The Dinosaur Club

  The

  Dinosaur

  Club

  WILLIAM

  HEFFERNAN

  This book is for all the dinosaurs,

  and for the lovely Stacie Blake, who married one.

  Surgeons must be very careful

  When they take the knife!

  Underneath their fine incisions

  Stirs the Culprit—Life!

  —EMILY DICKINSON

  Oh roses for the flush of youth,

  And laurel for the perfect prime;

  But pluck an ivy branch for me

  Grown old before my time.

  —CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Books by William Heffernan

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  JACK FALLON’S LIFE TOOK ANOTHER CAPRICIOUS TURN on the Fourth of July weekend. He was holed up in the small, paneled study of his oversized suburban home, reading through sales reports that stared at him like harbingers of doom. Behind his desk, a steady drizzle patterned the window, the tiny droplets careening into erratic cascades of crisscrossing streams, forced together by a speck of dirt, or an irregularity in the glass, then pooling at the base before slipping off to form still other miniature estuaries that raced along the sill. Had Fallon been watching, he would have thought the small, irrationally formed rivers resembled his life, perhaps everyone’s life, speeding along under the tyrannical force of gravity, until thrown off course by unseen obstacles, uncontrollable vicissitudes of fate. Fallon also failed to notice far-off rumbles of thunder that hinted at more serious rain to come. Had he heard, he would not have cared. He had intended to work throughout the holiday weekend, to struggle for his own tenuous survival, rather than celebrate his nation’s birth with barbecues and beer.

  Trisha, his wife of twenty-four years, entered the small room—dressed to the nines, as they used to say—and perched on the very edge of a well-worn, leather club chair. He should have noticed the high heels, the carefully applied makeup, the gold earrings, the necklace, the stylish slacks and silk blouse. It was Saturday afternoon, when she’d normally have on a pair of shorts and a designer T-shirt. He also should have noticed her wedding ring was missing.

  “I have to talk to you, Jack. I’m leaving,” she said. His eyes didn’t move from the report he was reading. “Jack?” she said again.

  Fallon turned a page. “Great,” he said. “But let’s talk when you get back, okay? I’m really up to my ears. Maybe we can go to that restaurant you like. Chez… whatever.” He glanced up.

  “No, Jack. We have to talk now. I’m leaving you.” Trisha’s lips were tight and nervous; they moved awkwardly as if finding it difficult to surround the words. She readjusted herself on the edge of the chair, drawing her knees tightly together.

  “I want a divorce, Jack. I’ve packed some things, and I’m leaving today.” She paused a beat, swallowed, then hurried on, rushing the words. “It’s not something I want to discuss. I think we’re past that. You can stay in the house. We’ll work something out later.” She drew a breath, then pushed on again. “I’ve arranged for some people to come by and pack the things I want.”

  The initial words hit Fallon like a kick to the stomach, his mind clouding to much of what followed. Then it had clicked back with denial. This could be fixed, smoothed over. It was her final sentence that had got his attention, drove the denial away. People coming to pack. So well organized, something she had planned out. But that was how Trisha did things. When they were first married she even arranged the socks in his drawer according to color. Handkerchiefs and underwear set in neat little rows. Such a long time ago. The remembrance made him feel as though he’d been kicked again.

  He shook his head, as if trying to clear it. “Wait a minute. You said you wanted to talk. Now you say we’re past talking.” He tried a smile; felt the misery of it on his face. Perhaps he could joke it away. “Hey, listen, we can’t afford a divorce,” he said. He pushed the smile again. “Believe me. We can’t. I’ve seen our checkbook.” He felt sweat begin to form in the palms of his hands and instantly hated it.

  Trisha ignored the attempt, gritted her teeth against it. “I mean there’s nothing we can say to each other that will change things, Jack. It’s something I’ve thought out. Something I have to do. And I think it’s best for us both.” Her mouth seemed tight and awkward again, and she worked the words like some marionette whose strings were being pulled behind a curtain.

  “Whoa, wait a minute, Trish.” Fallon held up both hands; tried another weak smile; failed with it again. “We’ve been married half our damn lives. We’ve got two kids. I think I’m entitled to more than that.”

  Trisha lowered her head; closed her eyes. When she looked at him again her mouth seemed even tighter. “Jack, I have to do something for me if I’m going to be happy.” She drew out the final word; twisted ever so slightly on the chair. “I can’t do that here with you. I’ve tried and it just doesn’t work anymore. I’ve talked to my therapist about this, and she agrees with me. There just isn’t much more I can tell you right now.”

  “Are you talking about getting a job? Going back to school? If that’s what we’re talking about, those are things we can work with.” He raised his hands again; shook his head; wondered if he looked as bewildered as he suddenly felt.

  She let out an impatient breath. “It’s some of that,” she said. “I’m not sure I can really explain it, or if I even want to. Just accept that I have to leave. Am leaving.”

  Fallon fought against the hollowness in his gut. “Are you moving in with someone else, Trish? Is that it?” He watched her eyes blink and his stomach twisted again. “Who? Howard? Has it gone that far beyond just flirting?”

  Trisha’s mouth became a small circle; her eyes widened, blinked twice. Then she got hold of herself. “I’m surprised you noticed.”

  The admission hit like another blow to the stomach. Howard. The dentist. The friendly neighbor with whom they occasionally played tennis. Doubles with Howard and his wife—silly, eager to please, slightly overweight Marge—the four of them prancing around the courts at that ridiculously upscale tennis club Trish had been so desperate to join. Then, later, all of them sharing a meal at a local restaurant.

  “I noticed, Trish. How could I help it? I just didn’t realize it had gone beyond an occasional giggle and flirt, that you’d actually started screwing him.” His voice had hardened and it seemed to startle her. He immediately softened it, hoping to hide the sudden rush of bitterness he felt. He forced a small smile, failed with it. “Jesus, Trish. A goddamned dentist? What the hell is this?” He stared across the desk, his eyes a mix of hurt and anger. He wished he could laugh in her face, desperately wanted to, but found he couldn’t.

  “Don’t be crude, Jack.” Her face took on a pink hue, and her well-shaped rump twisted uncomfortably in the chair. “Howard appreciates me.” She raised her chin slightly, emphasizing the words. “Something you stopped doing a long time ago.” She stared
at him, looking past the hurt in his eyes. She had thought about it for months, convinced herself the accusation was true, and now she hurried on, wanting to justify it. “Howard wants me for what I am, Jack. What I can be. We aren’t just screwing.” She threw the final word out like another challenge, perhaps even an assault.

  Fallon pressed a thumb and index finger into his eyes. “I thought you were leaving to find out what that was. Apparently Howard’s already told you.” He added the last sarcastically, then released the pressure on his eyes, shook his head for emphasis. He knew he was blowing any chance he had, but right now he didn’t care. He leaned against the chair, forcing it to tilt back … away from her. Then he noticed his fingers; how they gripped the arms—some terrified airline passenger on his first flight. His face flushed with anger. “No, Trish, you’ve been screwing him, and now you’re leaving. So where the hell does Howard think you’ll find yourself? On the second floor of Bergdorf Goodman?” He had snapped it out, the acrimony unconcealed, and each word seemed to hit her with a physical force, but she recovered quickly.

  “Have it the way you want, Jack.” She stood abruptly and looked down at him. “This is exactly what our problem is. What it’s always been.”

  Fallon blinked. This is the problem? You’re off screwing someone else, but this is it? He pushed the chair away from his desk, lowered his gaze, and stared at his shoes. On the way his eyes passed the slightly bulging midsection that had developed over the past decade. It hadn’t been there when he’d turned forty. It had crept up on him. Now, at forty-nine, there it was, firmly—or not so firmly—in place. Howard was trim. Inexplicably, he suddenly realized he couldn’t recall the man’s last name. Howard … The dentist … A man who had literally franchised himself, turned himself into a flaming HMO—four offices, with other dentists working for him, glossy brochures, even television ads. Fallon gritted his teeth. And you, you’re about to be tossed out of the only job you’ve ever had.

  Fallon had intended to stand, to face her. Now he remained seated. “What about Marge?” he asked. “Howard’s still married to her, isn’t he?” He looked up at Trisha again, still standing over him. Even at forty-five she was beautiful. Trim and sexy—at least to him. And, obviously, to Howard. But she was more than that. Twenty-four years more. He let out a breath, took in the blond hair that hung to her shoulders, and suddenly realized it was cut differently. He didn’t know when she had changed it. Hadn’t noticed. Maybe she was right. Maybe he had stopped appreciating her. No, not that. Maybe he had just stopped showing it, had been too overwhelmed by his own problems to even think about it. He drew a deep breath, suddenly angry at his willingness to blame himself. Maybe Howard noticed those things. Maybe the world wasn’t coming down around Howard’s ears, and he had time for personal observation.

  “Howard left his wife. We’re moving into a condo in Manhattan. Close to Howard’s main office. I’ll be working there. Running it for him. He values my ideas, Jack. He values my values.” There was a tinge of pride in her voice.

  Fallon blinked. “I thought you didn’t want a job. That you wanted to stay with your volunteer work—the homeless, pregnant teenagers…” He tried to recall what the other cause was, failed, and added a quick “whatever.” The look on Trisha’s face told him the final word had been a mistake. In recent years she had complained that he never asked what she did with her time, her energy, and especially the nights she spent taking the odd course toward a distant MSW degree and an empty-nest career. And her complaints had been justified; he had become like so many men, imprisoned by his work and that constant, gnawing anxiety that was so much a part of it. He wondered now if her complaints had been a warning he had failed to recognize. Suddenly he wanted to tell her that she had always done everything competently, including being a wife and mother. But the words wouldn’t form. His own hurt and anger were too deep.

  Trisha continued to stare at him, lips tight. “It’s not enough anymore, Jack. I have to think about my future. I have to make it what I want it to be.”

  Her words brought him back, hit him again. Fallon remembered Howard saying that his main office was on the Upper East Side. Sixty-third Street, he thought. From the glitter in Trisha’s bright blue eyes, he was certain it was. She had always wanted to live there, all the way back to the early years of their marriage. In those days it would have been a big step up from their beat-up first apartment in the East Village. Two cramped rooms on the fifth floor with a bathtub in the kitchen, which, with a sheet of plywood laid across it, doubled as a countertop and table. He glanced around his well-appointed study, felt the deep carpet beneath his feet; thought about the rest of the house, how they now lived. They were far away from those early days—in more than just years. But maybe not far enough.

  “Have you told the kids?” Fallon asked. A picture of their children flashed through his mind. Both were away at college in Vermont. Liz, their first, was a junior at Bennington; Mike, a freshman at Middlebury. Both had small partial scholarships, but even with that, their tuition, room, and board totaled nearly three months of his gross annual salary, or thirty-six thousand three hundred dollars a year. He knew it to the last damned penny, because it scared the hell out of him that he might not be able to pay it much longer.

  “I planned to call them tonight. I wanted to tell you first.”

  “That was decent of you.” The sarcasm passed her, producing only a small tic at the corner of her mouth. “What are you going to tell them about their tuition? They might not ask, but they’ll be worried about it.”

  Trish straightened her shoulders, causing her small, still-trim breasts to jut out slightly. “I plan to tell them that you’ll continue to take care of it.”

  A sardonic smile played across Fallon’s lips. He ran the fingers of one hand through his still dark hair, then reached down and picked up the sales reports that lay atop the old mahogany partner’s desk he had inherited from his father. He held them up to her, as though they explained everything. The reports showed a sharp drop in the company’s most vital area, its newer lines of fiber optic cable. Now, with rumors of downsizing rife, the sales figures, combined with his age, made him a perfect candidate for the street. “I may be out of a job soon,” he said. “You’re aware of that, right?”

  Trisha drew a breath. “I’m very aware. And it’s not as though you haven’t seen it coming, Jack. Everyone else did. We talked about that, about your need to reposition yourself.”

  The words stung, and he stared at her. Reposition himself. Like she was now doing, he supposed she meant. Or like Howard had. Howard the one-man HMO. The man of the nineties. Was that it? he wondered. Did she see him as hopelessly out of date, someone whose personal values were set in the seventies, a sinking ship that had to be abandoned? She had been warning him for months that he was about to lose the only job he had ever had—and the one-fifty in base salary it brought in each year, a bit more with bonuses. He had tried to convince her it would be all right. But he had seen it coming, damn it. He had simply chosen to ignore it, to fight it through. You just didn’t walk away from a company you had helped build from its inception. At least he didn’t. His eyes fell on a three-month-old copy of Cosmopolitan lying atop a stack of papers on the corner of his desk. The cover touted one of the issue’s lead articles; the one Trisha had suggested he read. “The Top 10 Ways to Reposition Yourself in Corporate America.” He had read the article and had marveled at its advice. It had been slanted toward thirty-year-olds, as if people over forty didn’t exist or—even more depressing—were simply beyond help. He let Trisha’s words slide by, unchallenged. Right now there were more pressing facts she had to consider.

  “I’m not going to argue with you about this. I’m sure you paid attention each time we sat down and reviewed our money market, our IRAs, and the few stocks we own. I sure have. I look at those figures every week—because they terrify me. It’s not a helluva lot to carry us—I’m sorry, to carry me—if I’m out of work for six months or more. Because o
ur twenty-five-hundred-dollar-a-month mortgage isn’t going to go away. Neither are the five grand a year in taxes, or the insurance bills, or the rest of the monthly nut. And with college costs for two kids added in, and without my present comfortable salary …” He ended the sentence with a snort.

  “I know all that, Jack.” She pushed it away and went on blithely. “But obviously we’ll sell the house sometime in the near future. And you’ll have your half. And you’ll be getting a settlement from the company. If the worst happens. I’m sure it will be enough to handle the tuition and other expenses.” She paused a beat. He suddenly realized she expected him to carry all the financial burdens alone—with or without a job. He was smiling at her and shaking his head. She continued quickly, “Look, I know this is a bad time for you. But things aren’t going to get any better. Not for you; not for us. It wouldn’t have done any good to wait.”

  Fallon bit down hard. “No, I guess not,” he said. “You better get going.” He forced a smile that didn’t quite work, wasn’t really intended to. “You’ll be taking the car, I suppose.”

  Trisha looked momentarily surprised. “Yes,” she said. There was hesitation in her voice, and her mouth seemed tight and awkward again. “It’s mine. It’s registered in my name. And you still have your company car.”

  Fallon nodded, thought about the baby-blue Mustang convertible. Trisha’s favorite color. “That’s right. It was an anniversary present, wasn’t it?” He had said it sarcastically, but she hadn’t seemed to notice. It had been an extravagant gift—one really intended for both of them. He shuddered inwardly.

  Trisha drew a long breath, preparing herself to leave. She looked very beautiful, Fallon thought.

  She was holding a small purse in her left hand, and her now empty ring finger seemed surprisingly naked. It was the first time he had seen her without her wedding band. The thought jarred him. He wondered if she had worn it when she was with Howard. Trisha preferred the left side of the bed. And when they had made love, she had always turned on her right side, then used her left hand to stroke him. She had liked that, had once told him it gave her a sense of power to be able to get him so hard, so quickly. “You better get going,” he said again. “Howard will be waiting.”