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  I played Miles Davis for her, Seven Steps to Heaven. She watched the sunset from the balcony while I made my specialty—pasta primavera.

  An enjoyable night, followed by an enjoyable month and, then, by an entire, enjoyable season.

  *

  In August, I moved in with Sterling. Vince silently approved—or, at least, didn’t say anything. We worked long hours, I especially, but that didn’t detract from the sex. At eighteen, I wanted it every waking hour.

  When we’d been living together for several weeks, Sterling said, ‘Isn’t dating the worst?’

  ‘Are we dating? Because if so, I like it.’

  ‘I was warming up to discussing our future.’

  ‘Let’s not discuss it,’ I said. ‘Let’s do it.’

  ‘Do you mean that?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Nobody’s a wunderkind for long, Walter. The clock is ticking.’

  I laughed. Why not? Racing through life was how I had always lived. ‘Marry me, Sterling.’

  She flew to my side, said, ‘Yes, absolutely,’ and whipped out a magazine with an ad for Cartier’s matching wedding and engagement rings.

  *

  Too young to buy a beer, I had money, interesting work at which I excelled, and a big, sharp, sexy woman.

  Of course, I had only skimmed life’s surface and didn’t have a clue how to find the depths. My hope was that being Sterling’s husband would speed up the process.

  Sterling, admirer of boasters and showboaters, wanted to marry me, who would never be either, although I would definitely be able to provide her with ‘an enviable lifestyle.’ I hadn’t told her about my trust fund, because it embarrassed me.

  She knew I hated it when people with money acted as if their plain good luck made them superior and flaunted their advantages in everyone’s faces. I preached too often and too stridently about it. But if I would shut up about that, she bargained, she wouldn’t brag about her possessions—even if, she said, that was half the fun.

  We made several agreements like that, ones that are impossible to keep. I gave her the Cartier engagement ring on her thirty-second birthday. She shrieked with glee, phoned her mother, and talked for half an hour. Then she waltzed about, admiring the ring on her hand before cuddling up beside me and saying, ‘You know what else?’

  I didn’t.

  She stood and paced nervously, which puzzled me. Sterling didn’t get nervous. Still, I let her talk around the point, a process she sometimes described as ‘easing into it.’

  Finally, I asked, ‘What else? What is it?’

  She was pregnant, due in seven months.

  I jumped up, hands overhead, and yelled for the ultimate home team: ‘A baby—our baby!’

  She laughed with relief at my unexpected elation, and said she had been worried I might feel trapped.

  ‘No, I feel—redeemed!’ I picked her up and kissed her face until she ordered me to put her down. Higher than high, I wanted to tell the world. Sterling wanted to keep it quiet—until I reminded her that we didn’t have much time to arrange a wedding unless she wanted to get married next week at City Hall, or walk down the aisle in a maternity wedding dress. ‘The other option,’ I said, ‘is to wait until afterward.’

  ‘No’ to all.

  So we visited her mother, Kaye, in Bar Harbor, Maine to deliver the good news. Kaye took to me immediately and whispered she hoped I wasn’t the type to go along with the dreadful name Susie had taken after leaving home.

  ‘Worse. I call your daughter by a pet name I can’t say in front of you.’

  Kaye laughed. ‘So, Susie, you landed a good one.’

  ‘Shut up, Mother.’

  *

  We set the date for November 5. Sterling ripped through the rigmarole. My parents, somewhere in Eastern Europe, sent word that, regretfully, they couldn’t get away, but they mailed us a fat check so we could take a honeymoon. Instead, we deposited the funds in our new joint account and Sterling gave her notice at Lehman.

  2000

  April 30, Olivia was born. Never before had I held a newborn baby. Cradling her, I felt that, after a lifetime of midnights, here, at last, was the light. An hour old, Olivia’s tiny arm and tinier hand seemed to reach for me.

  Within a few hours of her birth, I found myself in a taxicab on the West Side highway, en route to work. I hated missing a minute with her, so I convinced Sterling that, as a new mother, she needed a full night’s sleep. ‘Leave the night feedings to me.’

  ‘You mean it?’

  I did. At one in the morning and then again at four, I would wake in rapturous wonder and cradle my infant daughter in my arms while she sucked a latex nipple.

  *

  When Olivia was three months old, Sterling convinced me that the suburbs would be better for raising a child, and we promptly moved to a river town in Westchester County. Our house perched on top of a steep landscaped hill that a developer had named Oak Grove Point. We had a big backyard and a double garage. Natural woods surrounded us, creating an illusion of solitude, although eighteen new homes stood along the spiraling lane to the hilltop, and a smaller house was going up across the narrow turn-around where we lived.

  *

  It was during our first week of residing in Westchester that I met Jimmy Quinn while waiting for the train. A broker with Cantor Fitzgerald, he, his wife, and their five-year-old son lived in a great landmarked home next to the ancient stone aqueduct that carried water from an upstate reservoir to New York City. In the mornings, Jimmy dozed until the Metro-North pulled into Grand Central. Then he would wake, stretch, and, grabbing his stuff, clap my back, suddenly talkative. All through the station and inside the subway car downtown he told stories in which he played the fool or trickster. He told jokes I had heard a hundred times. His patter was rhythmic and his expressions hilarious. His sideways grin alone cracked me up. Friday morning, when we’d ridden the train together since Monday, he said, ‘Tonight at nine, poker at my house. Saturday morning, basketball at the river park. You, me, three local guys, and a case of cold beer.’

  ‘Great. Poker and basketball are the two games I know. I’m not good at them. But I know the rules.’

  ‘You do? Nobody else does. We think we do, but we don’t. Know what I’m saying?’

  For the first time in my life, I felt like I had a real friend. When I was a kid, I had spent time with roommates or teammates and been friendly with guys who were friendly to me. But the friendliness had always required effort, a meeting of more than halfway. Jimmy and I understood each other without trying—even though in most ways we were opposites. The other poker players, three volunteer firemen—Wayne, Pete, and Dennis—would shake their heads. ‘Jimmy Quinn and Walter Mitchell—guess that figures.’

  Jimmy tried to explain that I was no Wall Street wheeler, dealer, or cheater. And they said, ‘We know, ’cause he’s your opposite.’

  Every morning, Jimmy bought Lotto tickets—one for himself and one for me, because I didn’t buy into that scam.

  ‘What do you mean “scam,” Walter? You work for Lehman Brothers. You’ve gotta love scams.’ A ticket in each hand, he’d say, ‘Pick one.’

  And before we parted, off to our respective skyscrapers on either side of West Street, he would laugh about how I’d dance when my winnings came raining down on me.

  Jimmy would say, ‘Luck is luck.’

  And without missing a beat, I’d say, ‘Fuck luck.’

  Three

  September 11, 2001

  People say I carried a pregnant woman down fifteen flights of stairs. No recollection of it, at all. Endless memory, though, of choking on ash—and of the procession of people trudging alongside the river. I don’t recall, either, a group of stunned survivors peeling off and flowing into a side street. But, evidently they did, and I followed. This I know because I do remember the mob of bodies, caked with blood and debris, inside a bar where a giant TV blared. I drank alcohol from a fire brigade of open bottles. Layers of death mot
es clotted my insides; they still do. Splintered window shards poked through my shirt, but didn’t hurt. At some point, I mindlessly phoned Sterling, who screamed with relief. Wayne, the volunteer fireman, said I called him, asking, did he think it was possible that Jimmy had taken the elevator from Tower One’s 105th floor to the lobby and slipped away just in time? Could he have had a premonition? Because certainly, if Jimmy had stood still among the rushing throng that morning, he would have decided—not me, not today.

  *

  The way I remember it, that whole September, the sky was painfully blue. The grass and trees were a dazzling array of green. The sweet, natural scents in the air were staggering.

  Everyone mourned Jimmy Quinn. It seemed the whole town crowded into his stately old home. I met his parents, who stood in confusion, unsure where to look.

  Three of his four brothers were drinking and fixing drinks for the guests. Every few minutes, they delivered fresh cocktails in desperate high spirits. They each at different times identified me as Jimmy’s new friend.

  Jimmy’s oldest brother, Jack, who had his grin and wiry build, shook my hand. He winked and said, ‘Just a second. I’ll tell him you’re here.’ And then, ‘Christ, will you listen to me? I can’t believe it.’

  The youngest, best-looking brother, Timothy, who had moved to Vermont in July, introduced me to his spouse, a big, bearded man named Bernard.

  Timothy said, ‘Jimmy always had hundreds of friends. But he said you were the one who really knew him. Like you had always known him.’

  I nodded, glad to hear this, and tried to smile. ‘We only met about a year ago. But Jimmy was the best friend I ever had.’

  People came and went. They laughed, cried, and drank too much. Bernard took charge of calling taxis.

  I wanted to say something to Bridget, Jimmy’s wife, and to Colin, their six-year-old son, but whenever I strung together some earnest if banal words, I lost my nerve.

  The view from Jimmy’s backyard deck remains one of the most inspiring sights I’ve ever seen. Rolling mounds of native grasses and wild flowers sloped downhill for hundreds of feet to a shaded area. There, between two huge beech trees, a mesmerizing glassy light appeared somehow both distant and near. In fact, it was the Hudson River, which glistened day and night, due to some confluence of graduated heights and overall pitch, combined with the arc of the sky.

  2002

  I, along with everyone else at Lehman Brothers, worked out of other companies’ spare offices. For months, I kept waiting for a new reality to reveal itself. Not as if this were a nightmare, or as if I might find protection by solving a metaphorical puzzle. I wasn’t waiting for a spiritual awakening I didn’t believe in. And yet—I would catch myself praying, desperately, for something to give me hope.

  Often, while watching Olivia playing, I’d panic that, in another second, she would vanish forever. Then, I’d run to her and hold her until she wriggled free or pushed me away.

  Sometimes, I woke up in a state of bliss, momentarily oblivious to what had happened. In an instant, though, the truth would take hold, followed by a slap of guilt for having forgotten.

  More often, I woke with an overwhelming urge to quit my job and never return to the city again. Why wasn’t I a painter, sculptor, or an inventor? Why wasn’t I creating a testament to life and death? Wall Street was supposed to have been a mere stint—a transitional phase before law school. But I hadn’t been married when I agreed to that plan. The instinct to flee was overwhelming. But because it sprang entirely from fear and grief, I stifled it. If I succumbed, fear and grief would rule me forever.

  So, after witnessing everyday life explode into fiery pieces, I followed the same routine as before. Except now, whenever I entered Manhattan, I dreaded that at any moment my surroundings would crumble.

  2003

  As ever, the markets fell and rose. They rose and fell. Lehman bought Morgan Stanley’s building in midtown; Morgan Stanley, a more cautious institution, was moving its people to New Jersey.

  We pushed on. Some pushed harder, fearing the next cataclysm. Others denied trepidation. To me, the city smelled like death.

  Wayne asked if I wanted to join the firehouse. He said that they always needed strong, agile guys who kept their weight down. Fat guys like him weren’t good at scaling the rooftops of burning buildings. Wayne and I talked it over, drinking Stellas in the bar behind the Post Office, although we both knew I worked too many office hours to help out.

  Wayne, Pete, and Dennis still tap their horns when they see me about town. We raise our hands and say, ‘Hey!’ But we no longer play cards or basketball.

  I took up running. A short jog down the steep hill of Oak Grove Point led to a tree-lined path along the old aqueduct. From there I could run north to Rockefeller State Park, which was laced with undulating trails. On weekends, I ran faster and farther. At home, I lifted weights.

  But no matter how hard I tried to fill my time, still I slogged through more empty hours than I previously had known existed. The bank promoted me into a new products group, which presented just enough challenge to keep me content. I no longer reported to Vince, although he continued to look after me.

  Occasionally, I felt an inkling of newfound hope. I loved Olivia more than I’d ever loved anyone. With blue eyes and wild black curls like mine when I was her age, she was a happy, goofy child. At three, she was always laughing, and when she laughed it was straight from the belly. I lived for that laugh. I lived for Olivia.

  Four

  2004

  During our fourth spring at Oak Grove Point, a single mother and her daughter, who appeared about a year younger than Olivia, moved into the little townhouse facing ours. One unusually warm Sunday, I opened the door, and standing below me was a delicate child whose skin glowed with burnished purity.

  ‘Hello, honey,’ I said, motioning for her to come inside. My intention was to invite her to play with Olivia, but her eyes filled with terror and she hurried back down the steps. Olivia pushed past me, yelling, ‘Hiya!’

  I watched the tiny child give Olivia a finger puppet, which my daughter stuffed onto her thumb before taking her new friend’s hand, saying, ‘Don’t be scared. He’s my daddy.’

  From then on, Olivia and her adorable friend Amanda played together almost every day.

  We still hadn’t met Amanda’s mother, but while I was at work, Sterling got to know the nanny, whose name was Jade. She was twenty-five, near my age. Her father had worked at the General Motors plant in Tarrytown, as had her grandfather and great-grandfather. Since the plant’s closing in 1998, Jade’s father sold aluminum siding. Her mother worked as a secretary at the high school.

  For Olivia’s fourth birthday, with Jade’s permission, I took the girls to the Big Apple Circus. In the parking lot, Olivia insisted that her friend hold onto my thumb. ‘Without it, you’ll get run over.’ Amanda wrapped her little fingers tight and I wiggled my thumb, hoping she’d smile. She looked up at me, not quite smiling, but no longer terrified.

  At home, Sterling waited with cake and ice cream. Amanda had a present for Olivia in a paper bag. Putting it on the table, she whispered in Olivia’s ear. And Olivia said, ‘Daddy, can you wait in the kitchen?’

  I wanted Amanda to see that I was glad to oblige. Perhaps men were unfamiliar to her. Or maybe she had never been around anyone as tall as me.

  Eavesdropping from the kitchen, I learned that the birthday present had belonged to Amanda’s nanny when she was little. Jade had brought it from her house, but there was no wrapping paper or Scotch tape at Amanda’s.

  Sterling said, ‘See what’s inside,’ and Olivia ripped the bag apart. Ten metal rings fell on the floor. Olivia picked them up and handed them to Sterling, who asked me to come back into the dining room. Did I know what these were?

  As it happened, I had enjoyed this toy when I was young. ‘They’re magic. Give me a second and I’ll show you how they work.’

  Stepping back into the kitchen, I ran my fingers around t
he rings and found the hidden seams. I practiced the trick twice without fumbling. But when I reentered the dining room, the children were gone. Sterling licked a glob of pink frosting off a spoon before waving it at me. ‘Don’t even think of sawing me in half!’

  Ha! I kissed her neck.

  The little girls were in the TV room. ‘Abracadabra,’ I said. ‘Are you ready?’ They sat together on the couch and giggled. I handed them each a ring, telling them to look for moving parts. ‘The metal is solid, as you can see.’ They giggled more.

  ‘Watch.’ Balancing five rings in the crooks of my two index fingers, I flipped them into my palms, hand over hand, ‘Presto, change-o.’ I spread open a shining chain of ten small circles linked together. ‘Ta-da!’

  That night, I read Olivia her ritual bedtime story. When it ended, she asked where the magic rings were. I fetched the toy from a shelf and offered to show her how to do it.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘You do it. If I do it, it won’t be magic to me.’

  *

  Late one Sunday afternoon, when Sterling was playing golf at the country club, Olivia tromped into the kitchen with Amanda hiding behind her, asking for tea. ‘The dolls are having a tea party.’ I looked out the window at the slate patio. Three dolls were propped on small chairs around Olivia’s toy table.

  ‘Do you mean tea that’s hot and watery or something more like tiny cups of chocolate milk, and perhaps a little plate of ginger snaps?’

  ‘Chocolate milk! I mean that!’

  My snacks for the dolls’ tea party pleased Olivia so much that she invited me to join them. Beside Olivia’s favorite doll, I sat on the slate, my legs folded. Amanda’s doll was Olivia’s cast-off—the one whose hair she pulled out.

  *

  In August, we noticed that three townhouses in Oak Grove Point were for sale. Within days, they sold. But before anyone moved in, another realtor put For Sale signs in the ground. The houses sold quickly again, though still nobody moved in.