The Unforgiving Minute

By Jerome Reyer

Robert Boyd, a successful management consultant, sells his business for a large sum of money.

He soon realizes that even with all the money he has received, he is not happy and does not feel fulfilled. He withdraws a million dollars from the bank and decides to leave for Europe to find himself. He leaves three letters as he leaves. One is to his wife and the others are to two mistresses. We soon find that his life is a tangled web of deception. The book flashes back to his relationship with his wife and the two other women and is interwoven with adventures involving new women and new deception on his trip to Europe. It delves deep into his thoughts and deep into a man that really has not found his way. He knows that he has trouble dealing with women and alcohol and cannot find a way to stop. The book winds toward the climax of his trip and in an epilogue, takes us from 1985 to the present.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 21, 2000
• ISBN: 9781469109749

Jerome Reyer

Jerome Reyer is a successful businessman, who, like the protagonist of the novel, sold his business for a good sum of money. There, however, the similarity ends. Mr. Reyer now lives in Florida and is himself a management consultant, who is freelancing at this time. He has been, in his life, a soldier, a corporation president, the president of a large national trade association and the Chairman of the Board of the largest country club in America. He is currently at work on his second novel, which is about a terrorist plot to blow up the Kennedy Space Center.

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Copyright © 2000 by Jerome Reyer.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any

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from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to

any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

PREFACE

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

EPILOGUE

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

If

By Rudyard Kipling

PREFACE

There is a generation of American men whose older brothers served in the second world war. Most of them were reaching puberty when World War II was coming to a close. They heard their older brothers talking about their sexual experiences, either real or imagined, and couldn’t wait to date girls so that they too could participate in this fabulous experience. This generation had grown up in a sexually repressed society. A society where in the popular movies of the day, married couples were depicted as sleeping in twin beds and with those who were not married, a kiss was the ultimate, forbidden experience.

When men of that generation dated girls, they found out that sex was impossible to achieve, except with the most adventurous or most immoral girls and those were not easy to find. Hundreds of thousands of these men came to their wedding bed as virgins, as did their brides.

In 1954, Hugh Hefner came out with the first edition of PLAYBOY. The magazine depicted the suave, urbane male who was comfortable with women and who was adept at the art of seduction. These men read the magazine and daydreamed about these women and hungrily admired the nude photos, previously unavailable for overt public consumption.

Soon afterwards, the sexual revolution broke out. There were nubile young women, thirsty for sexual adventure, who suddenly were available everywhere. Many of the men of that generation found the temptation irresistible and succumbed. The intoxication became habit forming and many found themselves repeatedly involved in affair after affair. These men came to consider this a normal part of their lives and felt neither guilty or immoral. Each and every year, in movies, novels, magazines and conversation, sex became open and almost acceptable.

The protagonist of this novel is one of these men. Forgive him.

PROLOGUE

August, 1985

The country club was filled with bustling life at seven o’clock on a sunny Saturday morning in August. Strings of golf carts linked together noisily arrived at the first tee. Men in various stages of mostly tasteless dress walked sleepily from the locker room to the driving range or the first tee staging area. Most had enormous potbellies hanging over their golf pants or shorts. The air was filled with the sounds of men greeting each other and vying for the starter’s attention. Some held polyurethane coffee cups and sipped the steaming black liquid while watching each foursome tee off.

I stood on the first tee with the dew gleaming on the lush, green fairway like a thousand diamonds in the morning sun. Golf, I thought, is a game that is always played in pretty places.

I was in a situation that most men never achieve in their lifetimes. I had sold my management consulting firm the day before and had received seven million dollars up front. Seven certified checks for one million dollars each now sat in a safe in my home, ready to distribute to various banks and brokerage firms on Monday.

I stood on the first tee and felt the first wave of muggy heat and humidity that is so common to Long Island at that time of year. I kept my eye on the ball and took a slow, smooth backswing. As I brought the club through the ball, I heard that beautiful click that portends a long, great shot, but alas . . . the ball hooked to the left and came to rest about two hundred and twenty yards away, to the left of the fairway and behind a large tree.

As I strode to the ball with my caddy, I felt a surge of depression go through my body. It wasn’t the shot I hit. I had long since learned to cope with the betrayals of that little white ball. A man who had just been handed the Golden Parachute, at age fifty-five, should have been elated. Instead, I plodded morosely behind my caddy toward the errant ball. When I reached it, I stood there staring at it as if I were in a trance. I was aware of the caddy suggesting the best way to handle the shot, when I suddenly turned around and walked toward the clubhouse. The caddy hurried behind me in a state of total confusion. When we reached the clubhouse, I reached in my pocket and paid him for a full eighteen holes and walked into the locker room. I hurriedly changed my shoes, not even thinking of the rest of my foursome and what they must be thinking. I walked out the door, got into my car, and left, knowing that I wasn’t going to be back for a long time.

CHAPTER 1

August 3, 1985

I turned the key quietly and walked into the house. I knew that Julie would surely be sound asleep at eight-fifteen on a Saturday morning. I kept a wall safe in my study, which was more for knowing where things were kept than for security. I opened it quietly and withdrew four certified checks. Two were in the amount of two million five hundred thousand dollars and two in the amount of one million dollars. I went to my desk and made out deposit slips at various banks in which Julie and I maintained joint accounts for all but one million dollars, which I slipped into the leather pocket portfolio in which I kept my passport. I replaced everything in the safe and left the house as quietly as I had entered. I got back in the car and headed for the Swissair terminal at Kennedy Airport.

As the big Town Car rolled quietly, counter to the summer traffic, over relatively empty roads, I thought of the old saw that a drowning man’s whole life flashes before him. I had the feeling I was drowning for quite some time now.

I guess about ninety-nine percent of the world would give their eye teeth for my life, but I felt thoroughly disgusted with it.

I guess, to put it in perspective, I’ll have to start with my marriage. I grew up in a middle-class family. My father was the son of Italian immigrants. His name was Angelo Boisano. When he met, fell in love, and subsequently married my mother, the former Roberta Peck, he changed his name to Andrew Boyd and became a Presbyterian. My father was an accountant and raised his family well, sending me, my brother Andrew, and my sister Frances through college. Six years ago, both of my parents were killed in an auto crash while driving to Florida through an ice storm in the Carolinas.

There’s a lot more to fill in about me, but let’s get to Julie and me, which I guess is the crux of the problem. The religious intermarriage thing gets even better. Julie, the former Julia Liebowitz of Cedarhurst, Long Island, is Jewish. I never converted, but religion doesn’t mean a hell of a lot to me so we were able to work it out, complete with an ecumenical mixture of all the fun traditions. The kids benefitted the most, taking off the Jewish holidays and getting Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.

Julie was, and is, the daughter of Moe and Esther Liebowitz. Moe was a successful furrier and is retired to a beautiful home in Jupiter, Florida, where he and Esther are currently living happily ever after.

Julie and I met at the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia. She is a year younger than I, but we were in the same class year because she skipped a year in grammar school. The first moment I laid eyes on her in a freshman literature class, I was hooked. I spent the next four years wrestling her, hoping to take her virginity and lose mine as well. On our wedding night in 1952 her virginity was still intact. She was a dark-haired, dark-skinned beauty, and with her dark brown eyes looked like everyone’s fantasy of Cleopatra. She was intelligent, charming, well-spoken and had impeccable manners. She was the epitome of the girl I wanted for my wife.

When we announced our engagement, Moe and Esther all but called out the Marines, in contrast to my parents who were instantly delighted. Moe and Esther couldn’t bear the thought of Princess Julia marrying a goy, who were all known to be wife-beaters and drunks. Her mother took her aside and told her, Don’t you know that the first time you have a fight, he’ll call you a dirty Jew?

Her mother and father finally gave their blessing and I never did call her a dirty Jew or beat her. I did, however, from time to time get a little drunk, but no more so than some of our Jewish friends. We were married in October of 1952 and Julie worked as a bookkeeper in Philadelphia while I got my MBA at Wharton.

By the time our wedding night came along, I had lost my virginity and been magnificently educated in the sexual arts, thanks to my college pals, who, as a bachelor party present, bought me the most elegant and expensive hooker in Philadelphia. They paid her three hundred 1952 dollars to spend the entire night with me. The next morning I was not only educated in all the erotic arts, but I was so enamored with the hooker, who was a Ginger Rogers look-alike, that I almost forgot I was in love with Julie.

The wedding was held at the Plaza Hotel in New York and my in-laws pulled out all the stops. Our wedding night, however, was a shambles. Julie was frightened to death to have sex. Her mother had done a hell of a job on her. Every time I thrusted, she backed up. This went on for an hour until I decided that rape was the only answer. I pinned her down with my forearm, erect and poised to strike. At that moment I started to wilt and when I pushed it bent in half. The more I pushed, the softer I got. Combine that with the fact that she was dry and frightened and you can figure out the results. The marriage was not consummated that night. We fell asleep exhausted, her virginity intact.

We honeymooned in Hawaii at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel on Waikiki beach.

For those of you who have recently been to Waikiki, you are probably imagining the touristy Kalakaua Avenue of today, with hotels on both sides of the street and hawkers everywhere. In 1952, the Royal Hawaiian Hotel was known as the Pink Palace of the Pacific. It was a must stop for visiting royalty and Presidents of the United States. It stood out like a pink jewel and Waikiki beach behind the hotel was relatively uncrowded and exotic, especially to a couple of young kids from the big city. The plane trip took about fifteen hours, with several stops. We held hands like true honeymooners for the whole flight, but our sexual failure was on our minds all the way.

When we reached Honolulu, we got the royal treatment. My in-laws had, of course, paid for the trip and everything was deluxe. We were welcomed with orchid leis and driven to the hotel in a limousine, which was a very big deal in 1952. We had a suite overlooking the Pacific which was filled with tropical flowers and fruits and stocked with the finest champagne.

Soon after we were settled in, Julie went into our ornate marble bathroom to shower. I quickly peeled off my clothes and jumped in with her. We stood there, the warm water cascading over us while we soaped each other’s nude bodies, exploring, probing and squealing with delight. We were young, good-looking and passionately in love. We left the stall shower, soaking wet, and fell onto the bath mat. We were so taken in by the moment that we forgot about our failures. In order to be a superb lover I closed my eyes and imagined I was with my Philadelphia whore. I performed as she had taught me and hearing Julie’s screams and moans was a tremendous sense of accomplishment for a twenty-two-year-old with a .500 sexual batting average. Julie later complained of some pain and mild bleeding and I felt like a conquering stud.

After a marvelous day of sightseeing, including an emotionally moving trip to the U.S.S. Arizona Memorial and a sumptuous dinner, we got into bed with a balmy tropical breeze blowing from the sea through our window. I felt amorous and aroused and, knowing that Julie was in pain due to the loss of her virginity, I decided to introduce Julie to another delight my wonderful whore had taught me. I straddled her head with my knees and attempted to lower myself into her mouth. She sat bolt upright and said, Oh my God, you’re disgusting; you’re an animal. What do you think I am, some kind of tramp? She ran into the bathroom and locked herself in. I couldn’t believe it. The whore told me that women loved this. I lay staring at the dark ceiling for what seemed like hours. Julie finally got back in the bed, turned her back on me without a word, and either went to sleep or feigned sleep. Oral sex from either party didn’t come up again for five or six years. The next morning she acted like it never happened and so did I.

We flew home two weeks later, very much in love and ready to settle into our new apartment in Manhattan.

My mind was so occupied that when I reached the approach road to Kennedy Airport, I didn’t even remember driving there. I pulled into one of JFK’s outrageously expensive short-term parking lots and walked into the Swissair terminal in the international arrivals building.

The counter was empty and I walked up to a charming girl, who was obviously an American, but well schooled in the courtesies that Swissair is famous for. I purchased a one-way, first-class ticket to Zurich on Swissair’s Flight 101 leaving JFK at five-fifteen Monday evening, August 5, 1985. I paid the girl in cash and left with the ticket in my pocket.

I drove back to the country club, this time creeping through Saturday morning beach traffic. The same trip that took me twenty minutes to the airport took me one-and-a-half hours on the way back.

I walked into the club dining room, which at eleven-fifteen was fairly empty, and eyed the manager’s office. I knew the manager didn’t arrive until lunchtime on Saturday and that his secretary only worked weekdays. I made sure no one saw me and I stole into his office, locked the door behind me, and sat down at the typewriter and typed three letters.

Dear Julie,

I don’t quite know how to begin this letter, except to say that I really love you and the children very much and I hate to do what I have to do. Enclosed find deposit slips for six million dollars. I have taken one million with me.

I feel that I am drowning in a sea of torment. It isn’t your fault; it’s mine. I must drop out for a while. I don’t know how long or where to. I know we will worry about each other, but I feel this is the only way I can get my life in order. Please try to explain to the kids. I can’t bear to write them.

I hope to snap out of this soon and return and give you the life you so richly deserve.

All my love,

Bobby

Dear Laura,

What can I say to you that I haven’t said a thousand times before? I thought that you and I had the supreme love affair. I really thought it was forever and would never end. I feel such a sense of loss that it is as if someone has died. The feeling is so much like it was when my parents died.

You will not be receiving any more annoying phone calls from me. I am dropping out and disappearing to God knows where for God knows how long.

I’ll always love you.

Bob

Dear Ann Marie,

You’ll always be my best friend, so I’m going to level with you. I’m dropping out for a while and no one but you will know where I am. I’ll keep you posted as to where I am, so that if any emergency comes up in my family, you will know where to reach me.

My first stop will be Zurich, but I probably won’t stay there longer than it takes me to do some banking. I will write you and probably call you, because you know I will need you desperately from time to time. It’s so good to have you in my life. I don’t know what I ever would have done without you.

You’ll hear from me very soon.

Va Bene Belissima,

Robert

I addressed two of the envelopes and stamped them, courtesy of the country club, and merely wrote Julie on the third.

I would mail the two immediately, and take the third home to leave in a prominent place on Monday afternoon.

The hard part now was to get through the usual weekend social events without tipping my hand.

I carefully escaped the manager’s office, walked over to the bar, and ordered a double vodka on the rocks.

CHAPTER 2

I sat in the luxuriously wide first-class seat, sipping a vodka on the rocks. My heart was pounding at a furious rate and I could feel the fear welling up in my chest. I had efficiently disappeared and made sure my note would be found by Julie. Hundreds of things buzzed through my head. I was very apprehensive over not seeing my children and abandoning them, in a sense. I thought that perhaps I should have gone through psychotherapy instead of what was now seeming like an utterly insane idea.

The first-class compartment was almost empty, so I had no seat-mate. This situation left me alone with my thoughts. I don’t think we were more than fifteen minutes in the air when I was on my second drink. The alcohol effectively masked the fear in my chest and I pushed the seat recliner button and leaned back, drink in hand, and relived some of the events that led me to this day.

The affair with Laura began rather harmlessly. The building my business was located in had its own parking lot. I started late and worked late each day, so driving into the city was not the hardship it was for most people who live on Long Island.

One hot summer night in August of 1980, I was waiting for my car in the lot when I saw a tall, red-headed woman in her thirties speaking with one of the attendants and standing next to an ancient Chevrolet spewing steam out of its hood. Automobiles have always interested me and I know a little about auto mechanics, so I walked over trying to be of some help. One of the hoses had sprung a leak and it was a fairly simple repair. However, it certainly couldn’t be accomplished until the next morning. I overheard the girl tell the attendant that she lived in Jackson Heights and that it would cost her a fortune to take a cab home and the bus and subway were unacceptable at nine o’clock at night.

I introduced myself and offered to drive her home. I am certainly a non-threatening-looking man. I’m five feet ten inches tall, one hundred sixty-five pounds, dress well, and have been told many times that I have a kind-looking face. She accepted with no compunction and when my Town Car pulled up, slid into the passenger’s seat.

I tried desperately to make conversation but only found out the barest of details. Her name was Laura Morrisey and she lived in an apartment in Jackson Heights, Queens, with her two children. No husband was mentioned. She worked as a secretary in a law firm in our building. I kept looking at her and thought she was lovely but the conversation just didn’t click.

My first thoughts in relation to Laura were that if she was not downright dumb, she was certainly the most unexciting woman I had ever met. The drive to her neighborhood in Queens was interminable. The woman was boring me out of my mind. I dropped her off to polite thanks and was sure I would never see her again in my life, nor did I want to.

One month later I was returning from lunch when I spotted her on the elevator. She was standing in the corner, obviously weeping. I sidled over to her and said, I don’t know if you remember me; I’m Bob Boyd. It seems I pop up whenever you’re having a problem. Can I help?

It’s nothing, she said. You wouldn’t understand.

Okay, I said, and moved away. I was surprised when she got off at my floor. It seemed that her firm was located a few offices from mine. As I walked toward my door I heard her say, Wait, please. I feel so rude and you’ve been so nice to me. I turned toward her and