“Thank you,” he said, handing her an envelope.
He turned and disappeared into the crowd. Confused, Wendy opened it.
“State of New York, Probate and Divorce, Healy vs. Healy,” she read quickly, skimming the lines. “Summons for Divorce . . . charged with abandonment . . . Children shall remain in the care of their legal father, Shane Healy, until such decision of the court . . .”
She felt a dizzying relief—the children weren’t dead, at least not to her knowledge at that moment—it was nothing after all, just another one of Shane’s stupid tricks.
Damn him.
The driver suddenly rushed forward and whisked her away. “That’s a low blow,” he remarked indignantly. “Serving your wife with divorce papers right when she gets off a plane. If I’d known what that guy was gonna do, I would have prevented it.”
“Mmmm,” she said noncommittally. This couldn’t really be serious, could it?
“It doesn’t matter. It’s nothing,” she said, with what probably sounded like an inappropriate and eerie coldness. “It’s nothing,” she repeated. “Just another thing I’m going to have to deal with. My husband is insane.”
The driver helped her gently into the car. “If you need some tissues, there’s a box of Kleenex in the console.”
She shook her head dismissively. She wasn’t going to cry. It was always astounding how, at moments like these, you didn’t cry. Instead, there was just a dull, sickly yellowish blankness in her head. Well, well, well, she thought. So that was why Shane wasn’t answering the phone. He was afraid.
It was all too bizarre and pathetic for words.
The night guard looked at her strangely when she walked into her building.
“Is my husband home?” she asked.
The guard looked away and when he turned back and shrugged, there was a slightly hostile expression on his face, as if he was expecting an argument and trying to warn her not to attempt one.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I think they mighta gone away for the weekend.”
Away? This was not possible. Not on top of everything else. Her heart began thumping again in panic.
“You think or you know?” she demanded, pressing the button for the elevator.
“I didn’t see them today. They left yesterday afternoon with suitcases. But I don’t know nothing.”
The elevator opened into a dimly lit hallway with textured cement walls. There was a door at either end; to the right was her apartment. Walking down the hallway, she had the sensation of being out of her body, of following a script that someone else had written. Her own door looked unfamiliar to her, and this too seemed inevitable as opposed to surprising; when she took her key out to fit it in the lock, she saw that the housing for the lock itself was wrong, shiny and new and brassy. She saw the whole terrible scene before her: She would try to fit her key in the lock and it wouldn’t turn, and then in confusion she would think that she was at the wrong door and try the other lock, and then it would dawn on her that Shane had changed the locks. She tried her key anyway, and it was as she imagined: The key slid halfway in and would go no farther, and because she had to exhaust every possibility, she did walk to the other end of the hallway to try her key in the other door. This didn’t work either, and making one more hopeless attempt, she jammed her key in the new lock.
It just stuck there, mocking her.
A wash of despair and helplessness swept over her, and out of this black wash of feeling came the irrational but unquestionable knowledge that something was lost and would never be found again. The day had come, then, she thought; the day she’d been dreading her entire life. She was a complete and utter failure. It couldn’t be denied. She had done everything wrong. She had let everyone down, most of all her children.
The guilt was almost unbearable. She stumbled away from the door, and, bent double in pain, put her palm up against the rough cement wall for support. What was she supposed to do now? Call a locksmith, she supposed, or a lawyer . . . or the police? A terrible sense of inertia overcame her at the thought of all this effort. Or she could just give up and lie down in the hallway. Eventually, Shane would return and find her there.
It was just like her dream, she thought, sinking down to a squat. That dream where she was lying helpless and dying in the hallway, unable to move. She pressed her hands over her eyes, opening her mouth in a silent scream.
She took a deep breath, moving her hands across her face. She must breathe and she must think. The first thing to do would be to call a locksmith—it was what the script demanded—and then she would get into her apartment and look for evidence as to where Shane might have taken the kids. She stood up and picked up her bag. It was simply a waiting game now. She would wait for the locksmith, and then she would find her kids.
She took out her phone and looked at the screen. It was blank. The battery was dead.
So it was going to be that kind of scene. Frantic mother loses kids and is thwarted by circumstances at every turn.
Come on, think! she urged herself. She gathered up her pathetic belongings and went back down to the lobby.
“Do you have the key?” she demanded of the guard.
“We don’t have no keys,” he said stubbornly.
“My husband changed the lock. While I was away. You must have the key.”
“We don’t keep no keys. We’re not allowed to.”
“Who has the key?”
“I dunno.”
“Does the super have the key?”
“I dunno.”
“Do you have his phone number?”
“Nope.”
Standoff. She felt a murderous violence toward this man who was probably only trying to “do his job.” If she were a man, she would have tried to hit him. “What’s your name?” she asked, fumbling in her bag for a pen.
“Lester James.”
“Thank you, Lester. I’m going to have you fired tomorrow.”
“Don’t threaten me, lady.”
“It’s not a threat.”
The encounter sent her heart pulsing wildly in her chest and she pushed through the glass doors to the street. Her fury, now released, was also overwhelming. How dare Shane steal her babies? She stepped out onto the street to hail a cab. A car nearly hit her, swerving at the last minute to avoid her, the driver then leaning on his horn in frustrated anger. She shot him the finger, her anger boiling over into a red-hot rage.
Several taxis passed, all occupied, and after several minutes she realized she was going to have to search for one. She began walking toward Seventh Avenue, carrying her valise, which now felt like it weighed about fifty pounds, and pulling the bedraggled rollerboard suitcase behind her. After a few feet, she stopped to shift the load, catching her breath from the exertion. Why were there no cabs? And noticing the clusters of young people on the street, she suddenly remembered it was Saturday night.
Saturday night in Chelsea at ten o’clock. It couldn’t get much worse. The area was filled with cheap restaurants and chic clubs; it was a destination point for weekend revelers. There would be no taxis, but there was a subway station on Twenty-third Street. And stopping every few feet to shift her load, she made her way painfully and slowly along the three blocks to the entrance of the subway station.
When she reached the chipped blue-painted railing that led to the steps, she paused, however, wondering where it was exactly that she should go. She could try Shane’s parents’ apartment on Central Park West—it was possible that Shane had left the kids there for the weekend and had taken off himself—but it was also possible that they wouldn’t be there, in which case she would waste at least half an hour in getting there, only to discover that she couldn’t get in. Or she could try Victory or Nico, but they might not be home either. The best plan was to go to a hotel . . . and she suddenly remembered that Parador Pictures had a corporate suite at the Mercer. She had never used it herself, it being a remnant from the days when Comstock Dibble had been the head of Parador and had us
ed it for his legendary after-parties and affairs. But she was quite sure the company still owned it—whenever the issue came up, someone always pointed out that they’d gotten it for so cheap, it was worth hanging on to.
For emergencies, she thought grimly, starting down the stairs, the rollerboard bouncing awkwardly behind her. A gaggle of girls pushed past her, nearly tripping her up; they wore short skirts and inexpensive high heels, and were chattering excitedly like starlings, full of youthful bravado. Did they know what was in store for them? Wendy wondered, looking them up and down with annoyance and admiration for their childish excitement. If they felt her stare, they didn’t show it, and, she suddenly realized, why should they? To them, she was completely insignificant, invisible, and even if they knew she was the head of Parador Pictures, would they have cared or been impressed? She doubted it. To them, she was nothing more than a desperate middle-aged woman, the kind of woman young girls looked at and, turning to their girlfriends, whispered, “Shoot me if I ever get to be like her, huh?”
But they would become like her. That’s what the young refused to understand. Everybody got older and shit happened to you. Bad shit. Shit you couldn’t control . . .
She stepped onto the train, riding downtown in a bubble of anonymity, grateful that no one was looking at her. She sighed and got off the train at the Spring Street station, dragging herself wearily up the steps to an old street paved with cobblestones. Out of all the neighborhoods in Manhattan, Soho in particular had the charged atmosphere of a movie set, populated with passersby who looked like extras from Central Casting, so perfectly did they fit into this environment. There was the feeling of everything being not quite real, or too perfectly clichéd to actually be true, and it began to rain in a fine, misty drizzle from a black patent leather sky.
She finally spoke to Shane at eleven-fifteen p.m.
He answered his phone with a rough and suspicious “Hello,” like a criminal on the run, she thought. She was relieved to hear his voice; and angry and frightened—frightened that he wouldn’t tell her where the children were, or that he might hang up on her, suspecting that he’d picked up the call only because she had dialed from the hotel phone and he hadn’t recognized the number. The wrongness of everything he’d done—taking her children, serving her with divorce papers, locking her out of her own apartment—was suddenly so overwhelming, she didn’t know where to begin. He had effectively cut her off at the knees. He had all the power and she none.
“Shane . . .” she began, firmly but not too aggressively.
He hesitated, from guilt or fear or surprise—trying to judge, she suspected, the tone in her voice and whether or not it was safe to go on.
“Oh, hi,” he said, as if bracing himself.
“Where are the children?” She walked unconsciously to the window, her head down, all her concentration focused on this tenuous lifeline held up to her ear.
“They’re fine. They’re with me,” he said defensively.
“Where are you?” she asked, almost lightly. It suddenly occurred to her that the best way to handle this scene was to throw him off by going counterintuitive, acting like nothing at all was wrong.
“We’re in Palm Beach,” he said, sounding slightly confused. “We came down to look at some ponies . . .”
“That’s nice,” she said, thinking that by now he must be completely flummoxed, wondering where she was calling from and if her plane had been delayed and if she’d even gone home yet to discover what he’d done.
“Yeah,” he said cautiously. “My parents came down too . . .”
“That’s great,” she said enthusiastically. “A real family outing. I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it.” There was a sarcastic edge in her voice, but she gasped inwardly, suddenly grasping the significance of the situation. They had all gone off without her. They didn’t want her, didn’t need her, didn’t care about her, didn’t want her around. It was like being the one kid in the class who wasn’t invited to the birthday party, but about a thousand times worse. The hurt shocked her; it drained all the fight out of her.
It had never crossed her mind that they would all conspire to alienate her.
She sat down on the edge of the bed, fighting to compose her feelings enough to be able to speak. “So where are you all staying?” she asked, with a self-conscious brightness.
“Mom found a special rate at the Breakers,” Shane whispered. He sounded sad.
“Oh. The Breakers. It’s supposed to be beautiful there,” she said.
“They have three pools,” he said helplessly. Pause. She inhaled stuffily, her nose filled with mucus from impending tears. She squeezed her eyes shut and tightened her mouth as if trying to keep the sorrow in. “Wendy?” he asked. “Have you, uh . . .”
She wasn’t going to let him get into it, not when she felt so utterly defeated. “Is Magda there?” she asked quickly. “Can I talk to her?”—thinking how pathetic it was to have to beg your husband to talk to your own children.
“She’s probably asleep . . .” Her heart hardened in despair. “I’ll go see,” Shane said, taking pity.
She waited anxiously, like a teenager whose life is ruled by fear of rejection.
“Hello?” Magda’s voice, velvet with sleep and yet surprisingly grown-up.
“Hi, sweetheart. How are you?” Her voice intimate and gentle.
“I’m good. We saw the best pony today. He’s fourteen hands and dapple gray.” This delivered with the prideful discovery of expertise.
“Are you all right? How are Tyler and Chloe?”
“Tyler says he wants a pony too, but he’s too young, isn’t he, Mother? He should have to wait until he’s at least twelve. Like me.”
“I don’t know, Magda . . .”
“And Grandma and Grandpa are here.”
“Where’s Chloe?”
“She’s sleeping in the bed with me, and Tyler’s sleeping with Dad . . . Where are you, Mother? Are you home?”
“I’m in New York.” She hesitated, then went on. “I’m in a hotel. Daddy changed the locks to the apartment and I couldn’t get in.”
“Oh,” Magda said. And in the tone of that one word was everything, Wendy thought. It was sad and understanding and sympathetic and frightened and helpless and yet removed. She knows, Wendy thought. She knows exactly what’s going on, and doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do about it.
“Everything is going to be just fine, though,” Wendy said confidently, conquering the urge to lean emotionally on her twelve-year-old daughter, to cajole her for information, to make her a co-conspirator in this drama against her daddy—or, more realistically perhaps, against herself. She felt so vulnerable, but that was her problem; a child shouldn’t have to comfort its parent.
“Is it, Mother?” Magda asked.
“Yes, sweetheart, it is,” Wendy said, with a false bright note of optimism. “When are you coming home?”
“Tomorrow,” Magda said. And then, as if she really had been reassured, added, “Oh, Mother. I can’t wait for you to see my pony!”
A small noise involuntarily escaped from the back of Wendy’s throat, like the surprised squeak of a mouse at the moment the trap is sprung. She swallowed heavily. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” she said. “I’ll call you tomorrow morning . . .”
“Good-bye, Mother.”
Wendy put the phone back in its cradle. All she could think about was how Magda had said she couldn’t wait for her to see her pony, not that she couldn’t wait to see her.
She eased herself carefully down onto the bed. Her children were fine and they hated her . . . Nice! Must call lawyer. And her hand moved slowly back toward the phone and wrestled the receiver from its holster. She hit the talk button and imagined herself dialing the phone . . . but who to call? . . . Of course, the head of counsel for Splatch-Verner . . . and she imagined getting up and finding his number in the small blue book containing the important phone numbers for important executives . . . but would his home number be listed?
. . . And she was dialing the phone, but she couldn’t get the numbers right and she kept having to start over again . . .
She woke up an hour later, whimpering like a beaten dog. Shane! The kids! Divorce! Anger pulsed through her, gaining momentum like an out-of-control train.
She dialed the phone then, not making a mistake. “The Breakers Hotel. In Palm Beach.” Pause. Please press one for an additional charge of sixty cents . . . “Shane Healy, please.”
“Hello?” That tone—as if he knew another call would come, and was dreading its arrival.
“How could you lock me out, Shane?”
“I had to.” He was more prepared this time.
“Why?”
“Tyler’s asleep!” Accusingly, as if she were deliberately trying to hurt her own child.
“And serving me with divorce papers too.”
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow. When we get back.”
“We’ll talk about it now.”
“Go to sleep.” Wearily.
“You can’t do this. It won’t work. It’s illegal . . .”
“Go to sleep. Please.”
“Don’t you care that I was out of my mind with fear? That I had to come to the Mercer? Do you care about me at all?”
“You’re not the first person it’s ever happened to.” What the hell did that mean? “And you can handle it.”
“I can’t . . .”
“Go to sleep.” Hiss, click.
And then lying awake praying for morning, until some kind of jagged sleep came, and then the five a.m. phone call, and now, and now, and now . . .
Wendy looked out the window of the taxi.
Early morning highway under an orange-white sky. From across the river, the sun lit the tips of Manhattan’s skyscrapers, brushing them with gold. She shuddered. It was going to be a nice day.
Chapter 11
IN A BANNER ACROSS THE TOP OF THE NEW YORK Post that Sunday was the headline, “New York’s 50 Most Powerful Women.” Sitting in Victory Ford’s office with her feet up on the glass coffee table, her face hidden behind this newspaper, was the comedienne and actress Glynnis Rourke.