“Now, Charlie, I’m afraid I’ve also got some bad news, but it’s part of our situation. You know Hugo Paxton, our lead engineer down in Red Bone.”
“Sure, I know Hugo. Spent a lot of time with him going over the project. He’s a little strange, but a good—”
Lucien interrupted. “Paxton died last night, Charlie. Massive heart attack. In a strip bar down there. They tried to revive him, but he never even made it to the hospital.”
“Oh, God, Lucien, I can’t believe that. He was a young man, just in his forties.”
“He was a liability, Charlie. A good builder but a time bomb ready to explode, and we both know it. But it is a shame, such a damn waste. His deputy—that young fellow Summers—is coming up tonight. There’s a problem with the project, potentially a pretty expensive one, but Summers will fill us in.”
Charlie remembered Terry Summers. He’d interviewed him several years earlier when Summers first joined the firm. He was a capable young engineer from Southern California—prep school, undergraduate at UCLA, a master’s from Caltech—but somewhat cocky and arrogant. “I know Summers. Very sharp.”
“Still a little green. Let’s see what he has to say tomorrow.” Lucien signed off.
Charlie thought about Hugo Paxton. He was divorced and had spent much of his career in Asia. In fact, he only took the West Virginia project so he could get back to China. It dawned on Charlie that Paxton’s untimely demise could be fortuitous. That’s what Lucien’s good news referred to.
Ellen jarred him out of his thoughts. “Charlie, the house—it’s important to me. You know we can afford it.” She was pressing hard.
Charlie knew he couldn’t avoid this discussion any longer. “Ellen, the timing isn’t right. Some changes are happening at the company.”
“Involving you?” Ellen leaned forward, sensing that something serious was about to surface.
“Yes, it involves me. Because I’ve requested a change.” Charlie frowned, knowing that the hard part was coming. “I need to get away for a while, away from New York. I need to be an engineer again. I want to build something, Ellen. That’s important to me. I’m tired of the politics and the meetings and the financial bullshit. It’s strangling me. I need to build something to be proud of. It’s what being an engineer is all about.” He looked directly at his wife. “I also need a change personally. We need a change. We need to figure out what our life-after-kids is going to be.”
Ellen saw her opening. “I know that, Charlie. That’s what the house is all about. A change. Something different for us, now that the children are almost on their own.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m not talking about raising our standard of living another notch to impress the Hickory Hills crowd—”
“Oh, Charlie, that’s not fair,” she interrupted. Ellen shook her head irritably. “So, what does all this mean? What do you want to do?”
“I’ve asked to be transferred to China, to work on the second dam project. And, Ellen, I want us to go. Both of us, together. Sell the house and spend a couple of years over there. Asia—a different world. It’ll be good for us.”
She looked at him blankly for a few seconds, trying to digest his words. “China,” Ellen said, looking away.
“Lucien just gave his approval,” Charlie added.
“China,” she repeated quietly. She looked out toward the house and spoke in a calm, level voice. “Charlie, have you lost your mind? Sell the house and move to China, like we’re in the goddamn Peace Corps or something? You want me to move to China, so you can play in the mud with your bulldozers and—”
“I’ll go without you, Ellen. I love you and I want you to come, but this is important to me. I’m suffocating in this job.” After a pause, he decided it was time get it all out. “And you know things aren’t right with us.”
Ellen stared into Charlie’s eyes for a moment, then looked away. After a long pause, she spoke softly. “I’m sorry you found out about that, Charlie. It was … an aberration, something I needed to … Well, I don’t expect you to understand. But it didn’t mean anything. It’s in the past.”
Ellen rose, brushed off her skirt, and took a few steps down the hill before turning back to face her husband. “Charlie, you go to China. Do what you have to do, build what you have to build. We’ll be okay. I’ll still be here when you get back. I’ll fly over a few times a year. We can meet in Tokyo or Singapore. But, Charlie, I can’t go to China. I’m just … I’m just too busy to go to China.” She continued down the hill.
“Ellen, what color is it?”
“What?”
“The Saab. What color is it?”
She smiled up at her husband. “It’s white, Charlie, a convertible with a black top and a tan leather interior.”
“Jen will love it.”
“Yes, she will,” Ellen replied.
* * *
AS CHARLIE TURNED south onto Park Avenue, what was for so long the Pan American Building loomed over the street several blocks ahead and made him think about going to China. He’d have to get shots and talk to the guys in the San Francisco office. If everything worked out, he’d be able to hand off his projects and be ready in as little as eight weeks. It was a much simpler undertaking without Ellen.
The sixth floor was already humming with activity when Charlie got off the elevator. Several strange faces were in reception, and a waiter from a catering company pushed a cart with three coffee urns and a large platter of bagels and muffins covered tightly with plastic wrap. The door to the main conference room was open. Charlie looked in and saw Jack Torkelson and his right-hand man, Larry Tuthill, the director of OntAmex’s U.S. power-generation facilities, along with four or five other OntAmex managers.
In his office, Charlie put his briefcase on the glass coffee table, hung up his jacket, and quickly checked his email. He only had a few minutes before his meeting with Lucien. A soft rap on his open door made Charlie look up. Warren Brand, a partner and member of the executive committee, came in, a disarming smile on his face.
A consummate office politician, Brand was the youngest partner in the firm and undeniably the most ambitious. He liked to speak in low tones that made every conversation seem of vital importance. “Charlie, I think congratulations are in order. Getting back out into the field. That’s courageous, my friend!”
So the word was out; Lucien must’ve already tested the waters with some members of the executive committee. Still, it came as a surprise that Brand was signaling approval of Charlie’s transfer to China. “Thanks, Warren. The word is already out?”
“Not officially ’til after the exec meets, but a few people know. Charlie, listen, this may seem a bit opportunistic, but I wanted to be the first to talk to you about the tickets.” Brand moved even closer and talked more softly, as he usually did when he closed in on his real objective.
“Tickets? What tickets?” Charlie was genuinely baffled.
“The tickets, Charlie.” Brand almost whispered. “Your New York Giants tickets. I’ll pay you for them, of course—whatever’s fair—you know that. I’m not looking for a gift here. But you probably won’t be using them this season.”
Charlie had to stifle a laugh. Typical Brand, like a vulture, after his Giants tickets. He hadn’t given any thought to the upcoming season. The season tickets were a gift from Ellen’s father after a few years in federal prison, when he’d finally accepted the fact that he’d be an old man before he ever saw another Giants game.
“I’ll have to let you know, Warren, but thanks for reminding me.” Charlie ushered Brand toward the door, so he could get to his meeting with Lucien Mackey. He knew right away to whom he’d be giving his tickets, and it wouldn’t be Warren Brand. Plus, he’d still be around for a few games if he didn’t leave for China until late September. It would be fun to get out to the Meadowlands for a couple of games before then.
Charlie put on his jacket and started down the hall to Lucien’s corner office. Meetings with the managing
partner were always illuminating, and Charlie had a feeling that this one would be the start of a new chapter in his career.
CHAPTER 7
Finally, it rained. A hot summer rain that forced Natty to roll up the windows almost all the way. With no air-conditioning, it was hot and muggy in the small car. And Natty was tired. She’d already seen five clients and covered a lot of miles. She was glad the day was over and she wouldn’t be doing any more sponge baths or wrapping any more varicose legs. A cold shower and a beer on the porch would be heaven. But she needed to make one more stop.
Natty had been thinking about Birdie Merkely since the previous week, when Birdie called and told Natty not to come by, that some of the church ladies were taking her out for lunch. Something about the call didn’t sit right with Natty. Birdie sounded maybe a little too chipper about it all.
For the past year and a half, Natty had taken care of Birdie as she recovered from a broken hip, but Birdie hadn’t been doing well. Her arthritis was worse, and her hip had not fully healed. She was in a constant state of discomfort. She’d also become more withdrawn—a distinct change from the cheerful personality that had led to her lifelong nickname.
At the turnoff to the dirt road that led several miles up to Birdie’s cabin, Natty pulled into the small gas station and market. She parked next to the single pump, the needle of her gauge resting menacingly on empty. As the rain eased, Natty reached into the backseat for her knitted handbag. Only sixteen dollars left to buy gas and groceries for Birdie. Damn, where did the money go? She’d buy Birdie’s food first and save a little for gas, just to get her up to the cabin, where Birdie would reimburse her.
Inside the store, Natty took a basket and walked through the cramped aisles, picking out the items that she knew Birdie needed: Ritz crackers, grape jelly, a half dozen eggs, milk, cranberry juice, ginger ale, Spam, Bumble Bee tuna (which Natty would have to open for her and leave in the refrigerator), sliced turkey, and a loaf of dark bread. She’d leave out the soup, Oreo cookies, ice cream, and sliced ham. The lettuce was too expensive, anyway. The total came to $15.11. Natty gave the clerk sixteen dollars and told him to put the change toward her gasoline. “The whole eighty-nine cents?” he asked.
On her way out, Natty noticed a small gray-haired woman whom she recognized as a friend of Birdie’s and a member of her church. “Hello there, Mrs. Petrie.”
The woman looked up, straining her memory to identify the thin girl with the friendly voice who knew her name.
Natty came to her aid. “I’m going up to see Birdie. I look in on Birdie.”
Mrs. Petrie smiled with recognition. “Oh, yes, that’s right, you’re Birdie’s nurse. We met once up at her house.”
“That’s right. Listen, Mrs. Petrie, have you seen Birdie recently? Did you take her out to lunch last week?”
“Oh no, no dear, not for lunch. But I did see Birdie Friday. She called in the morning and wanted to get her hair done”—Mrs. Petrie shook her head—“which was a queer thing for sure, as I can’t ever remember Birdie having anything done to her hair before.”
“So, you didn’t have lunch with her?”
“Lordy, no, just picked her up and took her down to that little beauty parlor in Gary, did my errands, and brought her back up the hill later on. Didn’t even invite me in for tea or nothin’.”
With that, Mrs. Petrie turned to go. Natty watched her for a second and then started out of the store. The sound of the old woman’s voice stopped her. “Honey, you be careful of that dip in the road ’bout halfways up, where the water runs through the gully. With quick storms like this, the water can come running down real sudden like through there.”
“Thank you. I’ll watch for it,” Natty answered. Mrs. Petrie probably worried about flash floods more than Natty did, simply because she was older and had more experience with the havoc that could result when millions of gallons of water, gathered quickly in a storm by the wide arms of the mountains, were sent ripping down narrow streambeds into the valleys.
It was still raining while Natty pumped gas into her empty tank. Her blue baseball cap with the red Spider-Man logo kept the rain out of her face, but after a few seconds she was pretty well soaked. The pump clinked off almost as soon as she’d started: $0.89, right to the penny. Not much more than a couple ounces. Enough, she figured, to get her up the mountain and back down.
Ledger Hollow was one of the many isolated pockets of poverty hidden away in McDowell County. Most of the inhabitants of the ramshackle huts and cabins lived well below the poverty line. A few years earlier, Natty had two other clients in the hollow, so she was familiar with the area.
A woman stood in the doorway of one of the cabins, leaning against the frame, an infant at her breast. She was about Natty’s age and eyed her dispassionately. Natty had seen the blank look of despair before, the glassy stare that said she was too tired, too spent, too beaten down by life to care anymore. Natty smiled and raised her hand in a small wave to the woman, who nodded almost imperceptibly, moving only her eyes as the stranger in the faded red car drove off.
The home that Birdie Merkely had lived in for the past thirty-seven years sat in a small clearing about fifty yards up a deeply rutted dirt driveway. Natty got out of the car with the bag of groceries and knew something wasn’t right. The front door was shut, a rarity in the summer. The mountain behind the rear of the house blocked out the late-afternoon sun, but no lights were on. There was no sign of life anywhere.
Out of habit, Natty had taken her small suitcase-like equipment bag from the car. She pulled the strap over her shoulder and readied herself for what she hoped she wouldn’t find inside. Natty closed her eyes and whispered to herself, “Oh, Birdie, please don’t do this.” She went up on the porch and opened the front door.
The small house was cool and dark. The front parlor and dining room were neat and spotless, as always. The kitchen was cleaner than Natty had ever seen it. Usually, she had to spend the first few minutes at Birdie’s washing up several days’ worth of dishes and silverware. Today the sink was empty, and the countertop and even the floor shined from a recent scrubbing.
There was a slightly acrid smell in the house, noticeable even as a steady breeze wafted through the screened windows. Natty could make out the sound of soft music. She could see down the hallway to Birdie’s bedroom, but the door was closed, which was also odd. That was where she knew she would find Birdie. Natty noticed the old rotary phone on the hall table, and wondered if she should just call the sheriff’s office first.… No, look pretty stupid if Birdie is just off visiting for a few days.
But she wasn’t off visiting. Birdie Merkely was lying faceup in the middle of the bed, her quilt pulled up to her waist. There was an unmistakable odor of death in the room, but not yet overpowering. Moving closer, Natty touched the old woman’s forehead, then her cheek. She felt briefly for Birdie’s pulse, knowing it wouldn’t be there.
Birdie was dressed in her favorite blue silk dress. Her gray hair had recently been set in tight curls, and her face carefully made up with red lipstick, a faint smear of rouge on her soft, wrinkled cheeks, and even mascara. She wore a simple strand of yellowing pearls and scalloped gold earrings. The makeup and jewelry made her look much younger than seventy-six and revealed a woman Natty had never known, a woman who had once enjoyed life, before loneliness and constant pain defined her existence.
Under Birdie’s clasped hands, in the fingers gnarled by years of crippling arthritis, Natty could see the serrated edges and yellowing back of an old photograph. She gently pulled it out to see a young couple seated on a park bench. Behind the bench was an iron railing, and in the distance was a stretch of sandy beach and then the blue-green ocean. A young Birdie Merkely leaned seductively against the young man seated next to her, her bright eyes focused on his face. He was a skinny boy wearing a military uniform, his billed cap pushed back jauntily, a khaki tie loose at his neck.
They both had a look of spontaneous laughter, as if they were respondin
g to a funny comment by someone, maybe the photographer. In the bottom border of the picture, Pensacola, Fla. 1946 was written in faded blue ink. Natty recognized the young man as Everett Merkely from pictures on the living room wall.
On the table next to the bed, Natty saw a familiar-looking plastic prescription bottle. She knew without reading the label that it was Birdie’s Darvocet, a sixty-day supply, more than usually prescribed, because of her remote location. Next to the bottle was an empty wineglass with a trace of dried residue at the bottom. Natty walked over to the old Victrola, which was playing the Mozart Clarinet Concerto that Birdie loved. Natty turned it off.
In the hall she called the sheriff’s department and told the dispatcher what she’d found. “Do you know which officer will be coming up?” Natty asked.
After a short pause the dispatcher replied. “That would be Officer Lester, Wayne Lester, ma’am.”
“Great. Thanks.” Natty couldn’t hide her disappointment. The one deputy sheriff she didn’t want to deal with. She’d known Lester since high school, where he was an obnoxious, overweight pervert who liked to cruise the halls, feeling girls’ backs and announcing a “bra check.” For a short time he’d focused his attentions on Natty, assuming that, due to her undeveloped appearance and lack of boyfriends, she’d be more receptive than the other girls. He didn’t take rejection by the flat-chested little hillbilly too well.
Lester’s disdain for Natty intensified after her marriage to Buck. His long-standing hatred for Buck was rooted in the unmerciful beating that Buck had administered to the bigger boy one summer afternoon when they were in their early teens. It was one of many fights that Buck soon forgot about. But Lester carried the painful memory of being embarrassed in front of a large gang of cheering kids, as Buck’s superior boxing skills, strength, and innate instinct for cruelty turned Lester into a bloody, staggering hulk.
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