The Good Life by Erin McGraw Read Free Book Online Page A

other.”
    â€œAnd?” said the waiter.
    â€œNegotiations are under way,” said Pat.
    â€œThe worst is over,” said Frederick. He waited, but neither Pat nor the waiter agreed.
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    On the ride back to the hotel Frederick and Pat’s silence was rich. The limousine driver turned off his radio, and the doorman at the curb stepped back, swallowing his “Good evening” before it left his mouth. The Weilers ascended the elevator in silence and entered their room in silence. Perhaps Pat was happy. Perhaps even Frederick was. It seemed unlikely, but he was a little drunk and wasn’t going to exclude any possibilities.
    Though the night was sweltering—pure Chicago August, with the smell and feel of rubber—Frederick sat out on the balcony while Pat took off her evening gown. He liked the cling of the humid night air, which erased the lingering aroma of emollients and hair spray. From nearby a car alarm started up, and somewhere behind it the El clanked past. Frederick hadn’t sat outside in a city for years, and the mechanical shrieking and sighing were oddly satisfying. He had an urge to get even closer to it—to go back down to the streets, into a bar. Into a bar fight. He wanted to rub his smooth new face against gritty surfaces.
    Three feet in front of him, the edge of the balcony was faced with cheap, rough stone. Frederick had read once that jumpers in cities often suffered massive abrasions on their way down. If the impact didn’t kill them, the loss of skin would. No one knew whether they simply hit the building or were trying to reach out and cling. Frederick stood up and ran his hand along the outside of the balcony, brushing the rough surface until his palm stung. Then he slung his jacket over his shoulder and slipped back into the cool room.
    Sitting on the bed like a dollop of froth, Pat watched television. She had bought a filmy green peignoir at the boutique, and her pale shoulders bloomed from the green flounces. She still wore her makeup.
    Frederick whistled, then made his voice soft. “Come here often?”
    â€œMaybe. Looking for a sharp-dressed man.”
    â€œBe smart. Clothes are just the start.” He opened the honor bar and pulled out a finger-size bottle of VSOP. She made room for him on the bed, but not much. He had to sit close.
    Either the show had included perfume in her makeover, or one of the lotions smelled like pine and honeysuckle, traced in a line behind her ear. The smell deepened as he moved his mouth down her throat and licked the tiny cup at its base. He opened the cognac, dabbed it across her breastbone, and started to lick it off.
    â€œIs this smart?” she said.
    â€œHighly.” Wetting his finger again, he wiped the cognac across her cheek, taking a stripe of the makeup with it. She closed her eyes, but he was afraid to go after the mascara, which might sting if he wet it.
    â€œI have to leave tomorrow,” she said.
    â€œMe too.” He slipped his fingers through her hair, now so smooth and short it had almost no weight.
    â€œI’m married,” she said, pressing her head against his hand.
    â€œMe too. But we’ll always have tonight.”
    â€œWho would ever think we could be lucky enough to find each other?” she said. Then he put his mouth over hers, so she couldn’t ask any more.

AX OF THE APOSTLES
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    A FTER FOUR HOURS spent locked in his office, gorging on cookies and grading sophomore philosophy papers, Father Thomas Murray seethed. His students, future priests who would lead the Church into the next century, were morons.
    â€œKant’s idea of the Universal Law might have made sense back in his time, but today we live in a complex, multicultural world where one man’s universal law is another man’s poison, if you know what I mean.”
So there are no absolutes?
Father Murray wrote in the margin, pressing so hard that he carved the letters into