Imperfect Strangers

CHAPTER 5

Sandy left the park feeling as though he had just performed some daredevil stunt, and lived. He walked slowly up Fifth Avenue toward his apartment building, taking deep breaths, his heart pumping furiously.

Joan deserved this for treating him as she had; she thought she could walk away from the marriage with his business in her pocket, probably to sell it to Terrell duBois, and that that would put a dagger through his heart, retribution for his unfaithfulness. But who was responsible for his being unfaithful for all these years? Who but Joan? She had been loving, then after Angus was born, she became cool, then icy, then simply rock hard. His role in her life was to escort her to social events, a role he would play for the last time on Saturday evening.

By the time he reached the building his heart had returned to its normal rate after a walk, and his breathing was steady. He greeted the doorman and the lobby man and took the elevator to his apartment. It was Joan's, of course, but soon it would be his.

For two more days Sandy held his secret in his heart, feeling no doubt, anticipating the event. He felt this way until the moment he heard his son's voice on the telephone.

"Hi, Dad, I've got a day off, believe it or not." It was Saturday, the morning of the big day. "How about some tennis?"

"Sounds good," Sandy said automatically. "Meet me at the Racquet Club as soon as you can get there; I'll ring for a court, and we can have some lunch afterward."

"I'm on my way."

The voice had introduced a note of complexity to his feelings, and when he saw his son, standing in the lobby of the venerable club on Park Avenue, things got worse. Angus was taller than he, like his grandfather, and with Jock's prominent nose and receding hair. The strange science of genetics had skipped a generation, bypassing Sandy completely. For the first time Sandy thought of old Jock and what he would think of all this. Jock, the strict moralist, in his way, would be ashamed of him, he knew. They hugged and headed for the elevators.

Sandy had given up squash after Angus had read in a medical journal of the deaths of a large number of fit, middle-aged men on squash courts who were unable to tolerate the wild bursts of cardiorespiratory action required by the frequent spurts of activity during squash. He had taken up tennis again, after an absence of fifteen years from the sport, and he enjoyed playing with his son, who, although younger, was less crafty on the court. The two were, therefore, about evenly matched.

They changed in the locker room and walked out onto the court. The club was not crowded on a Saturday in May, the members mostly being at their country homes on Long Island or in Connecticut, and they had not had to wait for a court.

Sandy parried his son's power game with lots of spin, drop shots, and wily ball placement, and their match was close, but Angus took him in two straight sets. Two was enough for Sandy; some of his energy had gone elsewhere.

They sat in the grill and ate unhealthy bacon cheeseburgers, washed down with Dutch beer, and Sandy mostly listened. Angus was excited about the approaching end of his residency the following month.

"I'm thinking about establishing a practice of my own right away," he said.

"Wouldn't it be wiser to get some more experience with an established doctor?" Sandy asked.

"Ordinarily, yes. But I'm thinking about a new kind of cardiology, one that starts with a group of patients my own age and concentrates on fitness and diet. I'd rather keep well people healthy than treat sick ones," he said.

"How will you attract your first patients?" Sandy asked, interested.

"I'll advertise in the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal. Doctors can advertise, now, you know, and my generation is a lot more fitness-oriented than yours. My inheritance will make it possible for me to find good office space and fund the ad campaign right away, without waiting. Mom and Uncle Laddie are my trustees, and I'm sure they'll go along with the plan."

"I'm sure they will."

Angus suddenly looked embarrassed. "Dad, I'm sorry about the will; I don't know why Granddad treated you the way he did, after all your years with him."

"He told me a couple of weeks ago that he was going to leave me the wine division," Sandy said. "He died before he could execute a new will, I guess."

"That's terrible. What are you going to do?"

"Well, I don't think I want to work for Laddie. He's a good fellow, but he's never cared anything about the wine division. If anything, it's always been something of an embarrassment for him, I think, because his brother-in-law thought of it and made it work."

Angus nodded. "I had figured something like that. I'm planning to budget a million dollars for my practice-that will include an extensive athletic facility-and as far as I'm concerned, you can use the other four million to start a new wine company, if that's what you want."

Sandy was unable to respond for a moment. He fought tears, and cleared his throat to make sure it was still working. "Son, that's a very kind offer, but to tell you the truth, I don't know what I want to do. I'm a bit at sea."

Angus placed a hand on Sandy's forearm. "Just remember, I want to help. I'll make Mom and Uncle Laddie see it my way."

Sandy raised his beer mug in a mute toast.

"Dad, yours and Mom's marriage has always been kind of different, hasn't it?"

"Different from what?" Sandy asked, surprised. Angus had never before mentioned such a thing.

"Different from other people's marriages, I mean."

"In what way?"

"Well, I can't remember you and Mom ever showing much affection for each other, and to tell the truth, I've always enjoyed the company of both of you more when you weren't together."

Sandy stared down at the table. "I don't know that I could explain our marriage to you, Angus," he said. "I've never even tried to explain it to myself. The fact is, we both would have been happier if we'd ended it years ago."

"Did Granddad have anything to do with your staying together?"

"Not directly, but of course, I worked for him, and I loved my work, and I'm not sure I could have continued there if your mother and I had parted."

Angus nodded. "Well, I guess each of us does what he has to in order to do the thing he wants most to do."

"That's a very sage observation from such a new physician," Sandy said.

They both laughed, and soon Angus was on his way somewhere.

Walking back to the apartment, Sandy's emotions were in turmoil. In a few hours, he planned to murder Angus's mother, or at least, have her murdered, and tomorrow he would have to face his son and pretend to be sad about her death.

Sandy had never been very introspective, but now he looked inside himself and asked the hard question. Am I a murderer? Can I do it and live with myself? Can I do it and live with my son? He started to think about what life would be like without the wine division and the Fifth Avenue apartment and the house on Nantucket and the club memberships, but he stopped himself. Those things were not relevant to the kind of man he was. Could he be who he was and start being someone else tomorrow?

"I am not a murderer," he said aloud to himself. "I am not, and I never can be." He was not particularly religious, but he felt that criminals, especially murderers, received some sort of higher justice, something beyond the courts and prisons and various methods of ending the lives of those who had killed. He stopped next to a pay phone. "I am not a murderer," he said.

He put a quarter in the phone and got the number from information, then dropped another coin into the machine and dialed the number.

"Hotel Pierre," a woman's voice said.

"I'd like to speak to Mr. Peter Martindale," Sandy said.

"One moment." A ringing ensued, then stopped. "There's no answer from that suite; would you like to leave a message?"

"Yes," Sandy replied, "and it is most urgent that Mr. Martindale receive the message."

"It's our practice to immediately put the message under the door of the suite and to turn on the flashing message light," she said. "Mr. Martindale is unlikely to miss it."

"Good. Would you please tell him that Bart called," he spelled it for her, "and that the project has been canceled, everything is off."

"I've got that," she said. "Would you like me to connect you with the concierge? Mr. Martindale would have to pass his desk, and he could also deliver the message directly."

"Yes, thank you." Sandy repeated the message and its urgency to the concierge.

"I'll be certain that he gets it," the concierge said. "Mr. Martindale said he was going out for only a short time, so he should have it soon."

Sandy hung up and continued his walk toward the apartment building. He felt somewhat lighter on his feet and in his heart. On Monday, he'd see a good lawyer and find out what could be done to negotiate a better settlement with Joan and Laddie. After all, he wasn't stone broke; he had what he had saved and invested, that was around a million dollars, and he had the half million from Jock. He could get started again, at least in a small way. Maybe he could find some investors. His son had already expressed a willingness to help. He walked on, reflecting on how close he had come to ruining his life, to jeopardizing his reputation and his personal freedom.

He must have been temporarily mad, he thought, turning into the lobby. Well, he was sane now, and he would simply make the best of things.