The Vacationers

The last time Jim had applied for a job, he was twenty-two years old. Loyalty was more common in the old days, when fact-checkers became writers became editors, none of this bouncing from career to career like younger people seemed to do, as if art school and business school made sense on the same résumé. Gallant had been his professional home for decades, for his entire adult life. It had been another marriage, just as complicated and nearly as satisfying. But now here he was, a cool sixty, with no Monday mornings ahead. He turned left and walked up a cobblestone street that led into a small plaza with some cafés and outdoor seating. Jim chose a table in the shade and ordered a coffee.

His thoughts moved in spirals: If this, then that. If they divorced, then they’d sell the house. If they sold the house, then he’d have to move. If he moved, where would he go? If he stayed on the Upper West Side, was that pathetic? Was it aggressive? Was he supposed to surrender the zip code? Was Riverside Drive too far, too remote? Could he live in the nineties? He remembered the nineties when they moved in, how anything above 86th Street felt like it was overrun with drug dealers on stoops. If they didn’t divorce, would they ever have sex again? And then Madison Vance appeared again, as she often did, her hair still wet from the shower but already wearing her makeup, her naked body pressing against his leg like a blind saluki. She licked his neck and then his earlobe. She began to whisper. Jim took a sip of his coffee and tried to make Madison disappear.

Telling Fra

Jim tried to take another sip but discovered the coffee had gone cold and thick. He dropped a few euros on the table and wandered on, turning right and left and right again, eventually finding himself standing across a busy road from a crowded beach. He was sweating through his shirt by now, his long sleeves curled up and cuffed. He jogged across the street, dodging cars, and took off his shoes and socks. The sand was hot, and Jim stepped lightly over people’s towels, side by side like floor tiles, until he stood at the water’s edge. The water lapped in lightly, covering his toes. He absently wished that Fra

Carmen insisted on helping Fra

“I think we’re all done!” Fra

“Table’s set.” Carmen was nothing if not efficient.

“Thank you,” Fra

Everyone filed in, sitting mostly in the seats they’d assigned themselves at the begi

Jim carved the chicken and sent the platter around. Lawrence slid a few spears of asparagus onto his plate and then passed the platter in the opposite direction. The meal worked like clockwork for a little while, everyone taking what they were hungry for, if not a little bit more, not saying much except polite thank yous when a serving dish appeared in front of them. This was what Fra

Sylvia ate one asparagus spear at a time, letting the long green stalk hang out of her mouth as she made it disappear bite by bite. Jim tried not to be amused. There was little noise except chewing and the clinking of forks and knives. Fra

“So glad you like it, Carmen! It’s nice to see you dig into something other than your green juice.” Fra

Carmen glared at Bobby. He didn’t look up from his plate. None of this was her fault—she had done nothing wrong. Carmen wanted to be the kind of woman who was above pettiness, who didn’t believe in taking an eye for an eye, but she wasn’t. They had talked about how he was supposed to behave with his family, how he was supposed to present her, how he should treat her, and here he was, acting like a teenager. Carmen had done so much work to make him into the right kind of man. If he didn’t respect her enough to not behave like an asshole, well, then she wouldn’t respect him enough to carry on his little charade.