But he wasn’t that kind of person.


He stepped into a pub called Moondyne Joe’s. He could have gone to the Sail & Anchor, which was a little nicer (or more “toff,” as Ava would have said) and which had chili mussels on the menu and artisanal beer and a scrubbed-clean clientele. Or he could have gone to the Norfolk Hotel, which had an outdoor courtyard and two guys strumming Midnight Oil songs on the guitar. But Jordan was in the mood for someplace dark and gritty. He had discovered Moondyne Joe’s on one of his aimless walks through the city. It was the kind of place where men drank up their dole money; it attracted a tough, tattooed crowd. It smelled like cigarette smoke, beer, and old beer. The concrete floors were sticky, and there was no “food” to speak of other than a warming case that held a selection of Mrs. Mac’s meat pies. A TV hung in the corner of the bar, a huge, boxy thing that seemed as outdated as a cassette deck (the Ute that Jordan had bought from the car-rental agency had one of those). When Jordan was here before, it was midafternoon on a Tuesday, and there were only four or five men at the bar keeping the bartender-a stout, matronly woman who looked as if she ought to be running a home for wayward boys-company. But today the place was packed, and Jordan found himself elbow to elbow with fifty or sixty sweating blokes. (That seemed such an appropriate word for this breed of Australian men; Jordan reminded himself to look up its etymology when he got home.) He wanted to step back out onto the street, but once he was in the pub, he felt committed. Stepping back outside because he didn’t like the looks of the other patrons would have been a cowardly move.

Everyone’s focus was on the TV. A game was on: rugby. And then Jordan remembered what he had read in the sports section of the Sunday Australian: the Australian national team was playing New Zealand. The All-Blacks. The All-Blacks were world-famous; they did a version of the traditional Maori Haka dance before each game. They were documented badasses.

Jordan moved toward the bar. He fought off the mental image of himself as an effete, intellectual newspaper editor hailing from a country that wasn’t even tough enough to field a national rugby team. He was so far out of his element here that it was almost comical, but a beer might help.

The bartender-the same middle-aged woman as before-gave him a Carlton Mid-Draught, and while he had her attention he ordered a shot of whisky as well, and then, in order to gain a few more inches of bar space, he bought the muscled behemoth to his right-a man wearing a fluorescent green vest over his bare chest, who smelled like the lion cage at the zoo-a shot of whisky too. This man-he was a decade younger than Jordan-eyed the shot warily.

“What’s tha?” he said.

Jordan nodded at the TV. He didn’t want to speak and thereby reveal himself as an American just yet. “Game,” he said.

The man needed no further explanation. He threw back the shot. “Thanks, mate.”

“No worries,” Jordan said.

The man did edge off a bit, giving Jordan room enough to move his arm so he could get his beer to his mouth. There was a sudden outburst of raucous booing-the All-Blacks had scored-and the man to Jordan’s left stood up in disgust, leaving his bar stool empty.

Jordan waited a split second to see if anyone else was going to take the stool, someone with more of a national right to it than him, but no one stepped forward. So Jordan sat, moved his beer in front of him, and silently congratulated himself on acquiring this real estate. The whisky affected him in a way that made his situation seem wonderfully humorous. He was in a pub watching Australia battle the All-Blacks; he had a seat and a cold beer. If Ava could see him, she would think… what? That he’d done an admirable job of assimilating? Or that he was making a fool of himself or, even worse, sneering at the other men at the bar, condescending American snob that he was?

And what would Zoe think? He raised his face to the TV. Well, the old Zoe would have been happy beside him at this bar with a cold beer. She would have thought that the players for the All-Black team were hot.

Jordan had another beer, another shot of whisky, a third beer. He was getting drunk; he should ask for a glass of water. He never let himself get carried away like this, or rarely did: there was that one night on Martha’s Vineyard, his first night with Zoe.

Oh, Zoe. Zoe.

Another beer, his fourth. He had to take a leak, but he was afraid of losing his seat. His eyes were glued to the TV, but the game was inscrutable to him. He yelled when the rest of the patrons in the bar yelled; he cheered when they cheered. He elbowed the man next to him and said, “Watch my seat, mate?”

The man nodded. “Sure, mate.”

Mate, mate, mate. Jordan stumbled to the bathroom, which smelled like piss and beer and smoke, and as he used the urinal, he puzzled over the word mate. Odd term for a friend, and especially so because Australians seemed to apply it most often to complete strangers. Jordan tried to wash his hands-one of the stained sinks gave him a trickle of water-and regarded himself in the clouded mirror. He was plowed. Plowed was, of course, Zoe’s word. She had endless synonyms for drunk, including plastered, shitfaced, shattered, fucked up, schnockered, destroyed, toasted, wrecked, obliterated, blitzed, pissed, whipped, smashed, crushed, and labeled. Jordan pushed his glasses up his nose. He was drunk at a pub while his poor son suffered through a barbecue with several hundred Price relatives at Heathcote Park.

No mention of Jake at all in that article. If Jake found out, he would be so hurt. Jordan didn’t think Jake had been using his computer. God, he hoped not.

The barbecue would be fine. Jake would be treated like a prince; the adults would swarm him. The other kids would ask him questions just so they could hear his accent. They would think he was cool; he came from the same country as the iPhone and Kanye West and LeBron James and Stephen King and the Academy Awards. He would be a celebrity; it would boost his ego.

Jordan fought his way back to his seat. His mate at the bar said, “Had to rough a few up, but I kept it empty for you.”

“Appreciate that,” Jordan said. He ordered another beer.

There was no way he could ever have gone to that barbecue. He didn’t like the Prices, this had always been true. But he couldn’t face them now because he knew that some of them-Dearie certainly, Greta certainly, maybe all of them-blamed him for Ernie’s death.

He hadn’t talked to anyone about this, except Zoe.


That March 30 four years earlier was a Sunday, two weeks before Town Meeting, and Jordan had fallen woefully behind at work. His copyeditor at the time, Diana Hugo, a twenty-two-year-old Yale graduate who was taking a gap year before attending the Columbia School of Journalism, had come down with mono. This was an unfortunate development because Diana was a whiz-she would work at the New York Times one day, Jordan was sure-and she had been single-handedly responsible for covering Jordan’s ass in the weeks after Ernie was born. He had taken entire days off so he could be at home to help Ava with Ernie; he took the baby for walks, he fed him bottles, he burped him and changed his diaper. He did the 9:00 p.m. feeding and the midnight feeding, after which he was in charge of putting him down for his longest stretch of sleep, from midnight to 4:00 a.m. Ava and Jordan were both showing signs of sleep deprivation; they were a dozen years older than they had been when Jake was a newborn, and Jordan, at least, felt it. Ava normally handled the 4:00 a.m. feeding, and then Jordan would get up with Jake at 6:30, make him breakfast, pack his lunch, and drive him to school. There were days when Jordan was too tired to go straight to the office. He would drop Jake off, drive home again, take a nap, and get to the office around 10:00. Such a late start was unheard-of for him at the paper, but there were extenuating circumstances, his staff understood, and Diana was around to assign stories, edit and proofread stories, answer Jordan’s phone, and put out the small fires.

Town Meeting was two weeks away. He hadn’t read a single one of the articles.

Diana Hugo had been diagnosed with mono and would be out for three, or possibly four, weeks.

Those were just excuses, however.

March 30 was a typical Sunday, technically spring but really still winter. Gray skies, 45 degrees, winds out of the northeast at 20 to 25 miles per hour. Jordan lit a fire in the morning, then started in on the Sunday New York Times. Ava handed off Ernie to him, saying that she was going to exercise class. She had to get the baby weight off. Jordan poked his glasses up his nose with one finger, an involuntary gesture that Ava, over the years, had come to find hostile.

There was a minor exchange between the two of them. She, in a snippy voice, said that she was sorry to inconvenience him during his sacred reading of the paper. Inconvenience him with his own son, she added.

“Not an inconvenience,” Jordan said, accepting the squirming bundle that was Ernie. Although it was, sort of. The finest hour of Jordan’s week was the hour he took on Sunday morning to read the Times. Over the years he had encouraged-okay, maybe strongly encouraged, maybe enforced-a period of quiet during his paper-reading. That Ava was now invading that quiet wasn’t exactly ideal, but he understood. The exercise class was at ten, that couldn’t be changed; she wanted to get her body back, which was important, even though to Jordan’s eyes she looked fine.

The poking of the glasses was not really a veiled complaint, or at least he would never admit that it was. His glasses were merely slipping.