Saving Grace by Barbara Rogan Page B

she had to twist the knife. She knew what she was doing, too. Women always knew.
    But his hands were tied. There was honor involved, as well as reputation. Barnaby guarded both as jealously as other men guard their daughters—more carefully than Fleishman guarded his—because what else did he have?  
    Men his age, no smarter or more industrious than he, were racking up condos, country homes, cars, and boats. Barnaby rode the subways and lived in a rented fifth-floor walkup in a roach- infested building sandwiched between a parking lot and a sausage factory. The studio was decent enough inside, but he was long past the age of pretending there was anything romantic about his cesspool environment or of taking an inverted pride in his poverty.
    Once, years ago, his mother had flown in for a visit. As she walked down the street from the subway stop, her face began quivering with disgust, and as soon as they got inside, she threw up her hands. “This is how you live?” she cried. “Such a smart boy, by now you should have a home, a family, money in the bank. What have you got? Nothing!”
    His mother’s name was Selma Reiser Goldfarb. Barnaby had been born Howard Nathan Goldfarb, but took the single name of Barnaby when he moved to New York. Once a year, Howard Nathan Goldfarb rose from the dead and flew to Chicago to celebrate Passover with his parents and sister. But for the rest of the year he was gloriously self-named and self-made, free of chattel.
    Usually his poverty didn’t bother him. On principle he despised consumerism; by nature he was not particularly acquisitive. Other forces fueled his fire. The city was infested with corrupt politicians who siphoned off the wealth of the city while people slept in the gutter and children grew up abused, illiterate, and hopeless. Barnaby despised those vermin politicians. He considered himself privileged to be numbered among their exterminators.
    No one got rich in his line of work, not if he was honest; but there were other forms of capital, and reckoning by those, Barnaby was a man of substance. The governor took his calls; congressmen courted him. In fifteen years on the job Barnaby had broken more major stories off the city beat than any other reporter in town. He had the respect of his peers and a name that struck fear in the breasts of the powerful and corrupt.
    Little enough, but too much to jeopardize for a fling with the poor little rich girl.
     
     

 
    5
     
    “WE’VE KNOWN EACH OTHER twenty-five years,” Martha Kavin said, “and during that time I don’t believe we’ve ever met without our husbands. When you think about it, it’s amazing how little we’ve had to say to each other.”
    “Still, you came,” Lily said, beckoning the waiter.
    “The timing was curious. I wondered what you’re after.”
    “I’m not after anything. I just thought you could use some moral support.”
    “How touching,” Martha said.
    They were within months of the same age, but Martha looked ten years older. Her eyes were sunk in a mottled pool of failed concealer and smudged mascara, her skin was pasty, and her graying blond hair cried out for attention. Martha was a senior editor at Simon and Schuster, where she had tarried long enough that the bright young things shooting past her into management were half a generation younger. Too late to change houses; at this point, she’d be lucky to hang on to her job. One of the most dispiriting aspects of Michael’s fall from grace was its effect on her own career. It was a bitter discovery to find that as his stock plummeted, so did hers.
    The Japanese waiter came and took their orders. When he was gone, Lily leaned toward Martha. “This must be hell for you. I wanted you to know that if there’s anything I can do—”
    Martha cut her off. “You’ve done enough, thank you, you and your husband.”
    “What do you mean?”  
    “You know exactly what I mean. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be here.”
    “I believe in