RIVERSIDE DRIVE, MANHATTAN
EARLY SEPTEMBER
He was concentrating now. Focused. This was the tricky part. The acrid caustic smell pervaded the room. Even though it was a sizable room—he’d gone for the best he could afford—the smell inhabited every corner.
He moved closer, seeing that flicker of fear in her eyes. He smiled, trying to reassure her. But of course she couldn’t see it, he was hidden behind the mask. Carefully, he chose a different burr—smaller, sharper. The woman said nothing as he made adjustments. She lay there, prone, captive, vulnerable. Her fingers drummed the hand rests. He didn’t know if she was usually a talkative woman or if the earlier chatter had been to hide the fear. Whatever the truth of it, she couldn’t say anything now. She could only blink as he did the talking.
She’d told him she was a runner. So he spoke about his new route through the park. How he’d thought about training for the marathon but had left it too late for this year. He told her how he’d enjoyed swimming on Long Island during the summer but that they’d returned home early with warnings of a hurricane.
The vein in her neck was pulsing and he could feel her breath hot on his latex glove. In any other setting it could have been an intimate encounter. Not here. There were three of them in the room now.
“More composite?” asked Dana.
“Thank you.” He reached over.
Dana was efficient, took the job seriously, and rarely spoke unless it was entirely necessary. She never joked and never saw the humor in anything. Before, Oscar and Susan found it fun to see who could prize a smile from Dana but this fruitless game fell to Oscar alone since Susan’s departure.
“Curing light?” Dana asked a few moments later.
“Yes, yes.” He shouldn’t snap. Behind the mask, he gritted his teeth. It was her job to anticipate but he found the woman irritating.
His patient’s eyes flashed between him and Dana. He winked as if to let her in on a joke. Dana was getting under his skin. She was the outsider in the room. But if he was honest, he knew what was really pissing him off. He needed sugar. At this point in the afternoon, he always craved it. Like he could devour a Hershey’s bar in one single bite, and then another, and another. Instead, he’d send Dana out for a linseed snack bar and a fat-free latte. He couldn’t afford to feel bunged up. He was meeting Harry later.
“There was a lot of decay?”
The woman looked at him, wide-eyed and relieved. He depressed the chair lever and slowly brought her into an upright position.
“It was in pretty bad shape, for sure.” Oscar pulled down his mask, allowing the woman to see him properly.
“But don’t worry. I’ve fixed it. That composite will last you a lifetime. Some dentists do a quick fix. Their fillings look good for a while, but a few years down the line they need to be replaced. I, on the other hand, stand behind my work—I’m confident you won’t have any more problems with that tooth.”
“That’s good to hear.” She edged out of the chair and onto her feet. “But just in case, I think I’ll go easy on the Twizzlers from now on!”
“Really? You don’t look like a woman who splurges on candy . . .” Oscar towered over his petite patient.
“Would you like to settle up at reception, Miss Housemann?” Dana shot him a look colder than a witch’s tit.
Shit. He should be more careful. He was still learning. He hadn’t meant anything by it. But Dana knew how to keep him in line.
With the room to himself, Oscar became aware that his shoulders and neck were tight now. He stretched an arm behind his neck, pulling back an elbow with his other arm. His triceps felt tight. He repeated the stretch on the other side.
With the door to reception ajar, he watched as Dana took the patient’s insurance details, her heavy bosom resting on the counter.
“The other dentist gone?” asked his pretty patient.
“There’s no other dentist here, Miss Housemann.”
“Oh . . . but the last time I was here—a couple of years ago, I think, there was a female dentist—a tall, striking lady.”
“I don’t know anything about that, Miss Housemann. Before my time.”
“Oh, I see . . .” The woman handed Dana a plastic card.
“You’re new here, then?”
Jesus, the woman was a talker. It wasn’t just the nerves.
“Not exactly. Been here two years.”
Oscar smiled. The old battle-ax was getting tired of the questions herself. She wasn’t a warm woman and he’d be up the Swanee if he was relying on her to generate any new custom. It was just as well he had a solid network of his own.
“That must explain it,” said Miss Housemann.
Oscar twisted from side to side, loosening out his back.
“You want to look at our revised insurance plan?” he heard Dana ask.
She might not have been warm but at least she was good on the business side.
“Sure.” The woman took the leaflet. “So, that female dentist? She moved to another practice?”
Oscar straightened sharply from his sideways stretch.
“Ma’am, she could have gone on the last Apollo mission for all I know. It’s just me, Mr. Harvey, and the hygienist.”
“Oh, I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean to . . . Thank you, thank you very much,” said his patient, embarrassed, fastening her purse in a hurry.
Oscar was gripped by unease. As he stood at the window watching the woman emerge into the busy street below, he wondered if she could be a journalist. A private investigator, even?
Dana poked her head around the door.
“An extraction in another twenty minutes, Mr. Harvey.”
“Okay, Dana. Thank you. Oh, and Dana, could you step out and get me the usual?”
Dana looked at her watch, settled in the folds of her wrist. “I think I have time for that, Mr. Harvey.” And off she waddled, leaving him a few minutes’ respite, alone in the office.
With Dana gone, he went to the computer on her desk. This is dumb, he told himself. I’m being overcautious. Yet, he held his breath as he called up the patient profile from the patient database. Ah, yes—there she was, Rachel Housemann. There was nothing out of the ordinary in her profile. Dana had listed her profession as archive assistant. He googled her. Leaning over the desk, he let out a long sigh when he saw her listed on LinkedIn. She was indeed who she said she was. An archive assistant at the MoMA.
Of course he’d overreacted. It had been an innocent conversation, after all. Sure, long-standing patients were going to inquire about former staff. It was to be expected. Still, he couldn’t help but feel relieved.
Looking at the grandfather clock, he noticed that Dana was taking longer than usual. Was she gorging on a secret pastry? He’d caught her in the Lebanese deli before, hiding a slab of baklava in her purse.
He sat back in Dana’s office chair and looked around the room. It was a pleasant work environment. Hazel had helped him decorate the reception area, choosing the elegant clock, the impressive sideboard with its neat piles of periodicals and glossy magazines, and the collection of Queen Anne armchairs. They’d had fun on those weekends, sourcing the furniture, antiquing upstate and staying in romantic inns. Hazel had been a lot more relaxed then.
Going to the coat stand, he checked his cell. Two missed calls from Hazel. He shook his head. There was no point in returning the calls, she’d be in class. It was a week now since the incident. He didn’t like to think about it, but he knew he should. She was taking longer to recover this time.
His neck muscles were tensing up again. It wasn’t Hazel’s fault and he knew he shouldn’t get mad, but Goddamn it, the woman was stubborn. Just like Birgitte. Birgitte had also found it hard to listen, to take any advice. There had been arguments as well with Birgitte.
“Lordy! But it’s hot out there . . .”
Dana burst through the door bearing a cardboard tray with two polystyrene cups. There were damp patches under the arms of her tunic and Oscar was sure he could spot some sugary powder in the hairs around her mouth.
“A quick sprint round Central Park?” he inquired, barely masking a shiver of distaste.
“A simple thank-you would do nicely, Mr. Harvey,” she said sharply, laying the tray on the reception desk with puffy hands.
“Of course, Dana. Thank you.” He forced himself to smile.
God, it was a horrible thought, but sometimes she reminded him of his sister.
• • •
“What did the dentist say to the golfer?”
Harry was panting heavily now, even though it was cooler down by the river. A film of sweat shone on his bald patch. They were headed south on the greenway bike path.
“Dunno. What did the dentist say to the golfer?”
Oscar was loosening up. Getting into his stride.
“You got a hole in one!”
Harry Becker loved his own jokes. Oscar imagined him cooking them up, sitting at his large oak desk with its enviable view of Madison Avenue and the Midtown Manhattan skyline.
“Did you hear about the Buddhist who refused novocaine during a root canal?”
“I guess I’m about to . . .”
“He wanted to transcend dental medication!”
“Fuck, your jokes suck, Harry!”
“Okay, a failure to amuse—I beg your pardon, at White and Calhoun we aim to please . . .”
White and Calhoun was Harry’s law firm. It specialized in bank fraud.
A curvy jogger bounced her way along the path toward them. Harry’s breathing was already raspy, his short legs thudding loudly on the pathway.
“Incoming, incoming . . .”
“Easy, Harry, heel, boy,” Oscar said.
Although, if he were honest and he were the one married to Nancy, he might well get excited about shapely women. It wasn’t that Nancy wasn’t a pleasant woman but she was a bit on the plain side for Oscar.
“You’re a bit wound up this evening, my friend. Bad day at work? Or just the same-shit-different-day kinda stuff?”
Harry had stopped on the pretext of relacing his trainer. He was finding it hard to keep up with Oscar, who was in better shape.
“I’ve no reason to complain in particular. Just feeling a bit beige . . .” Oscar shook the droplets of sweat from his brow.
“How are the financials going?” Harry pulsed forward and backward, resting one leg on the railing and stretching out the hamstring of his stubby leg. “I know the business took a big hit.”
“Making progress, I guess. It’s slow. She took me to the cleaners, you know. It’s coming up on two years now. We’re not back in the black yet. It’s gonna take time.”
“Man, that bitch really stitched you up.”
“You can say that again.”
“Man, that bitch really stitched you up!”
“Get lost, Harry.” Oscar laughed and continued to jog on the spot.
“You’re right, though,” said Oscar as they took off again. “When I think about that crap she pulled, my reputation, I’d never have worked again. Could have been a whole different ball game, for sure. Except for you, my man.” He clapped Harry on his sweaty back.
“Hey, what are buddies for? Told you Donovan was one kick-ass attorney. That guy could make Silvio Berlusconi look like a saint. Easy.”
Harry wiped his brow with the sweatband on his wrist.
“And if I say it once, I’ll say it again—with a case like yours, it’s always better to settle out of court. Too much collateral damage otherwise.”
It took another twenty minutes to complete their loop, during which time Harry gave him the outline of some young gun he was defending who had worked on Wall Street. Harry loved the cut and thrust of white-collar crime. It was safer than the criminal stuff. And the rewards were infinitely greater.
“Squash on Thursday?” Harry looked like a round red rosy apple now.
“Yeah, should be able to make that. I’ve missed the last two weeks.”
They were nearing the entrance to the Seventy-second Street dog run.
“You’re sliding down the ladder, my friend. Pelmann’s taken your place.”
“You’re kidding me . . .”
But Oscar wasn’t really listening. He was staring at a bench in the dog park. Was that Hazel? Was it really her? What was she doing sitting in the dog park? They didn’t even have a dog. The woman’s head was bowed, reading a book. She wore a blue shift dress and had the same slender, petite frame as his wife.
“Pelmann will be delighted to have passed you out.”
“What? Oh, yeah, I’m sure he is.”
They jogged past the park, with Oscar looking over his shoulder every now and then, trying to catch another glimpse. No, he decided. The woman in the blue dress couldn’t have been Hazel. Today was her day for staying late at school.
“So, Pelmann’s leapfrogged me, has he?” Oscar eventually responded. “We’ll have to see about that!”
“Yeah. Didn’t think that would wash well with you.”
Pelmann was an anesthetist over at Weill Cornell, and even though they were all friends, all Columbia alumni, there was nothing Harry liked more than to stir up a little competition between them all. That was fine with Oscar. He’d knock the spots off Pelmann.
“And Hazel?” asked Harry.
“What about Hazel?”
“Just wondering how she was—that’s all.”
They had finished their run and were doing cooldown stretches. Kids on skateboards were whizzing past.
“She’s good.” Oscar hesitated. “Yeah, Hazel’s good.”
“Something up, buddy?”
“Nothing’s up exactly. Just every so often Hazel gets an idea in her head, you know how it is. Sometimes she just doesn’t know when to let go.”
“Man, tell me about it. Nancy’s on about both of us joining a salsa class. Doing more stuff together. Although, I hear there are some pretty hot women at those classes. Maybe . . .” He grinned lewdly.
“Jesus, Becker, you really do think with your dick!”
“That’s harsh. A bit harsh, buddy,” Harry said, feigning offense. “But hey, tell me, Oscar. What’s eating Hazel?”
“It’s no big deal. She’s just a bit unsettled at the moment, that’s all. Happens every so often. She’s talking a lot about going back to Ireland.”
“Ah, the lure of the old country.” Harry sagely rubbed his chin. “But she doesn’t have anyone there anymore, right? Her folks have passed—there’s no one left?”
“Not really, there may be an elderly aunt here or there, but no blood relatives. I guess that can happen when you’re adopted. Hazel has this bee in her bonnet, for sure. Maybe we should go . . . the kids have never been. And I guess they should know their roots, right? Hell! I’ve never been either. But I’ve never really had any reason to go.”
“Why don’t you guys come over on the weekend, Saturday night? We can talk about it then. Nancy is always asking after Hazel. We’ll have some pasta and I have some of that really good California white that you like. What do you say?”
“Sounds good to me, Harry. But let me check Hazel’s schedule first.” He wasn’t sure if Hazel would buy it. “Maybe we can get Helen to sit the kids,” he added, as if he were giving it serious consideration.
“Good. Good.” Harry seemed happy with this. “How is Helen these days?”
“Oh, you know, larger than life.” The “large” part was true. “Still single.”
“Aaah!” said Harry. “I love the smell of sibling rivalry in the evening.”
Oscar grimaced. He wasn’t going to rise to the bait this time. “She’s a good aunt to the kids.”
“She has a big heart,” added Harry, with a glint in his eye.
“Yeah, big being the operative word.”
“See you Thursday, then. And don’t forget to run the weekend by Hazel. You can let me know Thursday.”
“Will do. Oh, by the way—this guy you’re defending, the one accused of rogue trading. You never said. You think he did it?”
Oscar knew that Harry trusted him. They’d kept many secrets over the years.
“Hell, yeah, buddy! I’ve never defended an innocent man yet. Why else would he have hired me?”
• • •
According to Oscar’s Rolex, it was ten to eight when he entered the lobby of their apartment building. It had taken him longer than he thought to collect his BMW from its service at the garage. He got it serviced at this time every year, in preparation for the winter. But most of the time it stayed in the underground parking lot. The subway system was efficient and, contrary to the story Hazel told the kids, largely safe.
“Evening, Mr. Harvey.”
Du Bois was behind his desk catching a game on his portable TV. Maybe it was Oscar’s imagination but he thought the doorman had been a little cool with him lately.
“And a very good evening to you too, Du Bois.”
“Me and Mrs. Du Bois really enjoyed the show.”
“The show . . . ?”
What was the man talking about?
“The tickets you and Mrs. Harvey gave me for my birthday. Much appreciated, sir.”
“Eh, no. No, not at all, Du Bois. You’re welcome.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Hazel was such a soft touch! How long had she been giving Du Bois gifts to celebrate his birthday?
There was no doubt about it. The man had a soft spot for Hazel, for sure. A middle-aged crush. He didn’t know why this should annoy him. Du Bois was only a doorman, after all. But annoy him it did. And he could have sworn the man had been wearing one of his Lacoste shirts the other day. The pink one that Oscar used to like. He’d searched high and low for it but couldn’t find it.
Exiting the elevator, he made his way down the corridor and turned the key in the heavy oak door. He entered the large black-and-white-tiled hallway and put his training bag on the floor. It was silent. The apartment was in darkness. No sounds of happy domesticity. No whirring appliances, no entertainment consoles, no TVs. No kids arguing. Just silence.
“Hazel?” he called.
Where was everyone? He’d tried to call her earlier but the call was routed straight through to voice mail.
“Elliot?”
Elliot’s room was empty.
“Jess?”
She could be draped over her bed ingesting One Direction on her iPod.
But no. And there was no one in the kitchen or the living room. Where had Hazel gone? And then it occurred to him, Tuesday night was her dance class. But that still didn’t explain where the kids were.
An unwelcome thought entered his head. A horrible thought. A thought he tried to squeeze and squash. Too late. The thought had stung him. The sting now burrowing away inside him. She hadn’t, had she? The very suggestion of it froze him to the spot. The last few weeks had been quite fraught, more challenging than he was used to. He’d underestimated her. He used to be able to talk her around.
Paralyzed now, his mind raced, chasing ideas and possibilities. He thought back to this morning, to breakfast, the passing conversation, and his usual hasty departure from the house. No, there was nothing different. It had been their regular morning routine.
Stricken by his horrible thought, he stood in the darkening living room staring at the sun dissolving over the Hudson. He needed to calm down. Not overreact. He would approach this methodically and think it through. As he talked himself down, he became aware of a sound other than the rhythmic thud of his heartbeat in his ears. The steady drone of the air-conditioning. She’d left it on. That could mean only one thing—that she’d stepped out only for a while.
Hazel would never needlessly leave the air-conditioning running. Never needlessly waste electricity. No, his wife was a regular little do-gooder. Always looking out for the environment, the disenfranchised, the needy. Only Hazel wasn’t always best qualified at discerning the needy. Not at all. Oscar all too often felt overlooked himself, while his wife ended up looking after the scumbags.
He tried her cell again, but ended up at voice mail like before. Not to worry. They’d be back soon. He decided to wait one more hour before escalating matters. Happy with his decision, Oscar went to the fridge to see if Celine had left him anything. On the top shelf he spied what looked like a chicken salad, tightly covered in plastic wrap.
Sitting at the breakfast counter, chomping on the mango and chicken, he wondered again if he’d missed something. Was there some event he was supposed to be at? He really had no idea. He looked at his watch again. Another twenty minutes had passed.
What the heck! He’d make the most of it. He didn’t often have the apartment to himself. Taking the plate, Oscar went back to the living room and opened the balcony doors. Placing his plate on the wicker table, he covered it with a magazine and retreated indoors once more. Crouching down on his haunches, Oscar thumbed through the covers. They were in alphabetical order so it should be about here . . . There it was. Sliding it gently from its faded sleeve, he blew on the shiny shellac, sending dust motes sailing into the air. Then Oscar placed the record carefully on the turntable and lifted the stylus to track three.
At the first strains of “Visions of Johanna,” he felt a wave of tenderness wash over him. Hazel could be such a thoughtful woman. And she certainly knew the buttons to press. He’d been lusting after this one for a while. Blonde on Blonde. And she’d even managed the original release—on Columbia. It was just a pity how the gift had come about. But what was done was done. Turning the dial, he cranked it up and went out to the balcony to finish off his evening meal.
• • •
“Oh my God, it sounds like an old folks’ home in here!”
They were back!
Jess was holding a can of Dr Pepper. Diet Dr Pepper, he was glad to see.
“Hey, young lady, this is a damn sight better than One Direction or Justin Bieber.”
“Oh, Dad. Pleeease . . . Justin Bieber? I’m way too old.”
Even though she was only just twelve, Jess thought she was way too old for plenty of stuff.
“Hey, where were you guys? I’ve been here all on my lonesome . . .”
He walked in from the balcony carrying his empty plate and a half-full glass of wine when Hazel appeared in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. She wore a loose-fitting long white linen coat. Her face was made up—you could hardly see the marks. She looked nice. She also looked serious.
“Where were we?” she repeated. “Where were you?”
That uneasy feeling again. He had a feeling he was going to come out of this badly.
“I was here. Well, before that I went to collect the car, remember? I tried to phone you. Your cell was off.”
Elliot wandered into the room, clutching what looked like a family-sized bag of potato chips.
“We were over at the school. The parent-teacher meetings, remember?”
Oh, shit.
“Why didn’t you remind me?”
Three pairs of eyes were staring at him now. One in annoyance and the other two indignant.
“I did remind you, Oscar. Twice last night, I asked you to sit with the kids and I would do the meetings. I also called your cell today.”
“Sorry.”
“Okay,” Hazel said softly.
“Guys, I’m really, really sorry.” He looked from Jess to Elliot.
“Like it’s not bad enough that we’re in there all day. Elliot and I had to hang around in the recreation room for two and a half hours.”
He wasn’t going to get off that easy.
“Yeah,” said Elliot, mouth bulging with potato chips, “felt like we were never going to get out—like an episode of Orange Is the New Black.”
“Orange Is the New Black? When the hell have you seen Orange Is the New Black?”
What was going on with his kids? The last he knew, Elliot was into Harry Potter. Where had the kid seen something as gritty as Orange Is the New Black?
Elliot already realized his mistake. His cheeks were crimson. Elliot was now the one in the dock.
“Luke’s dad has the DVDs. We were only looking at the covers.”
Luke was one of his buddies from school, that much Oscar knew.
“You should be very proud of your children, Oscar. Glowing reports for both of them!” Hazel was trying to deflect. To steer attention away from Elliot.
Oscar was prepared to be deflected.
“I’d expect nothing less,” he said, and wrapped an arm around each child.
“Dad . . .” Jess wriggled to get away.
Hazel stood there smiling, eyes warm, looking at the three of them. The thoughts that had run through his head earlier now seemed ridiculous, stupid, even. He was seeing things that weren’t there. First of all, thinking he’d seen her in the dog run. And then, thinking that she had . . . Well, all kinds of dumb stuff.
“So you missed your dance class tonight?” he shouted after her as she walked through to the kitchen.
She was filling the kettle.
“That’s tomorrow. Decaf?” She pushed down the button and powered on the kettle.
“No, thanks.” He held up his glass, showing his unfinished wine. “Thought your class was Tuesdays.”
Reaching high for a mug, she turned around to face him.
“No, it’s Wednesdays on Broadway.” She cocked her head to one side. “The class I used to go to with Elizabeth was Tuesdays. Before I had to change.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I forgot. The class with Elizabeth and . . .”
“Susan.” She finished the sentence for him.
“I met Harry after work today,” he said, moving the conversation on quickly.
“Still skinning the fat cats?”
“Yep. Nancy has been asking after you.”
“That poor woman.”
“We’re invited over there Saturday. Said I’d check with you first.”
“Christ, Oscar!” Hazel stopped stirring her coffee.
“What?” He tried to look innocent.
“Oh, come on. You know my feelings for Nancy and Harry. I can’t sit there playing happy couples, knowing that the guy can’t keep it in his zipper.”
He knew he never should have told her about their last guys’ weekend away. That had been a mistake.
“Come out to the balcony with me?” The kids were in the den and he needed to figure out what was going on with Hazel. She’d been acting strange ever since it happened. He wanted to know if they were okay.
“Just a minute.”
Hazel kicked off her heels and started to undo the buttons of her coat. Oscar stared, surprised at first and then confused. Underneath she wore a blue shift dress.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” She took a step back.
“I saw a woman in the park earlier. Sitting on a bench in the dog run. I could have sworn it was you.”
Suddenly Hazel started to shake, her eyes filling with tears.
“Hazel, what is it?”
She shook her head.
“Come on, tell me, honey . . .”
She flinched as he reached out to her.
“I . . . I haven’t been feeling very well.”
He watched the tears roll down her face. In her bare feet, she appeared even smaller. This time, she let him take her in his arms.
“I know, honey. I know. But we can work through this.”
“I’m not sure, Oscar. I’m not sure this time. I’ve been on leave from school since yesterday.” She looked up at him, eyes red, mascara running.
So it had been Hazel in the park after all. He hadn’t imagined it.
“Is there anything that I can do? Anything at all?” His little sparrow was wounded.
“Really?”
She looked so vulnerable.
“Really.” He took her in his arms again, enjoying the feel of her against his chest. He felt powerful, manly.
“I’m serious about going home, Oscar,” she said in a small voice. “I want to go home to Ireland.”