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Authors: Mary-Beth Hughes
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never praises her, either. Jealousy, Philip has always believed. Lucyâs family came over on the
Mayflower
or some related vessel very soon after; Fattyâs and Philipâs papas flew over on Pan Am. But now he wonders, as he aims the Voyager through the hot sticky night down I-95. He wonders if they are right to think what they never say about Lucy.
Philip never wanted his own practice. Never wanted a partner. Never, now that he thinks about it, wanted to be an architect. Long, long ago, he did want to fuck Lucy Twitchell. And that small, simple, natural desire had led to so many half-choices guided by her mindless half-notions. Here he is, careening over the Triboro Bridge to undo, once again, some tangled mess generated by his overzealous wife. Maybe Fattyis right. Certainly Fatty was right about one thing: the Quoin house, like nearly everything they own, is in Philipâs name. Lucy can hurl her entire inheritance at it, sheâll never get it.
Just before midnight, Philip circles down into the spiral entrance to the garage beneath their apartment building. He wakes Jesus, flat out in a deep snooze on a cot in the underground cubicle. Jesus, it turns out, has âsubletâ Philipâs private parking space. But Philip will take anything now and tosses the keys. As a goodwill gesture, he tells Jesus he wonât report him, and starts the climb back up the ramp. The office is right around the corner. Something Lucy pleaded for; she wanted him close to home. What if Philip had to work nights and weekends?
But as it happened he never did work nights, or weekends either. He was fixing up the house in Quoin. He only had two hands! And early on, after the first month or so, he explained to his partner, fairly patiently, that what Philip did wasnât about
time spent
, it was about the
quality
of his input. And he got Fattyâs accountant to explain the same thing.
Intellectual
property. Philip had the brains, the influence, the connections; his partner did the grunt work: designs, drawings, proposals, and such, which took a lot of time no matter how you sliced it.
And
Philip put up the larger share of the start money. Nearly three thousand dollars! To his partnerâs lousy two grand. And when his partner said âsweat equity,â Fatty made a good joke, said,Let him sweat before a judge. Basically, his partner was an employee whom Philip had made the crazy mistake of treating as an equal.
It happens, Fatty had sighed, and now heâll buy you a swimming pool. Yes, it looked entirely possible that for all his pain and suffering Philip would be rewarded with the inground kidney-shaped pool heâd always dreamed of, in Quoin, Connecticut, right beneath the apple trees. Fatty was a genius, back when he could still focus.
The painting isnât big but itâs heavy. Philip adjusts the frame under his arm as he rounds the corner. He fingers the backing, just to check. Maybe there really is a surveillance device. He nudges a gallery sticker. In fact, thereâs a museum tag, too. Couldnât off-load this pooch, heâs thinking when, in his peripheral vision, he catches sight of something that makes his heart lurch. The Porsche! And worse, worse, much worse, the wife sitting in it! He can see her pointy head in the wash of light from the police cruiser pulled in right in front of her.
Philip stops. Ready to spin and bolt, but itâs too late. The car door opens and sheâs out and shouting: You found it! Thank god! Thank god. And sheâs running to him, arms spread wide like she loves him. And heâs paralyzed. Heâll think about this later, the way his knees lock and his chest pounds like a thick, dark drum. Oh, she says, coming closer, coming to him, her hands clicking together in an odd way, as if playing smallcymbals, small cymbals of joy. Heâs never seen anyone so happy and he doesnât know what to do.
Was it in the trash?
Sheâs talking to
Mayflower
or some related vessel very soon after; Fattyâs and Philipâs papas flew over on Pan Am. But now he wonders, as he aims the Voyager through the hot sticky night down I-95. He wonders if they are right to think what they never say about Lucy.
Philip never wanted his own practice. Never wanted a partner. Never, now that he thinks about it, wanted to be an architect. Long, long ago, he did want to fuck Lucy Twitchell. And that small, simple, natural desire had led to so many half-choices guided by her mindless half-notions. Here he is, careening over the Triboro Bridge to undo, once again, some tangled mess generated by his overzealous wife. Maybe Fattyis right. Certainly Fatty was right about one thing: the Quoin house, like nearly everything they own, is in Philipâs name. Lucy can hurl her entire inheritance at it, sheâll never get it.
Just before midnight, Philip circles down into the spiral entrance to the garage beneath their apartment building. He wakes Jesus, flat out in a deep snooze on a cot in the underground cubicle. Jesus, it turns out, has âsubletâ Philipâs private parking space. But Philip will take anything now and tosses the keys. As a goodwill gesture, he tells Jesus he wonât report him, and starts the climb back up the ramp. The office is right around the corner. Something Lucy pleaded for; she wanted him close to home. What if Philip had to work nights and weekends?
But as it happened he never did work nights, or weekends either. He was fixing up the house in Quoin. He only had two hands! And early on, after the first month or so, he explained to his partner, fairly patiently, that what Philip did wasnât about
time spent
, it was about the
quality
of his input. And he got Fattyâs accountant to explain the same thing.
Intellectual
property. Philip had the brains, the influence, the connections; his partner did the grunt work: designs, drawings, proposals, and such, which took a lot of time no matter how you sliced it.
And
Philip put up the larger share of the start money. Nearly three thousand dollars! To his partnerâs lousy two grand. And when his partner said âsweat equity,â Fatty made a good joke, said,Let him sweat before a judge. Basically, his partner was an employee whom Philip had made the crazy mistake of treating as an equal.
It happens, Fatty had sighed, and now heâll buy you a swimming pool. Yes, it looked entirely possible that for all his pain and suffering Philip would be rewarded with the inground kidney-shaped pool heâd always dreamed of, in Quoin, Connecticut, right beneath the apple trees. Fatty was a genius, back when he could still focus.
The painting isnât big but itâs heavy. Philip adjusts the frame under his arm as he rounds the corner. He fingers the backing, just to check. Maybe there really is a surveillance device. He nudges a gallery sticker. In fact, thereâs a museum tag, too. Couldnât off-load this pooch, heâs thinking when, in his peripheral vision, he catches sight of something that makes his heart lurch. The Porsche! And worse, worse, much worse, the wife sitting in it! He can see her pointy head in the wash of light from the police cruiser pulled in right in front of her.
Philip stops. Ready to spin and bolt, but itâs too late. The car door opens and sheâs out and shouting: You found it! Thank god! Thank god. And sheâs running to him, arms spread wide like she loves him. And heâs paralyzed. Heâll think about this later, the way his knees lock and his chest pounds like a thick, dark drum. Oh, she says, coming closer, coming to him, her hands clicking together in an odd way, as if playing smallcymbals, small cymbals of joy. Heâs never seen anyone so happy and he doesnât know what to do.
Was it in the trash?
Sheâs talking to
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