, I don't know, maybe those countries are the most magnificent places in the world to live. Maybe we'd be ecstatically happy walking among the naked peoples of wherever people are naked. Maybe we should be terribly sad and wake up weeping that not only did we not live in these places, we had never seen these places. If presented with this argument, Kate would sigh, "You're impossible," and I'd almost say, "Maybe we should move," knowing full well that Kate didn't want to move. She loved the Heights. She loved its panoramic view of lower Manhattan, its bucolic-looking streets with sweet idyllic-sounding names-Cranberry Street, Pineapple Street, Orange and Willow, Grace Court, Love Lane, Sydney Place, Garden Place, Willow Place-and most especially, that street of streets, our street, Oak Lane, that lone leafy block of dreamy childhoods and a favorite of Christmas carolers: The old brick fronts with the bluestone sidewalks and the original cobblestone paving gave a group of carolers the acoustic equivalent of Carnegie Hall. The sound, the bounce! Five singers felt like fifty. Bottom line: Kate didn't want to move, and it would be unfair of me to threaten it. Moving for Kate was equivalent to the abuse of children, for as a child, she had moved often, sometimes monthly, at least once a year.

Because Kate had heard my Mozambique argument before, I was disappointed when she provided no valid counterattack. Instead, she grew quiet and said, sniffling, "I was just trying to think of a way to make it easier for you, a way to relieve some of the pressure."

"There's no pressure," I said, lying. Kate covered her available ear with a pillow. Regrettably, I snapped, "Well, if you're so worried about money, maybe you should get a job."

That was when she let the pillow fall away. "It's funny you'd say that, because Bruno called. He wants to have lunch."

When we first moved to New York, Kate worked for Bruno Schwine at the Foundation for an Ethical Future. When Kate quit to raise our boys, Bruno left to start his own consulting firm, absurdly named Bruno Schwine a.s.sociates, even though he was the only employee. At the time Kate had scolded Bruno because he'd gone to work for the enemy, as a freelance adviser to that biotech behemoth, the Monsanto Corporation.

"He may have some ideas," she said carefully. "Maybe even a job offer."

"Bruno Schwine?" I snorted. "Fine, knock yourself out!"

KATE.

ALL MORNING I WORRIED ABOUT WHAT TO WEAR. I TRIED THE GRAY PANTSUIT, THE beige silk s.h.i.+rt, and the pearl earrings; I tried the tan slacks, the light blue blouse, and my tiny teacup earrings; I tried the faded jeans, the striped pink sweater, and no earrings. After trying nearly every conceivable combination of my best and favorite clothes, I decided to start over from scratch. I was naked when the phone rang.

Part of me hoped it was Bruno Schwine calling to cancel, since this little decision of what to wear was proving too big for me. It wasn't that I was excessively vain; but I knew my choice of clothes would say a great deal about my intentions, and I didn't know what mine were. Was I a mother at this lunch, or a future employee, or was I, quite simply, an old friend meeting to talk about old times?

Picking up the phone, I heard static. It was a bad connection.

"Kate?"

"Yes?"

It was someone calling from a cell phone.

"Who is it?"

"It's Anna. Anna Brody."

Anna Brody who had left a message the week before, Anna Brody whose number I couldn't read because my husband had doodled on the back of the envelope where I'd written it, Anna Brody who wasn't listed in the Manhattan phone book, the Brooklyn phone book, or with directory a.s.sistance. "Oh," I said, "I've been wanting to call you."

"It's all right."

"No, I can explain. See, one of my kids scribbled on the piece of paper where I'd wrote your number." Wrote? "I mean written."

"Is this a bad time?"

I'm naked, I'm late, and you're not Bruno Schwine calling to cancel. "Yes," I said. "It kind of is."

"I'm sorry to keep calling . . ."

"No, no, it's no bother."

"I just wanted to ask you something about the neighborhood."

"Go ahead," I said as I stepped into my underwear.

"Philip's worried . . ."

Philip, I decided, must be her husband.

"He's worried I'll be bored."

"When my Teddy says he's bored, I tell him he's not bored. He's boring."

"You do not."

"No, but I will when he gets older, because it's what I believe. Or what I've been told to believe."

She laughed.

"We absolutely love it here," I told her. "The people are nice. It's beautiful. You can walk pretty much everywhere. Best part is even if one of your distant relatives dies, your neighbors will bring you homemade soups, cookies, and trays of lasagna. You won't have to cook for weeks. And since you have money . . ."

I stopped midthought. Oops.

But Anna seemed completely at ease. "Go on, Kate," she said. "Since I have money . . . ?"

"There's no end to what you can do here." I checked the clock by our bed. Late, so late. "Maybe we could speak more later?"

"Not necessary. You see, the truth is . . . ?"

"Yes?"

"You more than answered my questions."

"I did?"

The signal momentarily faded.

"Kate, can you hear me? You know this isn't . . . connection. Look, I'll call ag-sometime. Soon."

Until Teddy was born, I worked with Bruno at the Foundation for an Ethical Future. We were a ragtag, indefatigable bunch of futurists. We were never about predicting what would happen. We merely tried to imagine what could. Our work was to help our clients "rehea.r.s.e" their responses to a variety of possible futures. As our fearless leader, Bruno had the idea to use the scenario-creating techniques developed by the RAND Corporation in the 1950s that had been modified for business purposes by Royal Dutch/Sh.e.l.l after the 1973 oil embargo. Bruno's genius was to apply these same techniques to various nonprofits. We didn't have much money, but we had the belief that these organizations and community groups (the Vera Inst.i.tute of Justice, the Eliot Feld Ballet, etc.) were as important as weapons of ma.s.s destruction and our addiction to oil, and, more important, we had that most underrated and essential of currencies-the belief that we were right.

When I arrived at Siggy's Good Food on Henry Street, I looked right past the bone-thin man waving in my direction. I was embarra.s.sed about not recognizing Bruno right away. But he didn't look well. His cheeks were hollow, and he was much too skinny. Still, he smiled as I sat down. "Pictures, please," he said.

I brought out the pocket-size photo alb.u.m I carried of the boys. Bruno fawned over each picture, noting that Teddy looked just like Tim, and Sam had some of me.

I asked if he was well.

"Better now that I'm with you." He paused, but not long enough for me to ask what was up with his health. "Kate, question: Have you heard of Louis Underfer?"

"Can't say that I have."

"Have you heard of Cortez?"

"The conquistador?"

"No, the corporation."

"Sorry," I said. "But I'm well versed in Barney and Big Bird."

Bruno laughed faintly, took my hands, and said, "I want to make this as easy as possible for you." He had just returned from his fortieth high school reunion in Webster Groves, Missouri, where he had reconnected with his childhood adversary, Louis Underfer, the billionaire founder/CEO of Cortez.

"Google him, and you'll learn more than you need to know. Anyway, Louis is almost as rich as he is guilty. Which is good for us."

Bruno went on to explain that during the reunion barbecue, in front of several former cla.s.smates, he had attacked Louis about the dangerous and irresponsible actions of giant corporations like Cortez, accusing them all of "careless disregard for the children and the children's children." Louis walked away in a huff, but apparently, Bruno had gotten under his skin, because Bruno said proudly, "He called me when I got to New York and offered me a job. I hung up. When he called back, I said, 'Why should I work for you?' And this is what he said: 'You're right, Bruno. I'm a blessed man. I can do more, but I need your help. Make me better.'"

Bruno explained that Louis Underfer already had a foundation in place. He wanted Bruno to help him figure out where to give his money.

"So I named my price, and also named yours, insisting that I'd only be willing to work with him if I could hire the brightest, most tenacious, and most ethical person I've ever encountered."

Like my mother, Bruno tended to exaggerate. But he was convincing, because he nearly made me a believer.

He went on, "We can go over the details later, but basically, we'll be seeking out worthy organizations and award them grants." He added with a wink, "We'll be Santa, but without the suit."

Bruno was the most flirtatious h.o.m.os.e.xual I'd ever known. At times he seemed to have a crush on me. The sweet kind, though, much like how a boy feels toward his best friend's little sister. Innocent. Nothing s.e.xual. Other times he exuded a kind of paternal pride, as if I were the daughter he'd always yearned for and never had.

"Think about it."

I promised I would.

"Oh, I hope you'll like this-we won't be starting until the fall. And since we're giving away Louis Underfer's blood money, here's what I imagined for your salary." He wrote down an amount on the back of a paper napkin and slid it my way.

After my lunch with Bruno, I was too wound up to head straight home. So I walked to the Promenade, still clutching the napkin. My mind was racing. Maybe because I was both giddy and scared, I made up a little poem. I even sang it to myself as I stood in my favorite spot and looked across the East River to Manhattan.

Bruno Schwine is sick

The sky is clear blue

Anna Brody called me

Look at this view

That was what I wished I had told Anna Brody: It's the view. You can't be bored here because of the view.

To this day Tim believes he did the convincing. As we walked over the Brooklyn Bridge that first time, he tried to dazzle me with the history of its construction, the story of the man who'd designed it, his son who'd built it, and the son's wife who'd made sure it was finished. But in truth, it was the view. Not from the bridge-no, it was the view I saw once we'd made it to the other side. Sure, I'd seen it in photographs and often in films and on television. That day, standing on the Promenade, a slight breeze blowing, the whoosh of traffic racing below on the BQE, looking across New York Harbor at majestic Manhattan and where the Twin Towers had once been, I had the distinct feeling this place could be home.

Tim already knew the view. He'd paced the Promenade just days earlier in the moments before his interview with Dr. Millicent Vandeventer, the controversial headmistress and founder of Montague Academy. It was a quick interview, and he was hired, because Dr. Millicent Vandeventer was in desperate need of a teacher. Had she more time, Tim believed, she'd have kept looking; had a car not crashed into a restaurant window in Cambridge, Ma.s.sachusetts, running over nearly twenty people and killing four, one of whom was Sadie Brier, the recent Phi Beta Kappa graduate from Harvard, who had been hired to teach history at Montague. Had this not happened, Tim never would have gotten the job, nor would he have formulated one of his most popular teaching games-Bad News/Good News. An example: It was bad news that William McKinley was a.s.sa.s.sinated. It was good news that Teddy Roosevelt became president. Or: It was bad news that they crucified Jesus, because it's not nice to kill G.o.d's only son. It was good news that they crucified Jesus, because He had the good fortune to be G.o.d's only son, and if they hadn't . . . and so forth, so on, etc. Tim's idea is that one way to soften life's cruel blows is to understand that your bad news is quite likely someone else's good news. But the reverse is also true: Our good fortune came at the expense of young Sadie Brier, who never got to teach at Montague. And now, to add to the pile, I had just been offered a tasty job at a rather inflated salary, while my former boss, Bruno Schwine, was not only facing a summer of treatments for colon and prostate cancer, he also had a constellation of suspicious moles on his backside that may very well have been melanoma. Bad news, indeed.

That afternoon when I returned home, I found the boys standing at the top of our stairwell, begging me to hurry up the steps. "You got a box!" Teddy shouted. The boys hoped for toys, but Tim knew better, because the box was a crate, and on the side was stamped HEIGHTS LIQUOR.

Tim said, "It was just delivered."

"Mommy, open it, open it!"

Tim used the claw from our hammer to pry open the crate. Inside were twelve bottles of expensive wines, reds and whites. Inside a second, gift-wrapped smaller box was a bottle of Cristal. "Yippee," Tim said, pleased, because he drinks only champagne.

Disappointed, the boys returned to the living room/dining room/ toy room, where they had been watching a video. I wanted to tell Tim about Bruno's proposal, but he insisted I open the small envelope taped to the box, so I did. The note was written on Frida Fabritz's personal stationery.

Kate- For the biggest single home sale (by far) in the history of the Heights, I have you to thank. My client says that you, and you alone, made the difference.

Enjoy.

TIM.

OH, WE WERE DRUNK, AND IT WAS LATE, AND KATE HAD BEEN CRYPTIC AT BEST. AND I, barely a drinker, kept draining the champagne from my flute (really a gla.s.s) while begging for details. Since the work was with Bruno, it would be important but low-paying. "Au contraire," Kate said. The money? Spectacular. How much? Kate was almost embarra.s.sed by the figure. How was she to wrap her mind around the fact that by quitting work to have children, that by virtue of being out of the loop for a fistful of years, she would have increased her value threefold . . .

Ha, there it was.

Her value had increased threefold!

"Wow," I said.

"I know," Kate said, not believing it herself.

Even this drunk husband couldn't help but notice the change in his wife. The six-figure job offer had given Kate a renewed sense of her own worth. It was all over her. Mostly, it was in her eyes.

The possibility of it all must have been too much for her, because Kate started turning off the lights and said, "Let's talk about it tomorrow."

"What's to talk about?" I said, following her. "Take the job with Bruno Schwine, work hard for a year, make buckets of money."

"But the kids. What about the kids?"

"What about them?"

"I can't leave them with a babysitter."

"You don't have to. I'll take care of them."