Cheap Seats Ch. 01

On the contrary, when potential employers asked her about it she said, "yes, we're distantly related," in an airy tone that suggested she hardly knew him. She was determined to get a job on her own merits, not because someone was looking to suck up to her father.

She worked in the international division of Ferris & Roberts, one of about 25 employees who reported to Barton Huntington, head of the Far East subsection. With Beth's background in international finance (and even a minor in Japanese) she was a perfect fit, and she loved her job: the money, the excitement, the people, the fast pace. She had also made a great friend in Diane McKenzie, who was the number two person in the same subsection. Diane had been there nearly ten years and was happy to show Beth the ropes.

My job at Chaney Magnuson was not quite as high-powered, but it was the kind of accounting work I'd been trained for, and I was well on my way to earning 5-10 times what my old man had made fixing shoes, so I considered myself damn lucky.

But when it came to apartment-hunting, my trust-fund bride insisted that we live somewhere we could afford on our own. She was not about to draw on Daddy's millions, though he would have been happy to plunk down a few of them for a Central Park West penthouse.

I felt the same way, and had actually feared that we might have a fight about it. I didn't want to depend on her parents, and felt strongly that we should make it on our own, just like any other young couple. But to my happy surprise Beth was even more adamant than I was; I heard her giving her dad a couple of stern lectures on the phone, making clear that she was not taking any of his money.

"I'm sorry, Daddy—but this is something Jake and I can do ourselves, something we WANT to do, something we're going to do." He didn't give up quickly or easily, but nobody changes Beth's mind when she's sure about something!

Her independence and determination to be self-reliant came out in small ways, too. I once wandered into the kitchen to find her perched unsteadily on a rickety chair, trying to reach a piece of glassware on the very top of a cabinet (Beth is only 5'2").

"Why didn't you call me, honey? Here, I can get that." (I'm 6'1".)

"Not a chance, Jake! I'm already up here, and I can reach it!"

I started to say that I'd be happy to help, but the look in her eye stopped me cold. Instead, I watched in terror, waiting to jump in and catch her if she fell. Of course, she didn't; and when she'd reached the floor again she gave me a smug little grin.

"I know you love doing things for me, sweetheart—but I really CAN manage an awful lot by myself, even if I am just a shrimp!"

"Yes," I said, "the spiciest shrimp I've ever eaten!" She stuck out her tongue at me.

********

As I sat on the brownstone step in the warm evening, there wasn't a single thing about Beth or about our marriage that I could draw on to explain what I'd seen at the concert. We were both happy about our jobs, our lives, and (so far as I had known) each other.

Beth talked about Barton from time to time, but no more than a person would normally talk about her boss. Sometimes she admired his smoothness and ease with people; at other times she made fun of his upper-crust accent or the way he charmed rich old-lady clients. She thought he was a bit of a phony, but he ran the office well and treated his employees fairly, and she appreciated that.

He also had a beautiful and high-profile fiancée, the fashion model Elena Riasonovskaya. So it didn't particularly occur to me to see him as a threat.

There had been one strange Saturday afternoon, about four months earlier, at the end of March. I'd gone out to a Knicks game the night before with C.D., because Beth had to go to a big company party and spouses weren't invited. After a few beers with C.D., I got home on the late side and Beth was already asleep.

She slept until after 1 pm the next day, went in to take a long shower, and eventually came out in her white terrycloth robe and pushed her way onto my lap, burrowing into me as close as she could.

She looked troubled. "You love me, right? You really love me?"

"Not a bit. I was just getting ready to dump you, in fact. Why?"

She ignored my lame humor and said, "it's nothing. Something stupid at work I need to figure out. I just wanted to make sure you still loved me, Jake."

I looked seriously into her eyes and said, "more than ever, Beth. More than you could possibly know."

After a pause I added, "what's the work problem? Why don't you tell me about it?"

She sighed. "No, not yet. I need to work this out on my own, I think."

"Okay, Ms. Independence, but can't I at least be a sounding-board for you?"

She kissed me and said, "thanks, honey. I need to chew on it first, and when I'm ready I'll talk with you, all right?"

I knew that was as far as I was going to get, so I let it drop. Beth still seemed quiet for a couple of days, but by Wednesday or Thursday she was back to her usual cheerful self, so I never got around to asking her again what the problem had been or how she solved it.

Now, as I sat in the dark and my cell phone told me it was nearly 3:00 am, I wondered if that Saturday was a clue that I should have understood better at the time. Because it was absolutely the ONLY thing I could think of that might even begin to explain how the love of my life could let herself get felt-up in public by another man—by her boss! And how she could drive off with him in his limo, presumably to fuck the night away in his fancy apartment.

I was baffled, and incredibly hurt. And then, suddenly, out of patience. Beth hadn't come home, and I didn't give a flying fuck any more when she did, or with whom. She could show up at 10 am with the offensive line of the New York Giants and I wouldn't give a shit!

I checked my cell-phone: 3:16 am. I grabbed my suitcase and started down 77th towards Lexington, where I'd try to find a cab to the "Y".

Just as I reached the corner, I turned to look back at our apartment building. A cab was just pulling up to it, and two people got out, one of them in a white dress. It had to be Beth. I couldn't see who the other person was, or even if it was a man or a woman.

I was briefly tempted to go back for a closer look, but they'd be inside the building before I got near enough. "Fuck it," I said to myself, and turned down Lexington Ave.

********************

I spent the next week as you might expect: angry, hurt, confused, and determined not to talk to Beth or anyone who knew her. I almost made it, too—I lasted until Thursday evening.

I left my cell phone off, turning it on a couple of times a day to hear the messages. The first one from Beth didn't come until nearly 3 pm on Saturday. Her voice was full of panic, but I didn't listen past the first couple of words. There were six more from her during the afternoon, and I deleted them all without listening. There was also a message from C.D. asking for an update.

I met him for a sandwich that evening and filled him in. He had known Beth nearly as long as I had—we were all friends from Wharton—and he was utterly stunned.

"This is SO not like her, man! I know we both saw her, so I can't tell you it didn't happen, but it makes no sense whatever!"

"That's the conclusion I reached too. Tell me: did you see any signs of trouble between us? Signs of boredom on Beth's part, or anger? Anything I unknowingly did that might have pissed her off?"

"Not a thing, I swear. You guys are so lovey-dovey it makes my skin crawl sometimes." He grinned, then suddenly stopped.

"I'm sorry, Jake," he said seriously. "Wrong time to joke."

"It's okay—you're my only good friend now, I've got to put up with you." I smiled at him. We were old friends, and I trusted him completely. Like I'd trusted Beth, until about 24 hours earlier. The thought made my face tighten into an angry grimace.

Sunday I spent walking, sitting in the park, and thinking. Getting nowhere. I hadn't any idea how my wonderful marriage could have gone to shit so fast, without me knowing anything about it.

Beth called 21 more times—she left eight messages, all of which I deleted. I just didn't want to hear it, whatever it was. Not yet.

When Monday came I knew she'd barrage Eileen, the receptionist at Chaney Magnuson, with calls. I got in extra-early and was hidden in my office behind a closed door before Eileen arrived.

At 9:15 I called her. "Eileen, listen, it's Jake, and I need to ask you a favor. I don't want to talk to Beth this week, and I'm pretty sure she's going to be calling.

"I'll be coming in early and leaving late, so you can honestly say you haven't seen me. If she calls for me you can put the calls through—I'll see on my phone that it's you and I'll just let it ring. If anyone else calls and I need to answer, just call me from your inside extension and I'll pick up, okay?"

"Sure, Jake, I can handle that." Eileen was a cheerful, competent woman in her 40s, divorced with two teenage sons. She'd seen it all. "Troubles at home? I'm sorry to hear it."

"Thanks, Eileen. I didn't see it coming, but...that's life, I guess."

"Hang in there, baby. Hope it gets better soon."

Beth must have called 50 times by Wednesday, either leaving messages on my direct line or using the main number to talk to Eileen. I deleted her messages, though I did listen to one from Tuesday afternoon out of idle curiosity. Her crying and panic were gone, but she sounded deeply frightened.

"Please, honey, call me back. It's not what you must think, and I'm going out of my mind. PLEASE let me talk to..." I deleted it—that was enough.

I just kept my head down, worked hard, talked to C.D. a couple of times, and stewed. One minute I was so angry I couldn't see straight, another moment hurt, later on just confused. But always I was determined. What Beth had done had killed our marriage, and I wasn't going to play games about it. Let her suffer for a week or so! Then I'd go back to the apartment and tell her it was over.

My plans changed when I got a call on Thursday afternoon from Madeline Rozycki. Along with C.D., Madeline was part of a big gang of Wharton grads who'd come up to New York for jobs. Beth and I had known her well during school—she was always a bit wilder than we were, quite the party-girl. But that hadn't prevented her from graduating in the top 2% of our class, and now she was on a straight line to a partnership at one of Wall Street's biggest firms.

"Jake, thank God I reached you—it's Madeline."

"Hi Mad, what's going on?"

"I need to see you tonight—it's urgent. Can we have a drink after work?"

"Sure, I..."

"Good, I'll meet you at Sorrentino's at 6:30." And she hung up.

I figured it was probably about Beth—no doubt Madeline had been sent as an emissary to deliver some bullshit message of apology, since I wouldn't answer my wife's calls. But I turned out to be completely mistaken.

The drinks had barely arrived at the table when Madeline leaned forward and looked at me intently.

"Jake, listen—I saw Beth last Friday night and she didn't fuck that asshole boss of hers. Let me tell you the story, okay? Don't interrupt me. When I'm done you can ask whatever you like."

I couldn't help but smile a little at her intensity. Madeline was always that way.

"Okay, Mad, I'll listen."

"I was club-hopping that night"—she smiled briefly at me—"and I was just walking out of Jejune when I spotted Beth leaving ahead of me. It was about five minutes to 3. She was with Barton Huntington--I recognized him right away, from all those pictures I've seen of him with his supermodel girlfriend. He had his arm around Beth, and seemed to be walking her to a big white limo.

"I called out, 'Beth!' and ran over to her. She turned, pulling out of Huntington's arm, and nearly toppled over. She had a big silly grin on her face, and I could immediately tell she was drunk or high.

"She cried out, 'HI, Mad!', in this strange girlish voice, and practically fell into my arms. She gave me a sloppy hug, and wouldn't let go at first. 'Are you havin' a good evenin'? We're havin' a GREAT evenin', aren't we Barton?'

"Her eyes could barely focus, and I could tell it wasn't just booze. I've seen Beth drunk a couple of times. It seemed like she'd taken Ecstasy, and probably more than one dose. And maybe some alcohol on top of that.

"I turned to look at Huntington, and he was just standing there with a disappointed smirk on his face, like someone had grabbed a piece of candy out of his hand. I turned back to Beth and said, 'what are you doing here? Where's Jake?'

"And she got a confused look on her face and said, 'I don't know—I can't 'zactly remember. Barton, where's Jake?'

"He didn't even answer her, just took her arm and tried to pull her away from me, saying, 'c'mon Beth, time to go'.

"Well I wasn't about to let him get away with THAT bullshit! It was obvious what was going on, so I held onto her and said, 'Beth, you are NOT going home with him! I'll get us a cab.'

"And I looked right at Huntington. My face must have made it clear that he wasn't getting any from Beth that night. He just stared at me, looking kind of frustrated and angry; then he turned on his heel, climbed into the limo, and off it went.

"I turned back to Beth and said, 'what were you doing with him, and why are you out without Jake?'

"She just looked at me, kind of glassy-eyed, trying to remember. 'I know we were at the Chili Peppers concert...and then Barton took me to that club, he was gonna introduce me to them! But I don't remember the rest...was Jake s'posed to be there too? I don't think I saw him....'

"She was so out of it, Jake! I hailed a cab and took her back to your place—she babbled cheerfully to me about the concert the whole time. I got the key from her purse and dragged her inside, taking her straight into the bedroom. I got her out of her clothes and tucked her in, her still jabbering away about how cute John Frusciante was, and how Flea had autographed a napkin for her, it was in her purse. You know what Ecstasy's like, and it seems she had a lot of it!

"Finally I got her to shut up, and after a couple of minutes she was fast asleep. On the way out I went into the kitchen for a glass of water, and I saw those photos you must have left. Were you at the concert at the Garden?"

I nodded. "Yeah, C.D. came up with two tickets at the last minute. I saw her with Huntington during the concert and tried to catch her afterwards, but the crowd pushed me away. All I could do was get some photos on my cell phone. Then I tried to call her, but she fucking hung up on me and turned off her phone!"

Madeline leaned towards me, intense as always, and took my hands. "Listen, I'm your friend and I'm Beth's friend. I love you both, and I don't want your marriage screwed up just because the guy she works for is a fucking predator.

"I don't know everything that happened that night, but I can tell you that Beth didn't fuck Barton or anybody else—her panties were clean and dry when I took them off her. And there's no way she got so stoned on her own. I'd bet a year's salary that Barton spiked her drink or something."

I sat back, thinking. I knew Madeline was one of Beth's friends, but I didn't think she'd go so far to cover for her as to make up a story like this. And Beth did look kind of drunk at the Garden; and I did see the cab at our building at 3:15 that night, with a woman in a white dress and someone else.

"Jake, will you talk to her, please? She's going out of her mind. You KNOW she loves you, don't you, you big idiot?"

My raised eyebrows made her smile, and she eased up on me a little.

"It must have been awful—but it really isn't what you thought, I swear to you. Now will you call her? Before she drives ME fucking crazy, too?"

I laughed, and said, "okay, Mad. I wouldn't want you any crazier than you are already. I'll call her and tell her I'll come home to talk."

"To talk? How about just come home?"

I shook my head. "I'm not ready for that yet. I hope you're right, that that dipshit didn't get into her pants. It sounds like he didn't last Friday, but I still have an awful lot of questions that need to be answered."

"Jake, trust me on this one. I've known Beth for nearly eight years. She loves you as much as anybody I know loves anybody. She was not out there cheating on you."

"I hope you're right, Mad, I really do. And I will go see her. But..."

She smiled. "But you still have some doubts—understood. Just let her explain it, okay?"

"Okay, okay, I give up." I put up my hands in mock-surrender. "Can we go get some dinner now?"

********************

Out of perversity, or a residue of my anger, I didn't call Beth right away. I waited until Friday mid-morning and left a voice-mail message at the apartment, saying I'd come over on Saturday at noon to talk. That gave me another day to think about Madeline's story, to chew on the whole thing, and to try to figure out how I felt about it.

In the end I realized I had no idea how I felt. There were still too many unanswered questions.

When I came into the apartment on Saturday, Beth had the good sense not to try to throw herself into my arms. She waited in the front room as I shut the door behind me, looking nervous and gorgeous. She'd brushed out her hair, put on a little make-up, dressed in shorts and a casual tee-shirt that I loved—it says "Rome" and has four images of the Coliseum on it, in different colors. I bought it for her during our honeymoon in Italy.

"Hello, Beth," I said seriously. I wasn't going to make this easy for her!

"Hi, Jake," she replied, her voice even softer than mine. "I'm so glad you came back."

"Just to talk," I said, "at least for now. Madeline told me what she saw that night, and she's persuaded me to listen to what you have to say."

I sat down on the couch. "So talk—I'll listen."

She pulled a chair over in front of me, then sat so she was looking right into my eyes.

"First of all, baby, you have to know how much I love you. I would never..."

"Stop, Beth!" She looked at me in shock.

"I'm not here to hear your protestations of love and affection, okay?" In a cold voice, I said deliberately, "just...tell me...what...happened. Tell me how my faithful and loving wife, who needed to work late on a big proposal for Tokyo, winds up in her loveliest dress at a Chili Peppers concert with her boss—letting him put his slimy hands all over her—and then goes off in his limo, and doesn't arrive home until the fucking middle of the night!"

By the end of this my voice had risen to an angry pitch. I stopped and looked at Beth. She was still meeting my eyes, but I could see her trembling.

"Okay, Jake. The whole story." She took a deep breath, looking down for a moment, then looked back up at me and began to speak.

"I'll give you the big picture first, then the details. Barton set everything up that night to try to get into my pants—including drugging me. And he...I...I think he probably would have succeeded, if not for us running into Madeline. She got me away from him and brought me home.

"Oh Jake, I'm so sorry!" Suddenly she was crying, loudly, her face buried in her hands. I did nothing. I sat back and watched her, feeling cold and empty. I didn't feel the slightest urge to hold her, to comfort her. I felt angry, and sick to my stomach, at the image of my lovely wife being fucked by that creep. And the fact that Madeline seemed to have prevented it—by sheer luck—didn't help much.

After a few minutes she grew calmer, and eventually she wiped her eyes with a tissue and looked at me. I still sat, frozen, staring at her coldly.

"You're not going to say anything?" I shook my head.

"Okay...the details then. I'm holding nothing back, baby—I'm going to tell you all of it. Or at least all that I remember." Her face took on an angry grimace for a moment.