identityâcollapsed like a gutted building, destroyed from within by her sudden absence.
 â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â
T he subway jolted out of the elevated Howard Beach station, and Simon was presented with a view of the weather-beaten little houses that backed onto a canal snaking into Jamaica Bay, the houses lifted on stilts above the turbid channel, Boston Whalers tethered to their back porches. They were rooted more in water than dry land, clinging to this far edge of the city like barnacles. A beached motorboat lay on the spongy ground by the side of the canal, âMERKâ sprayed in pink bubble letters across its side. Simon watched the planes spiral into JFK as the train clattered its way over the water, the Edgemere and Arverne and Dayton projectsâRockawayâs own serrated skylineârising across the bay.
He remembered one night, the previous winter, when his tenure in medical school was beginning to fall apart. Heâd gone drinking with his father at a loud, dingy bar on Maiden Lane, the kind of place where the decor, bartenders, and clientele hadnât changed much in thirty years. Theyâd been joined by Michaelâs old friends from Exley Chatham, fellow refugees from the companyâs 1995 collapse, who had all scattered after the firmâs demise, most, like Michael, retreating from trading to the back office at any Wall Street shop that would give them a second chance. They called in favors from former classmates, former bosses, former employees, to get their new jobs. Most had lost the taste for trading, the taste for risk; theyâd been burned too badly. Exley Chathamâs bet had been on the continued resurgence of the yen. The firm had been highly leveraged, and when currency markets began to break in the wrong direction, Chatham had, in a bid to buy itself time to fix things, been less than forthright with its creditors about the precise status of its investments. Of course, they ran out of time, and things were not fixed; things were, in fact, broken more thoroughly than they would have been if the firm had disclosed its losses when theyâd first occurred. But here, in this bar and a few others on Cedar and Pearl and John Streets, the old colleagues could sit together and drink as though the last twelve years had never happened, drink until they could barely stand; yet no matter how drunk they got, they always managed to stagger outside and flag a cab for Penn Station or Grand Central in time for the last train home to Roslyn, Pleasantville, Forest Hills.
And they got drunk that night, Michael most of all. Simon remembered his father rising out of his chair every five minutes to propose another toast, his face flushed with pride as well as liquorâpride in his son, his diligent, quiet, melancholic son, who was going to be a doctor, his son whoâd soldiered on despite losing the sister whoâd meant everything to him. And here Michael had wavered for a moment, his friends looking down into their drinks, before he gathered himself and finished the toast and they all drank it down.
A few of Simonâs old Rockaway friends sometimes asked him how Michael was. Well, how should Simon know? His fatherâs routine had tightened with such stricture that it did not allow for much variation. He was Michael Worthâthatâs how he was. He left Rockaway at six in the morning, balanced a brokerageâs books until fiveâa dull, moderately paid job, the best he could get on the Street with the taint of Chatham smeared over his résumé like dried shitâdrank until seven, rode the train back home, then did it all over again. On the weekends there was tennis, if he could find a partner, and the oceanâhis nominal reason for moving all the way out there in the first placeâif it was warm enough. Otherwise there was always Derry Hills and the other Rockaway bars. And Simon too, of course, paying his twice-monthly respects,
 â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â
T he subway jolted out of the elevated Howard Beach station, and Simon was presented with a view of the weather-beaten little houses that backed onto a canal snaking into Jamaica Bay, the houses lifted on stilts above the turbid channel, Boston Whalers tethered to their back porches. They were rooted more in water than dry land, clinging to this far edge of the city like barnacles. A beached motorboat lay on the spongy ground by the side of the canal, âMERKâ sprayed in pink bubble letters across its side. Simon watched the planes spiral into JFK as the train clattered its way over the water, the Edgemere and Arverne and Dayton projectsâRockawayâs own serrated skylineârising across the bay.
He remembered one night, the previous winter, when his tenure in medical school was beginning to fall apart. Heâd gone drinking with his father at a loud, dingy bar on Maiden Lane, the kind of place where the decor, bartenders, and clientele hadnât changed much in thirty years. Theyâd been joined by Michaelâs old friends from Exley Chatham, fellow refugees from the companyâs 1995 collapse, who had all scattered after the firmâs demise, most, like Michael, retreating from trading to the back office at any Wall Street shop that would give them a second chance. They called in favors from former classmates, former bosses, former employees, to get their new jobs. Most had lost the taste for trading, the taste for risk; theyâd been burned too badly. Exley Chathamâs bet had been on the continued resurgence of the yen. The firm had been highly leveraged, and when currency markets began to break in the wrong direction, Chatham had, in a bid to buy itself time to fix things, been less than forthright with its creditors about the precise status of its investments. Of course, they ran out of time, and things were not fixed; things were, in fact, broken more thoroughly than they would have been if the firm had disclosed its losses when theyâd first occurred. But here, in this bar and a few others on Cedar and Pearl and John Streets, the old colleagues could sit together and drink as though the last twelve years had never happened, drink until they could barely stand; yet no matter how drunk they got, they always managed to stagger outside and flag a cab for Penn Station or Grand Central in time for the last train home to Roslyn, Pleasantville, Forest Hills.
And they got drunk that night, Michael most of all. Simon remembered his father rising out of his chair every five minutes to propose another toast, his face flushed with pride as well as liquorâpride in his son, his diligent, quiet, melancholic son, who was going to be a doctor, his son whoâd soldiered on despite losing the sister whoâd meant everything to him. And here Michael had wavered for a moment, his friends looking down into their drinks, before he gathered himself and finished the toast and they all drank it down.
A few of Simonâs old Rockaway friends sometimes asked him how Michael was. Well, how should Simon know? His fatherâs routine had tightened with such stricture that it did not allow for much variation. He was Michael Worthâthatâs how he was. He left Rockaway at six in the morning, balanced a brokerageâs books until fiveâa dull, moderately paid job, the best he could get on the Street with the taint of Chatham smeared over his résumé like dried shitâdrank until seven, rode the train back home, then did it all over again. On the weekends there was tennis, if he could find a partner, and the oceanâhis nominal reason for moving all the way out there in the first placeâif it was warm enough. Otherwise there was always Derry Hills and the other Rockaway bars. And Simon too, of course, paying his twice-monthly respects,
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