“It’s a natural occurrence.”
“And yet the trend is ruinous to most relationships, is that it?”
“I didn’t say efficiency and passion were mutually exclusive.”
“Then what?” I was being defensive, was slightly unnerved and couldn’t help but feel there was an allegation looming.
“Cooperation,” she quoted me then the three Cs, “comfort, and compromise.”
“Yes, but it isn’t love. Isn’t that what you’re saying?” I wanted her to tell me otherwise, to point out—as I was prepared to do if she refused—that a love that had already lasted nearly ten years was clearly immune to such challenges, that our efficiency was not simply the deceit of a mortician prettying up a cold, dead corpse but a purposeful part of our existence together, only Gee fell silent and left me to ask once more, “All this talk of comfort and efficiency avoids the question of love, no? Passion wears thin and indifference wills out. What happens to the hunger then, Gee? To the feelings your theory suggests are both lacking and required in marriage? If it’s a matter of physics, it can’t just disappear. Where does it go then when it’s no longer there?”
She considered as much—I could tell—and yet after a long pause, this, too, she chose not to answer.
A few weeks before I first met Tod Marcum, at a time when Gee and I seemed happy enough and occasionally still sparked by passions—cooperative if somewhat compromised by wear—we rented an oceanfront bungalow along the southernmost side of Virginia Beach and took a family vacation. Our week together was something I looked forward to, and was disappointed then as the evening prior to our departure, Ed Porter came into my office and announced, “Congratulations, Brimm! I’ve something for you.”
Even after all these years, I became instantly awkward and tongue-tied in Ed Porter’s presence. His control over my career was distressing, and while I tried hard to please him and gave him leads on several stocks and complex deals which made money for his A-list clients, he extended little thanks and took full credit for my effort while only occasionally throwing me a bone. I am by all counts a diligent and dedicated worker, a meticulous and—at times—clever investor and financial advisor, thoroughly engrossed by the theories and nuance of my profession, and still such competence was never enough for Ed who, at age sixty-seven, continued to rule the roost at Porter and Evans and acknowledged no achievements save his own.
Ed was not an especially tall man, though he projected a certain largeness, his appearance imperial. Dressed in a royal blue suit of European cut, double-breasted, with a wide red tie and gold cuff links, his white hair was fine and meticulously combed, sprayed in place by an expensive hydrolyzed soy protein product. I felt my shoulders sink and roll passively forward as Ed stood over me. He had a low voice which rumbled inside his throat like a distilled sort of thunder, and dropping two heavy files down on my desk, said “I’m offering you a chance to take the lead on one of my deals, Brimm. It’s a career maker!”
I stared at the files for several seconds, certain Ed knew of my vacation. He was a manipulative SOB, ever eager to test the loyalty of his staff by disrupting their plans to celebrate anniversaries, birthdays, trips, and holidays, and however much I resented his hold over me, I knew—as did he—that under any other circumstance I’d have jumped at the chance to work up one of his projects. “I’m afraid I’m leaving for the beach in a matter of hours, Ed,” I decided to proceed with candor. “The family and I haven’t been away in over a year. I haven’t taken a day off since early last summer,” I added for emphasis, a fact which didn’t impress him in the least.
“Suit yourself,” he frowned, the starched collar of his shirt pinched up against the flesh of his neck. “If you can’t handle the job.”
“It isn’t that, Ed.”
“And here I thought I was doing you a favor.”
“You are.”
“I’m sure I can find someone to replace you.”
“I didn’t say I couldn’t handle it,” I began to stutter, and insisted that I was simply concerned about the time frame and whether the work was something I could do while I was on vacation or should I cancel the trip.
“You do it wherever you like, Brimm. You’ll have the week to pull things together, Check in with me then.”
I took the files and put them in my briefcase.
We reached the beach early the next morning and I proceeded to spend most of that first day making and receiving phone calls, studying the files Ed gave me, reviewing the market on my portable computer, drafting reports, sending and receiving faxes. I promised to work no later than noon, and planned to enjoy the rest of the day with my family, but one thing led to another and it was nearly five o’clock before I came outside.
My daughter is a glorious child—I say this as objectively as possible—nearly seven now and at the time of our vacation just turned five, an intelligent, somewhat shy yet curious, handsome, and polite little girl with her mother’s green eyes and sun-reddened hair worn somewhat long in thick waves and curls, olive skin like mine, and a joyous sort of trusting spirit which made me forever want to protect and guard her. I went quickly to the water then, intent on making up for the hours spent working, and finding Rea, asked her to come swim with me. “Daddy wants to be with his girl. Are you ready to spend time with your father?”
Rea was excited by my arrival, and though the day had cooled a bit, hurried to slip off her shorts and T-shirt to reveal her pink and blue swimsuit. I scooped her up and ignoring Gee’s warnings carried her out into the ocean where the water was, indeed, colder and rougher than I expected. Determined to make a go of it nonetheless—for we’d come to swim, after all!—I brought Rea out past the initial break and settled her into the tide. Twice I peeked over my shoulder to spot Gee on the shore, watching us anxiously as if my every effort was in error, and, annoyed, I allowed myself to be distracted for just a second, not noticing the next wave as it sprayed up to my chest and over Rea’s head just as I was letting her go. She attempted at once to dive back toward me, but another swell caught her and pulled her under. The abruptness of her disappearance was shocking, but then the scene became worse, for when I reached down to grab her, the current had already altered her position, moving her left while I began flailing right.
Rea was under no more than a few seconds before I found her and scooped her up, but the time was immaterial; the look on her face a mix of injury and indictment that went well beyond mere childlike surprise. “There now. There.” What could I do but clutch her against my chest and try to comfort her, even as she squirmed and fought through a series of coughs and gasps? “There, yes, Daddy.” Her bright green eyes were darker, her gaze an ancient shade, as deep and knowing as the very waters of the ocean. She extended her arms away from me, wary of my hold while turning herself back toward the beach and her mother who was already halfway out into the water.
Later, and after much regret, I tried to put the incident behind me and prepared the evening’s barbecue. I drank whiskey from a plastic 7-Eleven tumbler, grew slightly drunk, burned the burgers, and made a mess of the buns. The awkwardness of our togetherness became painfully clear, and after we’d eaten what could be salvaged for our meal, Rea grew tired and fell asleep in her mother’s arms and was put to bed.
I waited for Gee in the front room, invited her to come sit beside me on the cabin’s small sofa. I tried to be affectionate, and looking for forgiveness, said, “It’s good to get away, don’t you think?” I placed a hand on her arm, hoping she’d slide closer and allow me a kiss, but she moved from me at once and went out on the back porch to smoke. I followed her to the screen, where foolishly and in a tone of groundless self-pity, I complained, “What are you angry about?”
“I’m not angry, Walter.”
“I already apologized for Rea.”
“And I said I’m not angry.”
“Then what?”
“Please.”
“Tomorrow will be better.”
“Are you pla
nning to work all week?”
“Just an hour or two in the morning.”
“Sure.”
“Christ, Gee. What am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know, Walter,” and here she was angry again. “You tell me.”
“What about the work you brought?”
“I haven’t even looked at it yet, and I won’t if it interferes with Rea.”
“Alright, I said I’m sorry. Why can’t you appreciate my effort?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m here.”
“Wonderful.”
“Come inside,” I resorted to pleading.
“In a minute.”
“Let’s not ruin our night.”
“No, let’s not.”
“I’m going to bed.”
“Fine.”
“I want you.”
“Charming.”
“Are you coming?”
“I’m going to take a walk.”
“I’ll come with you then.”
“No, you need to stay with Rea.”
“Why are you acting like this?”
“I’m sorry, am I being selfish? You want me? Come on then. Come here. Let me just finish my cigarette, or maybe you don’t mind if I smoke?”
“Hell.”
“That’s right,” she turned and flicked her cigarette into the dark; I can still recall the spark from the ash as it hit the sand, the brief brilliance of color that flamed and was gone.
Later that night we lay in bed, separated by the pillow Gee brought from home and liked to wrap her legs around. I was a sound sleeper, though the events of the day left me restless, and at one point I rolled on my side, surprised to find Gee propped up on her elbow watching me, observing me intensely, her face illuminated by a single ray of moon passing through the window. Her look was serious, wishful and wondering, pained and forewarning, admonishing and imploring. Had I been but briefly sage—a desire forever cast by fools like me—I’d have heeded her gaze and realized what had to be done, but then I was careless and never so clever with love. Here was where I began to lose her, in failing to take from her eyes the notice she intended. (“It’s now or never, Walter, do you understand?”) I was tired, and rolling back over in an effort to find a comfortable spot on the bed, I yawned and whispered in a languid tone, “Go to sleep.”
After a minute, I felt Gee turn away from me, and in time drift off.
The rest of the week passed more or less the same. I wound up working longer each day than expected, the deal Ed Porter gave me to pull together required serious attention, and I concluded, wisely or otherwise, that it would be absurd to ruin my vacation over a job performed half-assed. Gee remained annoyed with me, was distant when I sought her out before dinner, and colder still at night. Once we returned to the city, the detachment between us lingered, and even as things seemed to improve, I felt unsure. (It was as though I’d survived a terrible wreck only to have to deal now with residual scars.) When I walked into Ed Potter’s office that first morning back and presented him with all the work I’d done, he looked up at me from behind his enormous teak desk and said, “Oh that, Brimm. Don’t worry, we’ve plenty of time. There’s no need to rush.”
I dropped my head and returned down the hall.
CHAPTER 3
I stayed out on the patio a few minutes more, still hoping to catch a glimpse of Tod before Gee introduced us, and failing to accomplish this, I was just about to go inside and find my wife when a voice called, “Hey, Brimm,” and I turned around.
The source of light out back was Japanese lanterns hung up in the low branches of two poplar trees, the blue patio tiles shimmering beneath as if the entire surface was liquid. Jack Gorne approached from between the trees, his right hand raised as he passed from the shadows in the rear of the yard and moved directly toward me. Nattily dressed in a beige cashmere sweater, pleated slacks, and Italian shoes, Jack was slightly taller than I, his face full and round, his hair thick and combed upward like an archetypal sort of gangster. With features near enough though not quite handsome, he had dark, deep-set eyes and a wide, upturned mouth that cast his countenance into a bemused sort of dominance. I’d known Jack since my first days at Porter and Evans when he was a client, his portfolio flush with first-rate stocks and bonds and extensive holdings in real estate and companies in and around Renton. He recently removed his account from our care however, in order to manage his own money. (“There are things I’d like to try which you boys haven’t the stomach for,” he told Ed Porter.) For some reason he chose to retain me as an outside consultant, my fee kicked upstairs to the partners, and phoned every week or so to ask my opinion on specific investments. Most of my input on Jack’s business was minimal, and yet he considered me essential. “I trust your instincts, Brimm. You’re honest and I’m not. You’re a talisman. A goddamn bunny’s foot. You bring me luck!” I was credited with helping several of his deals turn a huge profit—such recognition was flattering while having Jack Gorne in my corner certainly didn’t hurt my standing with Ed Porter—and last March I presented Jack with an idea Jay Dunlap had to open a facility that cleaned expensive rugs, furs, and sweaters. The venture was sound and recently the two became partners.
Jack slapped my shoulder, clicked his whiskey glass against mine, and asked, “How’s it going, Walt?”
“Good, Jack. You?”
“Excellent, my friend,” he glanced above the trees, then looked past me in order to survey the crowd. “I came for a drink,” he smiled, “and maybe some party favors. Hell of a moon, eh, Brimm? And how about that Andi? Now there’s a planet I’d like to orbit. She’s alright, don’t you think? Big women are a nice change of pace sometimes. They’ll give you a bang for your buck.” He raised his glass approvingly, then drank what remained in two swallows.
Although I’d had the same fantasy, I didn’t feel comfortable joking about Andi and mentioned as much to Jack who dismissed my concern with a quick, “What’s the matter, Brimm? Afraid to dream?”
“It isn’t that. Andi and Jay are friends, that’s all.”
“So.? Friends share, don’t they? Besides, infidelity’s overrated. It’s barely a vice. If I’m attracted to a woman, and ask her to dinner and she agrees, why should I care if she’s married? If I sleep with her, what’s more important than my pleasure at that moment?”
I changed the subject and got Jack talking about work. He told me then about Atlantic Groceries and the rumor that had the chain about to go under. “A few months ago, remember, Brimm? Distributors were bailing left and right, settling their accounts for twenty cents on the dollar before Atlantic could tie them up in bankruptcy and pay no more than five percent of what they owed.” Jack had an eighteen percent interest in Geotine Soaps and Salves which made thirty-five percent of its profits through sales at Atlantic stores. “Something didn’t add up,” he continued. “Atlantic was crying poor too fast and I didn’t like it. I rejected all proposals to square Geotine’s account, shouted down my partners until they agreed to not cut a deal. Fuck Atlantic! Why should we give them what they want? Something was rotten. I didn’t trust them. It didn’t make sense.
“I decided to place a few calls, and with the help of some people I knew, I tracked down the wives and lovers of executives at Atlantic. Getting them to talk was easy. I pretended we met at conventions and dinner parties, and after a bit of bullshit, had them tell me what was really going on. Hell,” Jack clicked my whiskey glass again, “it wasn’t as if they didn’t want to give it all away. I barely had to pry.”
It turned out Chapman Industries was secretly negotiating to take over Atlantic. “Here’s why the bastards were so eager to open their books and expose serious financial troubles. By screaming bankruptcy and scaring companies into settling existing accounts, Atlantic could dump current debt and rid themselves of contracts useless to Chapman. At the same time, insider trading laws prevented officers at Atlantic from disclosing the impending takeover. They were protected from
claims of fraud by distributors and conning everyone to cash out. A slick play, but now I had them by their balls.
“I got hold of Ed Fearn, CEO of Atlantic, and told him in exchange for keeping his secret, Atlantic would settle with Geotine for one hundred cents on the dollar. I then had Fearn arrange a meeting for me with Frederick Chapman, and I warned the old man if he didn’t sell me 50,000 shares of Chapman stock before the merger, and expand the sale of Geotine products into his stores in New York, Pennsylvania, and Ohio, I’d start leaking what I knew to his distributors. Extortion? Fuck ’em! Who’s to say what’s legal and what’s not? It’s all in the cost of doing business, Brimm. Any fool knows this.”
I relate the story about Jack as a means of illustrating the difference between us. While I was practical, fearful, and pragmatic, typically benign and nonthreatening, the sort of man people felt comfortable with at parties and conventions, Jack was combustible, opinionated, and quick to argue, a fierce force of nature who barrelled ahead without regard for whatever stood in his way. It was Jack’s belief that the world was fundamentally amoral, the human spirit motivated by self-interest, and that the meek would not inherit the earth. “We’re carnivores, Brimm, creatures influenced by personal needs, innately suited to Darwin’s theory denoting survival of the fittest. It’s the one law that matters, the only one we have to obey.”
Of this, I wasn’t as certain. I could accept intellectually that Man was not always gracious and kind, but the knowledge unnerved me. (If Gee was vested of both positive and negative impulses, the implication was that I’d reason to worry about her half the time.) I wanted to believe all people were inherently virtuous, but reality forbid me. (Lying here now in my bed at Renton General, the more I consider the complexity of human nature the louder I want to scream.) As an American male, corn fed and white of flesh, I was raised with certain predispositions and expectations, forever taught the world was my oyster and would always remain. Sadly, times are different now, the social order has been reshuffled and men such as myself—defined by the clumsiness of our forefathers, with all their sins and prejudice and crimes of self-interest—are treated with deserved suspicion and contempt. (The once golden child has dropped the ball, and threatened with obsolescence, stands haplessly confused.) One would think, after all these years, I’d have adjusted to how the world really is, but then love has a way of divesting the heart of its ability to react with reason, and in wondering how I got then from there to here, broken again and alone in the hospital flat on my ass, I simply have to remember earlier lessons somehow forgotten.
Walter Falls Page 2
