The Rome Affair. Laura Caldwell
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any of those, Nick would notice. But I also had my own savings, started long before Nick and I were together.
Kit sank her face into her hands, her shoulders trembling. “I just don’t know how much more I can take.”
I kissed her on the head. “It’s going to be okay. I’ll get you the money. I’ll go talk to your mom now, and then I’ll meet you here tomorrow morning, okay?”
She raised her head and gave me a fierce hug. “You are a good friend.” She said it in a way that implied she hadn’t been so sure about that a moment before.
On Monday morning, I went to work at seven. With the office cool and still empty, I checked my e-mail, returned calls from Friday and made appointments to call on an architectural firm the next day. As other employees trickled in, I checked my watch, waiting for nine o’clock, when my bank would open its doors and I could get Kit the money she needed. Because I was getting the funds from a savings account, I couldn’t write a check.
At five minutes to nine, my boss, Laurence Connelly, stepped into my office. His suit coat was already off, and he wore his usual suspenders, a too-shiny pink tie and a smirk. “How’s it going, Blakely?”
“Just fine.” I tried a smile, but since I’d gotten back from Rome without the Rolan & Cavalli account, things had been icy between Laurence and me. Every time Laurence tossed it in my face, which was often, I was reminded not only of my failure at the meeting but how I’d failed my marriage, as well.
“How was your weekend?” I asked.
He ignored the pleasantry. “Are you seeing the Baxter Company soon?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Get them to up their service agreement. We need that cash. Got it?” I knew what he was saying behind the obvious words—salespeople who didn’t bring in that cash could be fired. He’d already let four people go this year.
I stood, signaling the end of the conversation. “I know that, Laurence. That’s why I’m going to see them.”
“And what about Thompson & Sons?”
“I’m calling on them today.” I tossed my purse over my shoulder and reached for my sunglasses at the edge of my desk.
“Where are you going?”
“To the bank.”
He crossed his arms. “You can do your banking at lunch.”
I thought of Kit’s mom, tubes extending from her arms, like a battered boat tethered to a dock. “It’s important personal business. I’ll be back soon.”
“This is the business you need to be concerned about.” He pointed to the floor with a stubby, manicured finger.
I moved toward the doorway, hoping he’d step back. “I made my numbers last month.” Translation: Back off, blowhard.
“Doesn’t sound like you’re doing too well this month.”
“And that’s why I’m seeing the Thompson people today and Baxter tomorrow.”
He wasn’t moving. I knew Kit was at Chicago General, pacing, waiting for me, while her mother waited, too.
I angled a shoulder and pushed past him, trying to ignore the heavy, musky cologne he apparently thought was sexy. “See you later, Laurence.”
Outside on Monroe Street, the August air lay like steam over the Loop. People rushed for the doors of buildings—and for the air-conditioning—the same way we all rushed for warm shelter in the winter. I got in a cab and directed the driver north to Lincoln Park Savings & Loan, the small community bank where I’d done my banking since college and where Nick and I had opened accounts after we got engaged. We no longer lived in the neighborhood, and it was rare that either of us actually had to visit the branch.
I stepped inside the chilly confines of the bank and waited in line for one of the three tellers who appeared unruffled by the fifteen or so people already waiting for their services.
Ten minutes later, I finally made it to a teller.
“How can I help you?” asked a young man wearing a white shirt and blue tie.
“I need a money order for three thousand made out to Katherine Kernaghan.”
I thought of Nick then. I should tell him—I should come clean about something—but this was merely aid for a friend who desperately needed it, with money that was truly mine, which I’d earned. And Kit had asked me not to mention it.
The rationalizations didn’t help much. It only reminded me of the other, larger, secret I’d kept from him.
Two minutes later, I was in another stuffy, airless cab, speeding toward Chicago General.
Kit had changed clothes from the day before, but she was standing in the same place, her hand on the glass window.
I stood next to her and looked inside. Her mom was being tended to by a thermometer-wielding nurse in pink scrubs.
“How’s she doing?” I said.
“Same.” Kit’s voice was devoid of emotion.
“Are you working this week?”
“Goodman gave me the week off.”
“That’s nice.”
“Yeah.” Neither of us moved. “Were you able to get the money?”
“Of course.” I handed her a white envelope with the money order inside. I felt like I was doing something illicit.
Kit took it and put it in her purse. “It’s unfair, isn’t it?” she said, still looking at her mom. The nurse had finished up, and signaled Kit that she could come in. Kit barely nodded in return.
“Yes,” I said. “It’s entirely unfair.”
“Some people get nothing in life. They never get a goddamned thing. And then other people get it all, no matter what they do.”
“Yeah,” I said, not exactly sure what she meant.
She turned to me. Her eyes were clear again, not red like last night. “Like you, Golden Child. Everything is perfect for you.”
I opened my mouth. I was about to remind her of Nick’s affair, of my own, of my parents’ divorce and my sliding status at work, of how I’d thought I’d be a mother by this time in my life but how my marital problems had derailed that plan. But the fact was, despite it all, I knew those were not the world’s worst problems. I knew how fortunate I was. So I just nodded.
“Yep,” Kit said, with bitterness in her tone. She turned back to the window. “Everything works out for you.”
I felt stung by her words, but I knew she was hurting and scared, so I said nothing. I went inside the glass door and said hello to her mother. And then I left. In the cab, heading toward the Loop, I realized that Kit hadn’t thanked me.
7
Oftentimes, when I think back about Kit, I try to put my finger on the exact minute it all began to crumble and slide. When an earthquake happens, there’s always a quiet rumble that starts the disastrous movement. Sometimes I think that rumble might have gone as far back as our childhood together. Other times I think maybe it was the moment at the hospital, outside her mother’s room. But no matter where it started or why, I can always pinpoint the moment I knew with certainty the slide had begun—the night of the Weatherbys’ dinner party.
We’d been told it was “a get-together with just a few board members,” and being a Monday night I’d envisioned pizza and beer. I should have known better. The members of the board always lived large.
“A toast to one more month of summer,” said Joanne Weatherby that night. “And to Nick and Rachel.” She raised a