15 Ways to Tie a Tie

1. The attorney Bruno Moretto has worn a Prince Albert since he was a boy. It is a sturdy knot, and original, the wide active end of the tie curving twice under the passive end before looping back through not one but both turnings, so that the first turning peeks like a tongue over the lip of the second. Like Bruno, the Prince Albert is also something of a bastard, bearing like a pledge the name of a man who never actually wore it. Dressing this morning in his steamy bathroom, Bruno lingers on the knot, fingering it, cinching it up beneath his pink, moisturized jaw. “Tough, smart and good-looking,” he says to his reflection.
2. Traffic is light around Syracuse International Airport, and Sheppard Richter pulls the Volvo up to the curb by a skycap station. His fiancée Carolyn Milton hands him her coffee cup and unhooks the passenger-side seat belt. The cup is warm and the lid bears twin crescent marks from Carolyn’s lipstick. Sheppard considers sipping from it, but the crescents rear up like a security device – a lip analyzer? – Carolyn’s turf, marked. He hands the cup back to her. “Thanks,” she says, leaning over to him to straighten his tie. Sheppard wears a Kelvin, a five-move extension of the Oriental that finishes slightly fuller and more neatly than a traditional four-in-hand. “Call my cell, and drive carefully,” Carolyn says. Her hand drops into his lap and she kisses his ear. “Unnh,” she says, giving his tender post-coital cock a squeeze. “Back on Wednesday. Keep it warm for me.”
3. The television in Margaret’s kitchen stays on almost all the time. She likes the voices, the company. Bravo is running a double-o-seven marathon, and at this early hour Sean Connery is still young and vital, a man of action. “Why, Moneypenny,” he says, while Margaret kneads dough for yeast rolls. “I didn’t know you cared.” On a boat, illicitly, he wears a gray twill suit with a silk shirt and a blue knit tie – more than a sartorial match for the villain Blofeld. Bond’s tie is knotted with a Nicky, the slippery Milanese construction that pulls free with no residual overhand knot, coming off like a sock for assignations. The telephone rings. It is her sister. “Are you watching television?” she asks. “Yes,” says Margaret, although her sister probably means something else. “What was the number of Bruno’s flight?” her sister asks. Bond is in a cage, suspended above a shark tank, and Margaret doesn’t hear her.
4, 5. One enters Thwicke Heffernan LLP through its long gilded lobby, passing beneath the mirthless sixty-year-old stares of its founders. For his portrait, Heffernan chose a dark three-piece suit and knotted his striped straight tie with a Balthus, a nine-move knot of the sort for which the lawyers who now cross and redirect in his name had neither time nor dexterity. Thwicke opted for a Cavendish, a double helix of four-in-hands, the massive knot lodged like a boulder against his throat, his chin appearing almost to rest on it. The two founders watch one morning as all but three – the partner Moretto and engaged associates Richter and Milton – of the firm’s 290 lawyers shuffle somberly beneath them, gathering in the main conference room for a solemn announcement, and nary a Balthus nor a Cavendish to be had.
6. On television, the dreary investigators for the National Transportation Safety Board wear bland suits and slender, facile four-in-hands, unimaginative knots tied in haste by men whose job it was to dissect catastrophe. In the three days since the crash, Margaret has stayed in her bed and alternated between their bloodless progress reports and the dogged blue-collar shylocks operating in re-runs on A&E. They work in teams, those shylocks, and, reliably, each one of them unravels some strand of the episode’s plot. Margaret’s always taken pride in unraveling the plot before them, and now takes a sort of solace in their quotidian reasoning. When she flips back to the NTSB investigators, the older one, who slumps like he’s done this before, says that they have found the black box, that they have found an incriminating rudder screw, that they have found luggage. Margaret waits for him to say something more, to explain, or conclude, but he does not.
7. Martin attends his father’s funeral in a black suit, his red silk tie in a smart Victoria. It is a durable, sturdy knot, a cousin of the Prince Albert, with the same double pass over the passive end, but ending with a modest pass through only the second turning. From the pulpit, Martin gazes out across the altar and the empty casket – Bruno having shuffled off his mortal coil in a fireball outside Bennington – to the staid sniffling pews, where grim members of Thwicke Heffernan occupy the front third of the church, surrounding his pale mother like shade. The pulpit is heavy marble and Martin’s footfalls are muted by thick regal carpet. He has prepared notes, eulogizing Bruno as a man of consequence, a man who got what he wanted from life. So like his father, Martin thinks, to be most present in absence, to remain the unfathomable context of the event. Wouldn’t God be surprised when the coffin got to Heaven with no Bruno inside?
8. Sheppard goes back to Thwicke Heffernan after the funeral, to clean out Carolyn’s office. Files and folders and exhibit tabs cover every surface, arranged in a kind of systematic chaos Carolyn alone could negotiate. That’s why Bruno had told her to come with him to Dover, because she had memorized the exhibits and pin-cites and transcript sections that gave weight to his rhetoric. How mad she was at that! How she stamped and muttered, apologizing to him, cursing Bruno. Sheppard had told her it was her own fault. What choice does he have, Sheppard said. You know more about the case than he does. She smiled at that, and at the idea of second-chairing a trial so early in her career. But with Bruno, she protested. He’ll have me up all night. Sheppard steps carefully around the stacked pleadings now destined for one of the firm’s lesser lights. On Carolyn’s desk is a photo of the two of them on the night they got engaged. Sheppard is wearing a blue jacket with a Burberry tie knotted in a Plattsburgh, or Dovorian, its broad cone tapering down his chest. Carolyn is smiling too, holding her hand to the camera so that the flash fractures off of her ring in a thousand glittering splinters.
9. Margaret meets the older NTSB man at a hangar near Syracuse International Airport. He wears his thin tie in an Oriental – the most basic of knots – the tie beginning inverted around the neck like a snakeskin before looping once under and back through. “This way,” he says, leading Margaret into a glass enclosure along the hangar’s aluminum wall. Through the windows, Margaret can see into the wide white interior, its roof curved like the inside of a bottle, its floor charted and jigsawed with string, covered with fragments of a 727. The NTSB man gestures towards a wall of luggage. “These were recovered at the site,” he says. Margaret looks over the bags, some battered and singed, bandaged with duct tape, leaking their contents. She walks down the line, letting her hand graze their edges. It comes to rest on a pristine black valise, unmarked, as clean as the day she bought it. An orange tab hangs from the handle on a thin elastic band. It says, “Evidence.” The NTSB man moves behind her and removes the tab with a snip of scissors. “I’ll just need you to sign for it,” he says.
10. Martin works his way through his father’s closet. Bruno kept an extensive wardrobe, rich with silks and weaves like a bazaar. Martin always half-expected to find a little man working in there, a footservant. “Look the part,” Bruno liked to say. A large mirror hangs above Bruno’s bathroom sink. On the Sunday mornings of Martin’s youth, he would invariably wind up in front of it, Bruno behind him, teaching him again and again how to tie a Pratt. “It’s a good knot to know,” Bruno had said of the Pratt, a non-releasing derivative of the Nicky. “It won’t let you down.” In the upstairs hall, Martin finds Bruno’s recovered valise. It folds out into a garment bag, and Martin hooks it on the doorframe and pulls the long diagonal zipper down, the bag falling open, its guts held in check with straps and Velcro. It is full of suits and dress shirts monogrammed on the cuff – Bruno’s jury costume, selected to convey control, moral authority, might. Martin removes socks and briefs from a side pocket, a pair of wing-tips from another. Folded within one of the shoes is a shiny, unopened package of condoms.
11. There is something to be said for Scotch, Sheppard thinks, resting his elbows on the bar across the street from Thwicke Heffernan. His suit jacket is thrown across the stool on his left and his sleeves are rolled up. His tie hangs loose at the collar, the active end draping over the loop without passing through it at all. To the casual observer, it looks like an un-knot, like an oversight by a man no longer paying attention. In fact, it is called an Onassis. Across the street, the lights still burn in Sheppard’s office – he intends to go back, there is work to be done and he can’t bill for the Scotch. A woman sits down three stools to his right and looks him over. Sheppard picks up his cell phone and dials Carolyn’s number. A recording tells him that the cell phone user he is trying to reach is not available. He dials her work extension, knowing that his call will ring through to voicemail, but that’s all right. That’s fine. He just wants to hear her voice, sharp and clear as a coin in a cup. After two rings, a woman answers. “Hello,” she says, and Sheppard nearly drops his phone. “Thank you for calling the Dover Marriott. How may I direct your call?” Sheppard is silent, interpreting the request. He worries for a moment that the operator will smell the alcohol on his breath. Of course. Carolyn must have forwarded her calls. She was always thinking ahead.
12. The partnership of Thwicke Heffernan asks Margaret and Martin to come in for a memorial ceremony. Margaret is early and meets the managing partner in the lobby. He clasps her hand solemnly between both of his own and holds it there. Bruno would have admired his half-Windsor, a complicated knot three-quarters the size of a full Windsor, with a dimple – called a fluke – in the blade just below the top. Margaret has moved in the world of lawyers for long enough to recognize strategic emotion, the truth always kept in reserve, and absorbs the partnership’s condolences graciously. “A fine lawyer,” they say, “and an even finer friend.” They have named a conference room after him – the Moretto room – and the managing partner draws Margaret aside beneath a large black-and-white of Bruno and whispers, “now, we have of course contacted Bruno’s clients, but should any of them approach you with concerns about the transition, just let us know.” Margaret smiles at him. “Of course I will,” she says, patting his hand. “No need to worry.” On the wall across from Bruno’s black-and-white, a smaller photo hangs. From it, a young woman gazes seriously out upon the room. Her hair is pulled back in a severe bun, but her eyes are shining and a string of pearls garlands her neck. “Is that the young lady?” Margaret asks the managing partner. “Yes,” he says. “Carolyn Milton. One of our best and brightest.” For a moment, Margaret regards the young lady who had set her chin so defiantly towards the portraitist. Then she turns back to the large glossy of Bruno, on his face the hint of a smile. She’d seen that smile before, when Bruno felt he was getting away with something. “He was quite a man,” the managing partner says, placing a hand on Margaret’s shoulder. “Oh, yes,” Margaret says softly, to herself. “That he was.”
13. Martin arrives for the dinner late and takes the elevator to Bruno’s office first. He’s dressed for the occasion in one of Bruno’s own blue suits, his gold tie knotted with a St. Andrew. The knot’s come out well and the tie flares out from the neck, a bold spout of silk cascading down across his shirt. Martin sits behind Bruno’s desk in the dark office and looks out across the room, through the windows, onto snowy downtown Syracuse. His father’s date book lies open next to the phone and Martin flips through it, through day after day of meetings and appearances and calls noted in Bruno’s coarse scribbles. Martin remembers how difficult it was to reach his father, and how, when Martin spoke to him in person, Bruno never seemed to be listening, always seemed to be filtering conversation through some sort of net. “Stay flexible,” Bruno used to tell him. “The world’s complicated.”
14. Sheppard moves slowly through the Thwicke Heffernan hallway towards Bruno Moretto’s office. The Dover Marriott had no reservation for Carolyn, just one unclaimed suite for Bruno. A mistake, Sheppard tells himself, just a mistake, one that Carolyn would clear up in no uncertain terms upon check-in. Carolyn was no shrinking violet – she’d do what it took to get things the way she wanted them. Soon, Sheppard stands in the door of Bruno’s office, his shadow lying on the carpet. He sways slightly from the Scotch, a suspect moving with rumors through his heart. When a voice comes from behind the desk, Sheppard thinks at first it is an apparition – Bruno returned from the fiery sky to corrupt him. “Who’s there?” the voice asks. Through the shadows, Sheppard sees a man seated at the desk – younger than Bruno, but with the same square jaw and bullish brow. “Sheppard,” he says. “Sheppard Richter.” The man behind the desk flicks on a lamp and stands up. “I’m Martin. Bruno’s son,” he says. Sheppard steps to the desk. “Martin,” Sheppard says. “Of course.” They face each other across the desk. “I should be downstairs,” Martin says. “There’s a reception. I just came by to stick my head in for a second, see where my father spent his time.” He looks around the office and nods. “I guess this is where the magic happened. You worked with him?” Sheppard shakes his head. “I didn’t work with him directly. Carolyn. Carolyn Milton was my fiancée.” Martin is silent for a moment. “She was apparently quite a young lady,” he says finally. Sheppard blows through his lips, shrugs his shoulders, nods. They stare at each other. Martin tilts his head at Sheppard. “Is there something that you need in here?” On a shelf in between them, Sheppard sees a photograph of Bruno and his wife on their wedding day – Margaret in a gauzy dress, her hand in Bruno’s, as they run through a sun-shower of rice. Bruno wears a waistcoat and tails, his straight tie in a floppy ribbon-like bow. Sheppard extends his hand to Martin. “Ah, no. No. I just, well,” he says. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” “And yours,” Martin says. They shake firmly across the desk, each possessing of secrets, and restraint.
15. In the morning, Margaret sips coffee in her kitchen, watching the weather report. Martin struggles down the stairs and out to his car with suitcases in either hand. “More snow on the way,” Margaret says when he returns, hair slick and cheeks red from the shower. “Maybe you should stay another couple of days.” “Can’t, Mom,” Martin says. “You know that.” He sits at the counter and pours half a cup of coffee. “I’ve taken most of dad’s work clothes.” Margaret nods. “Good. He would have wanted you to have them.” They perch on stools across from each other. “I’m not sure that I really knew him,” Martin says, sipping his coffee. He checks his watch. “You knew him. He was complicated, but you knew him,” Margaret says. “And he was so proud of how you turned out.” She pats Martin’s hand. “He was.” Elsewhere, Sheppard sits in traffic, crawling towards downtown. His windows are down and the winter air fills the car. Ahead, the four lanes of the freeway become one as cars are funneled around an accident site. Sheppard takes a deep breath and holds it as he pulls alongside an ambulance, and then a police car, and finally a Buick, empty and bereft, its front end a twist of metal. Shiny windshield glass glitters on the road like salt. Then he is past the accident and the freeway opens up in front of him. He slides to the left lane and presses down on the accelerator, exhaling as the car hits sixty-five, then seventy, then seventy-five. His overcoat is on the seat next to him. Air rushes through the car, forming currents and eddies, whipping his hair and lapels back. He wears a wide silvery tie, affixed with a tight inscrutable knot. The knot has no name, but it holds the tie firmly to Sheppard’s neck even as the tail snaps and dives and surfaces.

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