Once A Liar

THEN (#litres_trial_promo)

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS (#litres_trial_promo)

Reader’s Guide (#litres_trial_promo)

Questions for Discussion (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

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“He who fights with monsters should see to it that he himself does not become a monster.”

Friedrich Nietzsche,Beyond Good and Evil, Aphorism 146

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Claire and I are sitting in the back of a black car, each looking out our separate windows. I see in the window’s reflection that Claire has her hands clasped nervously in her lap, the strap of her handbag wrapped around her wrist. I methodically clench and unclench my fists. Claire reaches over my lap to lay her hand on my thigh, and I feel her looking at me with her sympathetic eyes, hoping I will offer her comfort. I readjust my sunglasses and fluff my pocket square.

As the driver turns onto Madison Avenue, a line of similar black cars appears with curbside doors swung open, and Manhattan’s elite filing out onto the sidewalk. The burgundy awning offers little solace beneath the heavy afternoon sun, and sweaty husbands usher their second and third wives inside the building. I hear Claire whisper, “You ready for this?” as I open the door and hold a steady hand for her to take when she steps out of the car. I can’t respond.

We are walking quickly down the carpeted aisle of the funeral home, nearly hip checking acquaintances out of the way. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I haven’t said a word since we left the house; there’s nothing I know how to say. Claire is much more gracious than I am, and she’s looking back over her shoulder to coo hellos and whisper apologies.

As we get to the first pew, I pull Claire by the wrist to enter the row before me, brusquely guiding her by the lower back as she shimmies down to the middle of the bench. She skids to a seat and I remain standing to her right. I don’t need Claire right now, and I would rather she stay discreetly seated. I tighten my tie and survey my surroundings. I know everyone here, and everyone knows me. I can’t remember most of their names, but they know who I am and they know what I’ve done.

I’m not looking at the coffin because I don’t want to look at it and imagine its contents. Claire seems fixated on it. I glance quickly to see that it’s tiny. It’s tiny and white and lacquered. Juliette must have been five-nine or five-ten when she was alive; it doesn’t look like she could possibly fit in there. On top of the coffin, white roses and orchids flow abundantly in a huge cascade. Just like Juliette to make everything perfect. Even her death is beautiful.

I scan the room, forced to lock eyes with people and nod politely, looking for someone in particular. Harrison Doyle, the New York County district attorney, walks through the door and gives me an inappropriately large wave. Harrison has been trying to get me to join him on his side of the law, but I’ll never be anything other than a criminal defense attorney. He’s afraid of me, and he should be. But right now, Harrison is not who I am looking for.

Even I can feel it when something in the air suddenly changes, and the mourners terminate their hushed conversations and slip into their seats. I watch as everyone around me sits, and finally I lay eyes on the person I’ve been waiting for. Jamie is walking through the doors with his chin to his chest, supported by Juliette’s mother, Katherine.

Jamie looks up expectantly as he clumsily plops down next to me in the front pew. Satisfied that he has decided to sit with me, I take my seat and lay my arm over my son’s shoulder. I think I feel Jamie’s muscles tighten slightly underneath the weight of my arm. I imagine he must be uncomfortable, everyone looking to see how he’s handling his mother’s funeral, and he’s not used to affection from his father. Claire reaches her hand over me to tenderly pat Jamie’s knee. She knows how to do this better than I do.

“You okay, honey?” she whispers. Jamie nods, and a fat tear splashes Claire’s hand. I watch the way they look at each other and make a mental note of what real sympathy looks like.

Some priest or minister or whatever he is begins the service and my mind wanders back to the time when Juliette and I were dating before we got married. She was vibrant then, jubilant. Before I broke her, she had all the life in the world.

I think of the first charity benefit we went to together. She had been planning it for months. I picked her up in a Rolls-Royce and brought her a wrist corsage that matched the rose in my lapel. She laughed her brilliant laugh and wore it proudly for the entire event, gazing at it, and me, while she was onstage, thanking the benefactors for their donations.

I remember the way the light left her eyes when she finally realized I would never change, despite her best efforts.

I’m pulled back into the present as the music stalls and Jamie rises from his seat. He takes a deep breath, sending shudders through his broad shoulders. The priest pats his back as Jamie places his notes down on the lectern in front of him and clears his throat to speak.

“Thank you for coming... My mother would have been so happy to see all of you here, continuing to show your support for her. Although today’s event is not benefiting a war-torn nation, underprivileged children or endangered animals, we are here to honor a woman whose life and legacy are just as deserving of our admiration and protection.”

I’m impressed with Jamie’s words—I hadn’t expected such eloquence from a kid not yet sixteen. But the discomfort is rising in my throat as I worry what he may have in store for his speech.

“I grew up in a single-parent home, but you would never have guessed that because Mom played both the role of father and mother to me for as long as I can remember. After Peter left, she picked up some typical male hobbies and took me to sports games, so I wouldn’t feel deprived of a male influence.”

This is exactly what I was afraid of, Jamie bringing up my absence and adding insult to injury by calling me by my first name. All the sympathy I had been getting from the crowd drains as they remember how I abandoned my wife and child. I tune out the rest of his speech and concentrate on appearing remorseful.

As Jamie continues his tribute to his mother, I imagine fond memories creeping into the minds of the mourners around me, and I turn to study the expressions on their faces. I’ve caught the eye of my ex-mother-in-law, Katherine. Katherine hates me, but despite our troubled history, she offers me a sympathetic nod. I mimic the nod back and robotically clasp Claire’s hand.

When Jamie breaks down talking about how quickly his mother turned for the worse, I carefully observe the reactions from the crowd. I file these looks away in my brain for reference in the future. I wouldn’t have to pay such close attention if only I could still conjure these emotions naturally. But I haven’t felt remorse, I haven’t felt sympathy and I haven’t shed a genuine tear in as long as I can remember.

The other two speeches are delivered by two of Juliette’s childhood friends. I listen to the adulation and respect in the stories they tell; I laugh when the crowd laughs and bow my head when the crowd cries, just like I’m supposed to. When the pallbearers lift Juliette’s coffin and Louis Armstrong plays, I pull out of Claire’s grasp and escort my son down the aisle, closely following his mother’s body. Juliette wasn’t the first to die, and she wouldn’t be the last.

* * *

“Jamie,” I call when he finally exits the funeral home, “why don’t you walk with us?”

Jamie extracts himself politely from a stranger’s embrace and shuffles quickly to my side like a good obedient son. He is almost exactly my height, with the same thick, dark brown hair, mine developing dignified silver at the temples. Most of his good genes come from me.

Seeing a group approaching to offer condolences, I feel immediately exhausted and turn south on Madison Avenue, hurrying Jamie and Claire along. I don’t have the energy to fake it with these people. Several teenagers, must be Jamie’s friends from school, are huddled together smoking cigarettes on the southwest corner of Eightieth Street. One of them reaches out a fist as we walk by, saying, “Sorry, bro.” Jamie fist-bumps him and nods with a tight-lipped smile as I pull him closer to me.

Claire fishes out a Kleenex from her handbag and dabs at the sweat beading on her upper lip. The heat doesn’t bother me, and I rarely sweat. I think she looks sloppy using tissues, so I hand her the pocket square from my jacket. As we walk east on Seventy-Eighth Street toward Park Avenue, I see a taxi pull up in front of our destination, and I watch Katherine slither out with her third husband.

I stop walking, stalling our group—I can’t bear the idea of sharing the elevator ride to the penthouse with my ex-mother-in-law and her shiny, replacement husband. Claire takes this opportunity to wrap Jamie in a kindhearted embrace. As soon as she pulls away, I follow suit and squeeze my son into my chest. I scan my surroundings for witnesses, but unfortunately, no one saw the hug. Disappointed that my shows of affection garnered no attention, I release Jamie and we walk the rest of the block to Katherine’s apartment in silence.

I elongate my stride, leaving the other two behind, and quickly walk to Katherine’s to get this charade over with. Claire and Jamie watch as I kiss both her cheeks. I hold her waist and look through her. If you didn’t know me, you would call me sympathetic. Genial. Honest. Katherine revels in the attention, playing the part of mourning mother to perfection. I feed off this, and it helps me fall into the performance we put on in public.

Swarms of funeral-goers enter the palatial apartment, marching through the required rounds, commiserating with Juliette’s family and close friends. Although we’ve been divorced for a decade, Juliette never remarried, so the crowd treats me as a grieving widower, and they all lavish me with hollow gestures of comfort. I delight in the attention from their frivolous posturing, wondering if all the kindness could lead me to have real feelings about Juliette’s death.

Claire is keeping to herself near the bar, plucking bobby pins from her hair and arranging them in patterns on a mother-of-pearl coaster. Surprised by my approach, she stammers to attention, yanking the last pin from her hair, causing it to cascade down her shoulders.