I won the bet, I would chase him around the apartment, pull up his underwear, and pin him down on the couch.
I snapped out of it, suddenly aware of how the back of my neck was sweating.
The elevator doors opened on Jonathan’s floor and he left without saying goodbye. I hoped he wouldn’t tell his parents that some pervert had been leering at him in the elevator.
Later, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I couldn’t believe what was happening to me. First I’d pushed my wife into a wall on purpose , and now I was starting to have sick thoughts about preying on innocent boys.
I needed a glass of Scotch. I knew it was probably the wrong thing to do, but I couldn’t stop myself. It was the only way I’d be able to relax, get back to normal. Besides, I’d only have one drink. What harm could one little drink do?
I made sure the door to the bedroom was still shut and then I opened the liquor cabinet quietly, only to discover that all the bottles were gone. I should have known that Paula would do this. For a moment, I considered going outside again, to the deli on First Avenue, and buying a couple of beers, but I stopped myself, realizing that this was probably for the best. I had to get on the wagon sooner or later so I might as well start now.
Lying on the couch, I was sweating again. Unable to sleep, I turned on the TV with the volume muted. Otis climbed onto the couch and settled down next to my face. I petted him gently on his back and head and underneath his neck. It had taken me a while to get close with Otis. Originally, I’d wanted a cat, but Paula had her heart set on a cocker spaniel and, eventually, I gave in. I never thought I’d turn into one of those people who talked to their dogs on the street, but lately I had caught myself doing it all the time. And, right now, because I needed to tell somebody how I was feeling and there was nobody else to tell, I whispered into Otis’s floppy ear: “I’m gonna kill him, Otis. I’m gonna kill that fucking bastard.”
9
IN THE MORNING, I left a message on Bob’s voice mail that I was sick and wouldn’t be coming into work today. This was partly the truth because I’d been uncomfortable all night and I’d awakened with a sore throat, a stuffy nose, and a stiff neck. But even if I’d felt 100 percent I would have taken the day off.
Paula wasn’t any more talkative then she had been last night. I was glad to see that her bruise had faded; underneath her makeup it would be barely noticeable.
I showered first and when Paula finished her shower I was already dressed in one of my work suits and was putting on my shoes. It was only seven-fifteen, but I told Paula I wanted to get a “head start” this morning. When I went to kiss her goodbye, she stepped back, not even letting me kiss her cheek.
It was raining hard, so I took an umbrella with me and left the apartment. I was in a hurry, so I took a cab across town to Madison and Fifty-fourth.
I was hoping to catch Rudnick on his way to work, figuring that as a lawyer for a Madison Avenue firm he must get to work very early. When the cab dropped me off I checked my watch and saw it was seven-thirty on the dot. I went to the spot near the main entrance where I had waited yesterday, except today the ledge was covered with puddles and I couldn’t sit down.
For over an hour, I watched the streams of people entering the building. Almost everyone was carrying an umbrella, some at an angle against the wind, making it harder to see their faces.
As nine o’clock approached, the volume of people arriving for work increased, but there was still no sign of Rudnick. I wondered if he had come in already—some executives arrived at work before seven-thirty—and I was kicking myself for not leaving my apartment earlier.
At a few minutes after nine, I decided to call Rudnick’s office on my cell phone. I said I was “Mr. Jacobson, an old client of Michael Rudnick’s,” and Rudnick, the son of a bitch,
I snapped out of it, suddenly aware of how the back of my neck was sweating.
The elevator doors opened on Jonathan’s floor and he left without saying goodbye. I hoped he wouldn’t tell his parents that some pervert had been leering at him in the elevator.
Later, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I couldn’t believe what was happening to me. First I’d pushed my wife into a wall on purpose , and now I was starting to have sick thoughts about preying on innocent boys.
I needed a glass of Scotch. I knew it was probably the wrong thing to do, but I couldn’t stop myself. It was the only way I’d be able to relax, get back to normal. Besides, I’d only have one drink. What harm could one little drink do?
I made sure the door to the bedroom was still shut and then I opened the liquor cabinet quietly, only to discover that all the bottles were gone. I should have known that Paula would do this. For a moment, I considered going outside again, to the deli on First Avenue, and buying a couple of beers, but I stopped myself, realizing that this was probably for the best. I had to get on the wagon sooner or later so I might as well start now.
Lying on the couch, I was sweating again. Unable to sleep, I turned on the TV with the volume muted. Otis climbed onto the couch and settled down next to my face. I petted him gently on his back and head and underneath his neck. It had taken me a while to get close with Otis. Originally, I’d wanted a cat, but Paula had her heart set on a cocker spaniel and, eventually, I gave in. I never thought I’d turn into one of those people who talked to their dogs on the street, but lately I had caught myself doing it all the time. And, right now, because I needed to tell somebody how I was feeling and there was nobody else to tell, I whispered into Otis’s floppy ear: “I’m gonna kill him, Otis. I’m gonna kill that fucking bastard.”
9
IN THE MORNING, I left a message on Bob’s voice mail that I was sick and wouldn’t be coming into work today. This was partly the truth because I’d been uncomfortable all night and I’d awakened with a sore throat, a stuffy nose, and a stiff neck. But even if I’d felt 100 percent I would have taken the day off.
Paula wasn’t any more talkative then she had been last night. I was glad to see that her bruise had faded; underneath her makeup it would be barely noticeable.
I showered first and when Paula finished her shower I was already dressed in one of my work suits and was putting on my shoes. It was only seven-fifteen, but I told Paula I wanted to get a “head start” this morning. When I went to kiss her goodbye, she stepped back, not even letting me kiss her cheek.
It was raining hard, so I took an umbrella with me and left the apartment. I was in a hurry, so I took a cab across town to Madison and Fifty-fourth.
I was hoping to catch Rudnick on his way to work, figuring that as a lawyer for a Madison Avenue firm he must get to work very early. When the cab dropped me off I checked my watch and saw it was seven-thirty on the dot. I went to the spot near the main entrance where I had waited yesterday, except today the ledge was covered with puddles and I couldn’t sit down.
For over an hour, I watched the streams of people entering the building. Almost everyone was carrying an umbrella, some at an angle against the wind, making it harder to see their faces.
As nine o’clock approached, the volume of people arriving for work increased, but there was still no sign of Rudnick. I wondered if he had come in already—some executives arrived at work before seven-thirty—and I was kicking myself for not leaving my apartment earlier.
At a few minutes after nine, I decided to call Rudnick’s office on my cell phone. I said I was “Mr. Jacobson, an old client of Michael Rudnick’s,” and Rudnick, the son of a bitch,
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