"He told me he'd sent you a memo on it so I thought I'd wait until the final test reports came in. I thought you'd want to talk to me about them; I thought we'd have a meeting as soon as you got them."
God, I sound like Vve been sitting by the phone, waiting for a call. I sound like Emma.
He cleared his throat. "Anyway, there's something else. Kurt told me this morning that they've got early reports on the newest tests and they don't look good. In fact, some of them look pretty bad. He said he's sending you a memo on it. There's this pattern, you know, well, Kurt called it a pattern but I think it's just a fluke, well, not a fluke exactly because it keeps happening, but it's less than four percent who had bad reactions, not a lot less, but, still—"
"They've only got early results.^ Those test reports are due this week. What the hell's going on over there.^"
"I don't know. Kurt didn't say anything except—"
"Do you have his home phone number.''"
"Kurt's.'* Yeah, but Dad, I'll take care of it. I can find out when they'll be—"
"What's his number.-^"
Brix let out his breath in a small explosion. The rumbling in his stomach sounded to him like thunder. He wanted another Scotch, but his father didn't like it when he had more than one drink. Well, the hell with that, he thought, and went to the bar and refilled his glass. He leaned casually against the bar and, as if it weren't really important, gave Quentin Kurt's home telephone number.
He pretended to be absorbed in looking at the photographs on the wall, though he had the same ones in his office and thought they were boring, and he did not turn when he heard Quentin hang up. "Sit down, I want to talk to you," Quentin said. Brix sat down. "How much do you know about Kurt.^"
"Not a lot. We go running together and sometimes we go out drinking. And tennis sometimes. He lives a few houses from me."
"Alone.?"
"Right; he's divorced. No kids."
"How old is he.''"
"Thirry-four."
"How long has he worked here.^"
"Four or five years, something like that. He was here when I started and that was two years ago, and he'd been here awhile."
"Where did he work before.^"
"I don't know; we never talked about that."
Quentin sat back. "He's worked here for almost six years, his parents live in Arizona in one of those retirement villages, he came here from Helene Curtis in Chicago, and he was made head of the testing lab here at the beginning of the year."
Brix was staring at him. "If you knew all that, whv did vou ask me.?"
"I know it because it's my business to know the department heads in this company. Do you think you're exempt from that.'' You like to remind me that you're a vice president, but you don't know your own top people. And this one you run with and drink with, and you still don't know the most basic facts about him." Quentin waited, but Brix was silent, scowling at his drink. "What I don't know are his personal habits. Does he like expensive things.''"
"W'hat.'' Oh, well, I guess so. I mean, yeah, he spends a lot. Shoes especially; he's really into shoes, Italian, mostly. And Justin cowboy boots; he's got every color they come in. And cashmere sports jackets."
"On his salar\''"
"I don't know what he makes. I suppose you do."
"Eighty-five."
"Well, he spends it all on himself, I guess. No kids or anything."
"But he probably never has enough."
Brix shrugged. "Who does.'"'
"For Christ's sake, try to keep up with me. If he had inside information, he might want to sell it to a high bidder."
"Sell it.'' Kurt.?" Brix shook his head. "I don't think he's smart enough to think of that."
"Just because you weren't doesn't mean that he isn't."
Brix lurched out of his chair and went to the bar.
"Three in a row.?"
"Right, I'm thirsty." He filled his glass and returned to his chair. "I would have thought of it except I know Kurt. He doesn't think like that."
"How does he think.-^"
"Like he wants to make a lot of money, but he only thinks about his job, I mean, you know, nothing illegal. He's really into his work; he's proud of it. He just wants to earn a lot here or some other lab."
"He's talking about going somewhere else.''"
"No, but, you know, everybody talks about where they might go someday. He says he really likes Europe; there's some big cosmetics companies in Switzerland and France."
"He doesn't have any loyalty to Eiger Labs.'"'
"Well, yeah, sure he does. He thinks we make good products. That's why he's worried about the tests."
"What did he say.''"
"I told you: that they looked pretty bad. He thinks we'll have to change the formula, at least on the Eye Restorative, or pull it from the line."
"Why did he say that.'"'
"Because, he . . . Dad, four percent isn't a lot, but it's hard to ignore."
"W'hat about women.^"
"What about them.^"
"Kurt and women."
"Oh. He says he has a lot of them; nothing serious. I don't see them, so I don't know for sure."
"All right. I want to make sure of his loyalty, that he'll keep quiet about these tests. I'm not worried about the testing company in Chicago; I picked them for this project because they've never had a leak. But I need to be sure of Kurt. You'd better talk to him ... no, I'll do it, tell him we expect him to cooperate while we evaluate the tests. And I'll do something with his (]hrist-mas bonus and a raise at his regular review in Januarv". I'll take care of him, but I want you to keep an eye on him. Jogging, drinking, tennis, whatever it is, I want you sticking with him, and I want to hear from you about him: what he's doing with his time, if he looks like he's hungry, if he's running too close to the edge on his salary, if he's looking at other companies. Is that clear?"
"Sure."
"The other thing I'm going to tell him, first thing tomorrow morning, is that we've found out the test results have been doctored to get rid of the four percent. I'll say we don't know who did it, not yet, anyway, but of course whoever it was couldn't get a job in any other lab in the world, ever again."
"Doctored.'' But they weren't. They're—" There was a long silence. "You want me to do it."
"A few minutes ago you said you'd take care of it. I want you to take care of it. I assume I don't have to explain to you why this is necessary."
Brix stared at his father as if mesmerized. God, he thought, he just ticks off all these ideas, one after the other, like he's thought about them for months. Why can't I do that.^ He puts things together, he covers all the bases . . . fuck it, he's so far ahead of me I'll never catch up.
"Do I have to explain it.^" Quentin asked.
"No! I mean, I understand, Dad, I know that everything's riding on—"
"I could handle it myself, but I want you to do it. Is this something I can trust you to take care of, or not.^"
"Sure, Dad, you know you can; I'll take care of it; no problem. I'll do it now. Are we through here.^ I mean, if you don't need me for anything else—"
"Go ahead. I want to see all the reports after you've been through them. And I don't want to wait too long." Quentin opened a folder and began to read. Brix stood uncertainly, then walked out of the office, closing the door behind him. When he was in the corridor, he realized he was still holding his glass. Well, I need it, he thought. He can damn well do without it. He probably won't even notice it's gone. Like me.
/ could handle it myself. Is this something I can trust you to take care of, ornotPFuck it, he can handle everything; he doesn't need me, or anybody. Why the hell didn't I think of fixing the reports when I saw those memos.^ That should have been the first thing I thought of. Then he would have been proud of me. But he isn't. He's never going to trust me or need me; I'm too fucking slow. Unless I can think of something that's really important that I can do and he can't . . . whatever the hell that could be. I'll have to
&nb
sp; think of something. Come up with something. I will come up with something. I just have to give it a lot of thought. But first I have to do this. And do it right.
Slowly, listening to the hollow knocking of his footsteps on the hard floors and the clink of ice cubes in his glass, he walked the length of the building to the testing lab, unlocked the door with his pass key, and closed it quietly behind him.
ELEVEN
(.(.
U S T one more piece of coffee cake," Hannah urged, her l^nife poised. "I'm sure Claire will be back any minute."
"It's excellent cake," Alex said. "I enjoyed it. But no more. I'm not used to being spoiled and I can't start now."
"Why not.?"
"Because I have no one at home to spoil me. Why would I indulge in a luxury if it would only be whetting an appetite for something I know I can't have.?"
"I don't believe it. No women friends.? I thought writers can't write without a muse."
"This one learned how."
Hannah poured more coffee and sat down. "Claire said you used to write books."
"Yes."
"Why did you stop.?"
"She didn't tell you.?"
"No, why would she.? It's your story, isn't it.?"
"Yes," he said, bemused. "But that doesn't usually stop people."
"Claire isn't 'people.' She's very special. So why aren't you writing books anymore.? Or don't you talk about it.?"
"Not much. What I told Claire was that I lost the desire and the motivation. I'd begun a book; I was about a third of the way through it when a lot of things happened in my life, all at about the same time. My wife died, very suddenly—"
"Oh, rm sorry. How old was she?"
"Thirty-six."
"Terrible. Terrible." She shook her head. "So young, such a terrible thing. And you had children.^"
"A son. David. He's fourteen now and lives with my sister and her family, and no, Hannah—I can see the question coming—I can't have him with me. I travel on writing assignments and he needs a stable home and family, not an itinerant father. And no—I can see the next one coming, too—I'm not as close to him as I should be. I wish I were, but I don't know how."
"Goodness," said Hannah mildly, "do you always conduct both sides of a conversation.'' I suppose that comes from writing everybody's dialogue."
Alex chuckled. "You could be right. I don't think I do it often."
"So that's when you stopped writing books.'' I don't get the connection."
"I'm sorry. It's not easy to explain."
Hannah checked the thermos and poured what was left into Alex's cup. "I'll make another pot," she said, and went to the sink.
Alex sat back, idly watching her, recognizing that she had backed off to give him time to decide whether he wanted to talk or not. He was verv' relaxed, waiting for Claire to return, feeling good about the story about her that he had already begun to organize in his mind. But it was not a time to talk about himself, however seductive Hannah was with her eyes fixed on him with interest and friendship.
Beyond the large window, heavy steel-gray clouds lay low above the treetops and the bare black branches stretched starkly upward as if in prayer. The tree trunks pressed in upon the house like dark sentinels standing in formation on a carpet of faded, crackling leaves. Fhe copper chandelier over the table shone steadily, holding back the November gloom. Alex thought there was nowhere in the world he would rather be at this moment than right here.
"I'd rather talk about the present than the past," he said as Hannah sat down again. "If you ask me what I'm doing now or what I'm thinking of doing, we could talk about that."
"What are you thinking of doing.''"
"Oh, any number of things. I might try being a waiter. I've been watching them, the good ones, and there's an art to it; it could be a challenge."
"You'd be a waiter so you could write about one.'"'
"No, writing has nothing to do with it. I'd be a waiter because that's what I'd decided to be. Or I might be a longshoreman. I've been going down to the docks for the past year, watching them; there's no art to it, but it has a rhythm and a pattern that one could sink into."
"You'd stop writing entirely."
"That would be the idea. I thought of doing construction, too. Whenever I see a crew working on an office building I think what a good sense of accomplishment they must have, seeing those huge monuments go up and knowing they've had a part in them."
"You'd stop writing even though it's what you do best. And it's what makes you happiest."
There was a pause. "You don't know that," Alex said quietly. "And I'm not sure of it."
"Well," Hannah said after a moment. "In a way I can understand it. Once I thought of being a cleaning woman in office buildings. You know, late at night, everyone gone, all the lights blazing on empty desks and corridors. It seemed to me I'd be like a ghost, drifting through those strangely silent spaces, cut off from all people and the busy world, not involved emotionally with anyone. I thought, that way, if I had time to think and not deal with other people, eventually I might be able to stop feeling like a ghost and feel whole again."
Alex was creasing a paper napkin, seeming to concentrate on it, but he had heard every^thing she said. "A ghost," he repeated. "What kept you from feeling whole.^"
Hannah clasped her hands on the table. "I had a daughter. Her name was Ariel and she was a lovely child, full of curiosity and love. We lived with my mother in a small town in Pennsylvania. My mother was a secretary, I taught school, and together we made enough to buy a little house, so small you wouldn't believe it, but it had just enough room for the three of us. My mother and I shared one bedroom and Ariel had the other, facing east; she woke up each morning with the sun touching her face. There is nothing more wonderful than to help a child discover the wonders of the world and of her own mind and body; I loved it.
We did everything together: we took walks in the woods and went swimming in the local pool and spent hours in the library finding books for both of us, and once in a great while we'd take a bus to Philadelphia to go to museums and walk around the city. In those days I was angry and envious of rich people who could buy their daughters anything, fabulous clothes, trips to Europe, fine houses. We couldn't even replace our sagging couch or buy a dining room table. Of course we didn't have a dining room, either. But even without money, we were very happy. And then she died."
Alex's body jerked, as if he had been struck. "She died.^ How old was she.^"
"Eight. One day she was deciding she'd be a ballet dancer and showing me a pirouette in our backyard, and the next day she was dead. Of course I couldn't believe it; I refused to believe it. I refused to say the words Ariel is dead. I'd go out looking for her, to all the places we'd gone together. I'd take those walks in the forest and sit by the local swimming pool and wander around the library, expecting to see her sitting at one of the tables, the way she always did, leafing through books, making a stack beside her that would get her through the week. I even went to Philadelphia, which of course made no sense at all, because how would she have gotten there without me.-^ But I went anyway, to our favorite museums and up and down the streets with all the buildings from the Revolutionary^ days that we'd liked so much, and when I went home without her, I'd start again, with the walks in the forest and sitting by the pool and walking through the rooms of our little house. It was so little I could get through it in a minute and a half, but I took longer, I took slow little steps, as if the longer I took the more possible it was that Ariel would be around the corner or through that door, in the other room, waiting for me."
Alex saw himself in his house in New Jersey, walking through the rooms one slow step at a time, looking for his wife, listening for her laughter and her soft voice humming as she cooked dinner. He moved to Hannah's side and put his arm around her. "What did she die of.''"
It was as if he had not spoken. "Such an awful time," Hannah said, slowly shaking her head. "Somehow, I was still teaching and living what looked
like a perfectly normal life, but I knew I was being absolutely crazy, and my mother didn't know what to do with me. After a while, of course, I snapped out of it. But it took
a long time. The point is, we do get over terrible times; we're built to do that. Most people learn again to laugh and love and respond to beaurv^ and fight ugliness and clasp hands with friends, even though they've lost a kind of joy that they'll never get back. There's an unlit corner in their hearts and no light will ever penetrate to it. It will always be dark."
She paused, looking at her clasped hands. "That's why it's so important to be close to those we love, not to take them for granted, not to give up when we're baffled by how complicated it can be to understand and be understood by another person. And that's why you should open up to people; not just ask questions like a journalist but share your feelings with them, because that's what makes us close and loving and human. If you don't, you may wake up one day and find your chances for love and closeness gone, and that's another kind of death." She looked up at Alex. "Tragedy is no excuse, you know. However long it takes, we do recover."
"Yes," Alex said quietly. "I believe that."
Claire walked in from the garage, carrying a flat leather artist's case. "Am I interrupting something.^"
"Not at all," said Hannah, slipping from within the circle of Alex's arm. "We were getting acquainted. Goodness," she added, looking at Claire, "you're all lit up."
"It was a good meeting. I'm sorry I'm late. I thought I could just drop these off, but the marketing people wanted to talk about them. Is there any coffee left.'"'
"There's a new pot. And coffee cake. We've been through both of them; Alex came early."
"The traffic was light," Alex said to Claire. He could not take his eyes off her glowing face; she was happy and excited and her beauty seemed lit from within. "And I was eager."
"Then we should get started." Claire took the tray Hannah had filled with two mugs and the coffeepot and a plate of cake. "You've seen the house.^ Where would you like to talk.-^"
"Hannah showed me the house; I'd like to go to your studio again."
They took the same chairs they had taken the afternoon before. Once again, all the lights were on, and the brightness made the gray clouds beyond the windows look even darker and more lowering. Alex, still under the spell of Hannah's story, took a long
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