A few minutes before eight, Alex arrived at Hastings’, a small Manhattan pub down one flight of stairs, in a basement, from the sidewalk on West 64th Street. It was midway between Central Park to the east and Lincoln Center to the west.
She gave Jack Hastings, the owner, a wave as she entered. She selected her own table after Jack waved back and indicated that she might sit anywhere she liked. The eatery was a neighborhood hangout and popular among visitors to Lincoln Center in the early evening. It was small, dimly lit, and comfortable. Red tablecloths anchored the room with a small candle on each table. There were usually only two waitresses from a roster of nine, all of whom worked part-time, grad students at Columbia, NYU, or Juilliard nearby. The waitresses patrolled in red T-shirts and black skirts. Jack worked the bar six nights a week. Harp and Guinness were on tap. Legend had it that throughout Prohibition, Jack’s grandfather Michael hadn’t missed a shift or a sip. The plasma TVs high up at each end of the bar were usually tuned to sports. Since taking up residence on West 61st Street, Alex had become a regular.
One of the Columbia girls, Martha, appeared quickly and took Alex’s drink order. Martha had no sooner disappeared than Ben appeared in the doorway, holding a shopping bag. Alex waved. Ben smiled broadly and came to her table. She stood for a tight embrace and a kiss on the cheek.
Ben was a strapping guy from North Carolina. He had been a Marine gunnery sergeant in Iraq before a roadside bomb in Anwar Province had taken off his leg below the knee. He now wore a prosthesis. In Washington, Alex and Ben had been gym rats together in a co-ed basketball league.
Ben was the slowest guy on the court, but at six four he was also the tallest. Prosthesis and occasional jerky movements and all, he had played center for Alex’s team. From their comradeship on the court, a deep friendship had emerged. They’d been there for each other during some of their darkest personal moments, most notably when Alex had plunged into a nearly fatal depression following the death of her fiance, and another time, in Paris, when she had been hospitalized after a shooting.
When Martha returned, they ordered drinks and then they ordered food. They exchanged small talk about recent events, Ben mostly talking about his search for an internship in Manhattan, and Alex telling him about her successful start at the new branch at Fin Cen.
Ben reached into his shopping bag and presented Alex with a small bouquet of roses. They caught her off guard. No one had given her flowers since Robert, and she still didn’t know whether to associate flowers with love or funerals. But she thanked him. They finished eating, ordered coffee, and he asked what else was new.
“You’re not going to believe this,” she said.
“Try me.”
“Do you remember that Russian? Yuri Federov.”
“Of course,” he said. “I used to be jealous of him, you chasing him down all over the world, going dancing with him or night-clubbing or whatever.”
“It was all work related,” Alex answered with a smile.
“Still,” Ben said. “It happened …” For a moment, Alex reassessed Ben – flowers, an admission of jealousy. Then, she said, “You know Federov died a few weeks back … His will was read in Switzerland two weeks ago. I didn’t attend the reading – but he left me something.” She produced the envelope that she had carried all day. She handed it to Ben. “Open it,” she said. “Take a look.”
He pulled out the check. The front of it was facing away from him when it first left the envelope. He flipped it over. His eyes widened as they settled upon it.
“Holy cow!” he muttered softly. “This is real? Two million dollars!”
“Two million dollars,” Alex said, “and the taxes have already been paid.”
He shook his head. “Don’t know about you,” he said, “but that’s the most money I’ve ever held in my hands. When I got discharged from the Marines, I had nineteen thousand dollars in the bank plus a VA card – and I thought I was rich.” He stared at it for several more seconds and handed it back. “Wow,” he said. “Incredible.”
“Really,” she said. “Incredible. Seriously. But I have some hang-ups about it. I know the type of man Federov was. I know that at the end of his life, facing death, he was looking for salvation and forgiveness.” She paused. “Think I should keep it?”
“Don’t even think twice. Think of the good you could do. Really!”
“That’s what you’d do?”
“Listen, Alex,” he said. “Maybe Federov was looking for salvation. Maybe he thought you would know exactly where his money could do the most good.”
“Maybe,” Alex said. Then, seeing the look he gave her, she said, “So what?”
“So what does it matter if it can’t buy him forgiveness? It could do a lot of good, anyway. Good in your life. Good in the lives of others. You could give it away, or you could use it to sustain you while you give your time and effort away to others. How’s that?”
“Good.” She nodded.
“Think about Itzhak Perlman,” he said, “the violinist.”
“What about him?”
“He contracted polio when he was four and lost the use of his legs. Instead of cursing his fate, he saw it as a gift from God. As he tells it, no one would have put a violin in his hands if he hadn’t been in a wheelchair. And from the hands in that chair came some of the most beautiful music of the twentieth century. So from a quirk of fate, or divine intervention, or whatever you call it, lives get changed. That’s happened to you, so just go with it.”
She pondered. Ben sipped his drink and continued, “I’m happy for you. You know the old joke: ‘Money isn’t everything, but it’s way ahead of second place.’ “
She smiled. “Funny, but not necessarily true.”
“Of course not,” he said, “because money can bring misery too.” He paused. “When I was growing up in North Carolina, my mother used to tell me about this nasty woman she knew named Darlene. Mom and Darlene had gone to high school together. When Darlene was about thirty, she inherited a pile of dough from her family, and it changed her. She spent her life safeguarding it, being suspicious of other people, never having fun. She became churlish, hostile, lost all her friends. My mother was a Christian, a woman of faith. She used to say, if that’s what money does to you, she prayed to God she would never be rich, because that’s not the person she wanted to be.”
“Point taken,” Alex said.
“Now, let’s get back to Itzhak Perlman. Did you know he’s playing at Carnegie Hall on Friday?”
“I did know that,” she said. “I tried to get tickets but it’s sold out.”
“So who’s your pal?” he asked. “I am, that’s who. I have my own magical envelope this evening.”
Ben reached into a jacket pocket and flipped a small envelope onto the table. “Two tickets for Perlman. Bought them as a gift for letting me stay with you. Hope you can go.”
She picked up the tickets and looked at them. Orchestra, fifteenth row. In terms of grad-student dollars, Ben had taken a plunge for these.
“Wow!” she said. She stood, leaned over the table, and kissed him.
“It’s already worth it,” he said. “You’ll go?”
“I’d love to.”
He took them back. “I’ll hold them for now.”
“Ben?” she asked, a trace of anxiety. “Is this a ‘date’ date?”
“What if it were?” he asked.
“If it were,” she said, “we should talk first. I think you’re wonderful. But last year was so traumatizing. I’m not sure that I’m ready for – “
“Look. It’s you and me as friends going to a recital where we happen to be close up to one of the great violinists of our lifetime. We have a great evening and hear some great music. Does it have to be any more than that?”
She shook her head, mildly relieved. “No. That’s already splendid enough.”