The Heights Part 23

"That's true," I said. "Maybe it's a good thing we're going. Give you a little s.p.a.ce."

"Yes, exactly."

"Will you do me a favor and treat yourself?"

Tim looked as if he'd been electrocuted. "What does that mean?" "Sleep late. Rent a movie. Eat a lot of chocolate."

"Oh," he said, not smiling.

"Reward yourself for a job well done." Then I said something lame like "But don't have too much fun."

Later, we stood on the curb, locked in a hug. "Good-bye," he said, his arms wrapped tightly around me, not letting go.

The boys were already seat-belted in back of a gray sedan from Promenade car service. Their small matching suitcases had been stowed in the trunk. They were ready, I was ready, but Tim was the one hanging on.

This reminded me of how we used to say good-bye in our first days together. Back then, whenever we parted, I'd walk a bit, sense that I was being watched, turn, and find that he was still standing there, watching me. I'd wave, he'd wave, and we'd both walk on. We'd keep turning and waving until we were terribly small, an eyestrain, until the last possible second. It was our way, I suppose, of letting the other know we'd always be there.

"Okay, honey, I love you," I finally said, which was code for Let go.

He released me and stepped back. He leaned into the car and kissed the boys and held them and whispered into their ears, not stopping until Sam squirmed and Teddy said, "Daddy, don't." When Tim pulled back out, he couldn't look at me. "You're going to miss your flight," he said.

Now I was the one hesitating. Here's why: The day before, Jeff Slade had called to tell me bad news. He and his fiancee had split up. I said, "How sad." He said, "Better now than later." He sounded upset, but I couldn't tell if he was acting. When I asked what had happened, he said there were reasons that he'd explain some other time. Then he said he hoped the trip could go on without his fiancee. "Let me think about it," I said. I pretended to think about it and said, "Yes."

"Ma'am," the driver said.

"Honey," I said, in a sudden panic right before getting in the car, "I just got a great idea. When your defense is over, go straight to the airport. Flights to Orlando leave like every hour. Just get a ticket. Cost not an issue."

"Your seat belt, honey . . ."

"Did you hear me? Come be with us-"

"By the time I got there, it would be time to come back."

"Please," I begged.

"There'll be another chance. Disney's not going anywhere." He helped me with my seat belt. "I mean, with what happened with your job, you deserve this trip. Go have a great time. Promise?"

I promised.

"And whatever you do, don't think about me."

"Okay, okay," I said. "Boys, say good-bye to your dad." The driver asked which airport. "Kennedy," I said as the car took off.

Why hadn't I told Tim? Shouldn't he know that Jeff was no longer engaged and that I would be the only Kate on the trip?

Here's what I told myself: I didn't want him to worry. Besides, it wasn't like anything was going to happen.

As we drove away, I had that familiar, distinct sense Tim was watching us go. But by the time I looked back, we had already turned the corner.

TIM.

LATER, THERE WOULD BE MUCH TO REMEMBER: THOSE EARLY, AWKWARD MOments; the somber mood of the committee; the poorly lit conference room and the squeaky pale green plastic chair where I sat sweating; the meandering opening statement wherein Dr. Jamison Lamson, who had misplaced his notes, had to wing it; my surprise at Dr. Lamson's p.r.o.nouncement that he'd never had a more frustrating student; my confusion, then clarity, regarding his strategy, for my mentor had deftly antic.i.p.ated the criticisms of the other advisers, and he battered me in such an aggressive way that it must have engendered sympathy in the others, because within minutes it wasn't a defense, it was a love fest, a party of my now-peers, and what a pity I wasn't entirely present for the experience, how unfortunate that I only half heard my harshest critic, Dr. Rejandra Kanwar, cop to having had years of skepticism and say, "I never thought a dissertation could straddle Rosa Parks and Pliny the Younger, but somehow, Mr. Welch, you've found a way!" and Dr. Rita Lovejoy, who was in awe of my use of minor players to illuminate the "great stage of world history" and how my dissertation "went down like a milk shake but boasted the sharpness and finesse of a complex wine," and while the three doctors struggled to outdazzle one another, this thought occurred to me: I wish Kate were here to witness this. She would've liked it. But that thought gave over to other, more pressing concerns, how I was dizzy from lack of sleep and weak from lack of food, and most especially, how I had gas. All of which kept me from confronting what I most feared. I'd been told that very often during a dissertation defense, the exchange between advisers and advisee evolves to a more personal expression of thought. Out slips the unknown, never-spoken, real motive for the years of research, leaving the doctoral candidate exposed, as if having been subjected to a full-body X-ray-as if to say, Here, these are my bones.

I wanted to avoid that moment. Could I get through my defense without it? If only I'd kept quiet after Dr. Lamson asked, "Is there anything else you'd like to say?" See, part of me didn't believe their uniform praise. Look at them, I thought. Surely they have a criticism or two-it can't all be completely wonderful-have they even read what I wrote? Maybe they didn't understand it. Maybe they didn't know anything. Maybe I needed to teach them!

So instead of thanking them and exiting fast, I stood motionless, stared incredulously, and said, "Is that it? Is that all?"

They looked back at me. Smiling. Satisfied. "It's been a delight." Dr. Kanwar grinned. "Like Christmas in May," Dr. Lovejoy cooed.

That was when I figured it out. I might've been the feather in the cap of Dr. Lamson's career, but the other two couldn't have cared less. They were humoring Dr. Lamson, and they wanted me gone. How quickly their kind-seeming smiles turned into patronizing sneers. I decided to fight back, to prove myself and convince them. I began to speak without thinking, rambling, really, trying to reiterate a key point about history being an endless succession of mostly minor moments that acc.u.mulate and how intention was all that could be controlled and how meaning well didn't always mean doing right, and even now I worry about what slipped out, what was exposed, because all I remember is the way the committee laughed and laughed until they hurt from laughing, leaving me with the distinct impression that whatever I'd said had been all too revealing and how, when I felt the blood rush to my face, my knees buckled . . .

Flop.

When I came to, they asked if I remembered fainting or if I'd felt the crack of my mouth against the table's edge. "No," I said, fingering my newly chipped front tooth. "I don't remember any of that." Which was true. All I remembered was the moment before I fell-the buzzing lights, the blur of laughter, and me saying, "Please don't tell my wife."

KATE.

PLEASE KNOW I WASN'T EASILY IMPRESSED. I RESISTED THE LURE OF THE EMPHATIC 3-D billboards that lined the network of Disney highways as we approached, and I felt no awe at the fact that Disney World wasn't one place, as I'd previously thought, but actually four theme parks, three water parks, and two huge areas that were designed for adult nightlife. And yes, I'm sure our accommodations at the Wilderness Lodge were lovely, but I didn't jump up and down like my boys when they saw the Lincoln Log-like lobby and the eighty-two-foot fireplace that blazes all year round, or the pool that begins indoors as a hot spring and then flows into a winding creek, culminating with a waterfall into the rocky caverns of the outdoor pool. It was kind of Jeff to be waiting for us when we arrived, and how sweet he was to get down on his knees as he greeted the boys, and how thoughtful he was to insist they be covered with sunblock, and how nice to have our own Disney chaperone named Darla to guide us through the complex series of options. All this was fine, but I wasn't convinced, not even as we floated on the launch toward the Magic Kingdom and hurried after the boys as they ran ahead down Main Street. It was simple, however, my conversion, and its cause was obvious. Cinderella's Castle. I'd avoided looking at it, but when I yielded and saw that familiar turret towering above, I began to scream.

TIM.

IN THE HALF HOUR SINCE RETURNING TO OUR APARTMENT, I'D CHANGED OUT OF MY dissertation defense costume (the brown tweed blazer, the khaki pants, the scuffed penny loafers) and put on something more casual yet, I hoped, flattering (my new jeans, a purple linen shirt the color of a bruise, my bright red Converse high-tops). Then I checked the chip in my tooth. Not pretty. But I discovered it would be barely noticeable so long as I didn't smile, or talk, or basically open my mouth. Then I brushed and flossed and mouthwashed, I facial-creamed, body-lotioned, redeodorized. Checked my face for beard stubble, found none. Double-checked my ears and nose for long, unsightly hairs, found one. Rechecked my overnight bag, taking special care to unzip the secret pocket where I'd stashed a light blue box of a dozen Trojans, found them. Twelve seemed an overreach, I know.

I left the breakfast dishes in the sink (Sam's uneaten Lucky Charms, Teddy's plate of toast crusts). I pa.s.sed by the boys' bedroom/closet and barely glanced at their matching s.p.a.ceship bedspreads and the recently applied glow-in-the-dark stars stuck in constellation patterns on the ceiling. I mostly managed to ignore the shelf of family photos, catching just for a moment a picture of Kate and me and the boys all wearing the same L. L. Bean striped pajamas, smiling, from Christmas morning the year before. However, what I couldn't avoid was the blinking message light on our phone machine. Someone had called. Who? I stared at the blinking light for longer than I'd like to admit.

Quite possibly it was Kate. Maybe there had been an emergency. Or maybe Kate couldn't help herself. Maybe she wanted to hear how my dissertation defense had gone. Maybe she wanted to be the first to call me Dr. Welch.

I stopped in front of the phone machine and pushed play.

"This is Jack with American Credit Services. Don't worry. Your accounts are fine. I'm calling with a unique offer, a onetime opportunity-"

"Exactly," I said as I pushed erase.

KATE.

AS WE APPROACHED THE CASTLE, A DISNEY EMPLOYEE IN A DAPPER OUTFIT OF knickers and a blue hat came toward us with camera in hand. "Would you like a picture of the family?"

I started to wave off the photographer, but Jeff said, "What a great idea."

When I mumbled something about it probably costing a hundred dollars, Jeff just laughed.

The photographer positioned us so that Cinderella's Castle was the backdrop. I knelt down in the middle, Sam on one side, Teddy on the other. Jeff coached us as Darla, our guest-relations guide, filled out an order form.

I expected to feel ridiculous, the typical tourist. But it was nice, the boys and me, the backdrop.

The photographer focused the camera and appeared ready to snap when Teddy, of all people, blurted out, "Can't Jeff be in the picture?"

That afternoon the Magic Kingdom was jammed with people-predominantly white and on the heavy side-taking their place in lines that seemed to stretch in every direction for every attraction. Jeff insisted we start at Fantasyland for the simple reason that this was where we'd find the greatest concentration of kiddie rides. Dumbo was our first stop. The line was endless, but Darla led us past those waiting, through a gate, down a corridor, where somehow we bypa.s.sed everybody and were ushered immediately onto the ride. Jeff went with Teddy and Sam. I stayed behind with Darla, who explained as they boarded that the alt.i.tude of their Dumbo flight was controlled by a joystick. She added, "That's what makes it an appropriate ride for any age."

Teddy and Sam had the same look as they circled the sky-pure, unadulterated, mouth-open awe. Meanwhile, Darla offered up a wealth of Disney World information. I learned about other celebrities she had escorted (Robin Williams, Muhammad Ali, the Sultan of Brunei) and that every ride/attraction at Disney World had a secret entrance that we would be availing ourselves of, and that of all the celebrities she'd escorted, she'd never seen one take a greater interest in the itinerary than Jeff Slade. "He had several conversations with the head of guest relations," she whispered. Realizing Darla was clutching the itinerary, I asked to see it. She smiled and shook her head, saying, "I'm not supposed to show you."

"Oh, come on."

"He doesn't want you to have to think about a thing. Let me just tell you that what he has planned is ambitious-difficult but doable-and if we stay on schedule, you're in for an unforgettable few days."

"Yes, but we're not here for me," I found myself saying as the boys and Jeff flew above us.

Soon we raced from Dumbo to the train of boats for the Small World ride to the white horses of Cinderella's Golden Carousel to the spinning pastel cups of the Mad Tea Party, then the miniature pirate ships on Peter Pan's Flight, and, finally, the honeypot-shaped cars of the Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh.

Later, when the boys and I emerged from the nearest bathroom, Jeff was waiting with official Disney autograph books and Donald Duck pens. We hurried toward Toontown, where a tour of Mickey's House was aborted when Teddy saw his favorite Disney character of the moment (Aladdin). While Teddy got Aladdin's autograph and Sam got all shy around Captain Hook and Brer Rabbit, I tried to pull Jeff aside for a private chat. I asked that he slow down with all the kindnesses. From the way he glared at me, I knew I better explain: "I guess I'm just not comfortable with all this special treatment."

Jeff said with a smile, "Then you better go home."

TIM.

TRUTH BE TOLD, I'M MORE OF A RED ROOF INN/BEST WESTERN/MOTEL 6 KIND OF guy. I would've been more comfortable at any of those places. I'm fond of the noisy ice makers at the end of every hall, the Gideon Bible in every room, the cheap polyester bedspreads, the floral shower curtains, and the little rectangles of dry-out-your-skin soap. But that afternoon what I missed most were the large neon signs.

I worried I'd written down the address wrong because I'd been up and down Greenwich Street three times. Was this some sort of joke? I asked a handful of people if they knew of the hotel in question, and no one had even heard of it.

It didn't help that I'd overpacked, stuffing my bag with every conceivable clothing combination. If it rained. If it suddenly got cold. Casual pajamas, flannel pajamas. Something about the overwroughtness of my bag gave the impression that I was a man who was never coming back. The more I carried it, the heavier it became. I was tempted to start emptying much of it out onto the street when I saw the two gray industrial doors with thick half-moon handles. On the handle, faintly embossed, the following was spelled out from top to bottom: t

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Apparently, I'd asked the four people in the Village who hadn't heard of the Infinity. Inside, it was designed to speak to the ultra-hip, the ubercool. The lobby was a long craterlike structure, gray with stuccoed walls. It felt lunar. Brightly colored lamp shades. Mammoth mirrors hung from thick ropes. This was a moonwalk for the earthbound. I imagined at night the place hopped with the young and chic, decked out in black, sitting around the gla.s.s-topped moon-rock tables as they talked and drank and bantered about art and movies and the newest in high fashion.

I knew I was out of my league. But I didn't care! And I was early. But I didn't care! I approached the concierge, named Mahogany, a frothy British girl with a stud in her tongue. "Yes?" she said.

"I'd like to check in."

She was harried, or else unimpressed, because she snapped, "Sir, your room isn't ready."

"Well, could you check?"

"I know your room isn't ready because none of the rooms are ready. You're very early. Check-in isn't until three."

What? Check-in at three?