horizon.
Publishers to whom he submitted the manuscript were not accommodating. Rejection slip followed rejection slip, eventually eighteen in all, some with encouraging words added to form rejection letters, others lacking even that modicum of encouragement.
Money was tight; he often fell behind on the rent on his tiny fifth-floor walk-up studio apartment in the East Village. Occasional freelance copyediting jobs helped, but only barely. He started a second novel but soon lost interest in it. There were moments—but only moments—when he considered returning home and living in the house in which he’d been raised. That was out of the question. Accepting rejection of his novel was defeat enough; skulking back home would be even worse.
It was at this nadir in his young life that a college friend, who’d moved to Washington following graduation for an entrance-level job with a lobbying firm, called and suggested Marienthal move there, too. “You can bunk with me,” his friend offered, “until you get set up.”
Rich took him up on the offer and moved south. Within a month, he’d landed another PR job, this with an aerospace manufacturer’s D.C. office, where again he ground out press releases lauding the company’s achievements, putting a spin on its less-than-successful ventures, and praising the company’s management and its contributions to the nation’s security. That job lasted two years—until a man named Louis Russo entered his life.
He walked into the splendidly redone Grand Central Station and checked the electronic departure board for Metro North trains to Bedford Hills. The next was scheduled to depart in an hour. He bought a round-trip ticket, had a beer and salad at the bar at Michael Jordan’s steakhouse overlooking the vast terminal, then went to gate 29 and boarded.
The hour trip passed quickly, as though it hadn’t happened. He’d slipped into a trance state, oblivious to people in the car, sights through the window, and the train’s motion itself. His mind was assaulted by images past and present. Although he hadn’t seen Louis Russo’s lifeless body in Union Station, he could see it as though he were standing over it. That image kept melding into a kaleidoscope of scenes: sipping sweet tea with Russo and Kasha in their Tel Aviv apartment; getting drunk with other students in a jazz joint near NYU; falling off his bike as a kid and opening a gash on his forehead requiring stitches at an emergency ward; Kathryn, naked and enticing him from the computer to the bedroom; Russo’s face rimmed with blood; Greenleaf’s arm around his shoulder; Pamela Warren’s stern, unsmiling face when he first met with her at Hobbes House; the Twin Towers on 9/11; spectacular explosions in Baghdad; scenes from
The Sopranos;
Kathryn cooking spaghetti in their kitchen; his mother comforting him after the stitches; his father lecturing him on what it takes to be a success.
“Bedford Hills,” the conductor announced over the train’s PA system.
Marienthal looked out the window and saw his father’s black Mercedes parked near the entrance to the small, suburban train station. The car’s tinted glass shielded a view of the man behind the wheel, but Marienthal didn’t need to actually see him to know the expression that would be on his face.
“Hi, Dad,” Marienthal said, opening the front passenger door and slipping onto the tan leather seat.
“Hello, son. Glad you could find the time to spend a few hours with us. Been a while.”
Marienthal held back from reaching over and offering an awkward embrace of his father, who immediately drove away from where he’d parked and headed for the family home in the prosperous enclave of Bedford.
“How’s Mom?” Marienthal asked.
“All right, although I’m worried about her. She seems befuddled from time to time. Not as sharp as she used to be.”
Marienthal looked at his father, whose eyes never left the road, his patrician features clearly
Publishers to whom he submitted the manuscript were not accommodating. Rejection slip followed rejection slip, eventually eighteen in all, some with encouraging words added to form rejection letters, others lacking even that modicum of encouragement.
Money was tight; he often fell behind on the rent on his tiny fifth-floor walk-up studio apartment in the East Village. Occasional freelance copyediting jobs helped, but only barely. He started a second novel but soon lost interest in it. There were moments—but only moments—when he considered returning home and living in the house in which he’d been raised. That was out of the question. Accepting rejection of his novel was defeat enough; skulking back home would be even worse.
It was at this nadir in his young life that a college friend, who’d moved to Washington following graduation for an entrance-level job with a lobbying firm, called and suggested Marienthal move there, too. “You can bunk with me,” his friend offered, “until you get set up.”
Rich took him up on the offer and moved south. Within a month, he’d landed another PR job, this with an aerospace manufacturer’s D.C. office, where again he ground out press releases lauding the company’s achievements, putting a spin on its less-than-successful ventures, and praising the company’s management and its contributions to the nation’s security. That job lasted two years—until a man named Louis Russo entered his life.
He walked into the splendidly redone Grand Central Station and checked the electronic departure board for Metro North trains to Bedford Hills. The next was scheduled to depart in an hour. He bought a round-trip ticket, had a beer and salad at the bar at Michael Jordan’s steakhouse overlooking the vast terminal, then went to gate 29 and boarded.
The hour trip passed quickly, as though it hadn’t happened. He’d slipped into a trance state, oblivious to people in the car, sights through the window, and the train’s motion itself. His mind was assaulted by images past and present. Although he hadn’t seen Louis Russo’s lifeless body in Union Station, he could see it as though he were standing over it. That image kept melding into a kaleidoscope of scenes: sipping sweet tea with Russo and Kasha in their Tel Aviv apartment; getting drunk with other students in a jazz joint near NYU; falling off his bike as a kid and opening a gash on his forehead requiring stitches at an emergency ward; Kathryn, naked and enticing him from the computer to the bedroom; Russo’s face rimmed with blood; Greenleaf’s arm around his shoulder; Pamela Warren’s stern, unsmiling face when he first met with her at Hobbes House; the Twin Towers on 9/11; spectacular explosions in Baghdad; scenes from
The Sopranos;
Kathryn cooking spaghetti in their kitchen; his mother comforting him after the stitches; his father lecturing him on what it takes to be a success.
“Bedford Hills,” the conductor announced over the train’s PA system.
Marienthal looked out the window and saw his father’s black Mercedes parked near the entrance to the small, suburban train station. The car’s tinted glass shielded a view of the man behind the wheel, but Marienthal didn’t need to actually see him to know the expression that would be on his face.
“Hi, Dad,” Marienthal said, opening the front passenger door and slipping onto the tan leather seat.
“Hello, son. Glad you could find the time to spend a few hours with us. Been a while.”
Marienthal held back from reaching over and offering an awkward embrace of his father, who immediately drove away from where he’d parked and headed for the family home in the prosperous enclave of Bedford.
“How’s Mom?” Marienthal asked.
“All right, although I’m worried about her. She seems befuddled from time to time. Not as sharp as she used to be.”
Marienthal looked at his father, whose eyes never left the road, his patrician features clearly
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