New York - The Novel

for another minute. He could tell Maggie was really angry.
    “Juan Campos was at Columbia with you too,” she suddenly said. “Are you trying to tell me Juan is some kind of failure? Because I don’t happen to think he is.”
    Juan Campos had had a bad time for a number of years, when El Barrio and every other poor area of the city had fallen into ever greater neglect. But he’d come through it and was making a big success as an administrator in the community college system now. Gorham had a feeling that Juan’s career might be developing into greater things.
    “Okay,” Gorham said. “You’ve made your point.”
    That weekend, they stayed in the city. Saturday was a bright, clear day. They went down to the South Street Seaport, and Gorham amazed his children by telling them that their ancestors had actually been merchants with counting houses down there. Then they all went to a movie together. On Sunday, Maggie made brunch, and they had friends round, and that evening he helped the kids with their homework. He felt better after that, and for several weeks he kept himself busy with his work and the children, and with Maggie of course, and he’d supposed that he was back to being his usual self, when he overheard Maggie having a telephone conversation with a friend.
    “I just don’t know what to do with him,” she said. “It’s really difficult.” Then, when she saw him come into the room, she’d quickly ended the call.
    “What was that about?” he asked.
    “Just a client who’s giving me some problems,” she said. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
    But he suspected that she might have been talking about him.

    The new millennium began. The much-anticipated Y2K bug hardly materialized at all in the USA, or the UK, or the other countries that had prepared for it. But then it didn’t seem to appear in the countries that hadalmost ignored it. That spring, the dot.com boom had reached its high point, then the NASDAQ index had started a wholesale retreat.
    Early in April, Juan Campos had called, sounding very cheerful, and they’d met for lunch. Things were going well for Juan. Janet had made a documentary on his community college. “You can’t make a dime with a documentary,” Juan said, “but it has given her enormous satisfaction. She wants to show it to you herself sometime.” Gorham was delighted to see his friend so upbeat, and promised to come up and visit them soon.
    Only when Maggie asked him that evening how his lunch had gone, and suggested that they should all four of them go out to dinner together, did it cross Gorham’s mind that maybe Juan’s call to him might have been prompted by her. Did his wife really think that he was in such need of cheering up? He thought he seemed perfectly happy.
    That summer they took the children to Europe. They went to Florence, Rome and Pompeii. The boys seemed quite interested, but little Emma was only eight, so maybe she was a little young, though she was very patient with the long lines, which they partly avoided by getting guides. Then they went to the beach for a few days, to make up for all the forced culture. It was one of the best holidays they’d had in years.
    Back in New York, Gorham made a determined effort to keep his life on an even keel. He stood for the board of the building again, and was easily elected. He didn’t much like some of the other people on the board, but that wasn’t the point. He was determined to grasp everything about the life he had and hold onto it. He made a point of taking Maggie out to dinner, just the two of them, every other week at least. Time was compartmentalized in New York. At work, naturally, there was a schedule, but he tightened up his private life as well. Twice a week he played tennis at the Town Tennis Club near Sutton Place, or in the winter months on the covered courts under the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge. All through the rest of that year, he felt himself to be in control of the situation. Maggie seemed happy. His home life was exemplary. As the end of the year approached, Gorham was feeling rather proud of himself. So when the next blow struck, it took him by surprise.
    It was at a cocktail party the week before Christmas, and Gorham found himself talking to a pleasant fellow who told him he was a historian at Columbia. They discussed the university a little, and then Gorham asked the man what work he’d been engaged in recently.
    “I’m actually on a sabbatical,” the fellow