Again, he gazed into the faces around him, smiles of admiration and fear, sobs of celebration amplified by the thick redness of gin and the warm billows of steam rolling off the oval-shaped tub. Everyone here was Marbleworth’s accomplice.
Ignoring the stares of the other guests, ignoring the continued churning of his stomach, Bill stumbled down the stairs determined to find Edward Marbleworth. He wanted to strangle him. The reception hall was a caldron of guests, security guards, news reporters, and equipment. Flowers littered the mosaic floor. Shoving his way through the crowd, Bill began to question people near the podium. Where was Marbleworth? Who had been with him? Although Bill’s voice was drowned out by the orchestra, several women turned and stared at him with curiosity. Then he sighted Marbleworth in one of the video monitors hung from the ceiling. The billionaire and his entourage had evidently relocated to one of the inner rooms of the mansion. “You can’t do this!” Bill shouted at the image in the monitor. No one paid any attention to him. “Do you hear me?” he screamed at the monitor. “You can’t do this. You can’t do this.”
DUCKS
“You are talking about your anger,” said Kripke. “That is good. What do you feel right now?”
“I want to kill Edward Marbleworth.”
The psychiatrist put down his pen and clasped his hands. For a few moments, he sat silently, staring at his patient. “Are you sure it’s Edward Marbleworth you want to kill?”
“Yes.”
The psychiatrist raised his eyebrows and again waited in silence. As he waited, waterfalls poured from the wall.
“I’m not sure. I’m angry at a lot of people.”
The psychiatrist smiled faintly and began writing again in his notebook. “You’re angry at everybody.”
“Yes.”
“So it’s not Edward Marbleworth in particular.”
“I guess not. It’s a lot of people. No one sees anything.”
“No one sees anything?” said the psychiatrist. “Really. What do you mean by that?”
“I was driving to work this morning, and I saw a mother duck on the side of the road, with six or seven babies waddling behind her. I slowed down to look and everybody started honking at me.”
“And you think that other people should have stopped on the road to look at these ducks?”
“That’s just an example.”
“How is the numbness?” asked the psychiatrist.
“The same.”
“We’re going to increase the dosage of Prozac to forty milligrams per day. If the nausea persists, we’ll switch to Paxil.”
SPERRY
Amy, the receptionist at Plymouth, didn’t know whether she was coming or going. Hardly had she met one visitor at the landing on the forty-first floor and brought him up in the private elevator when the red light began blinking again and she had to scramble down and escort another guest. The British accents and formality of the visiting executives frightened her, so that she avoided their eyes and said nothing, but when she met Mr. Andy Collingbourne, red-eyed and unsteady on his feet, she chatted with him amiably all the way to the reception area.
There waited David Hamilton and Lisa Theroux, smiling and joking as they strode forward to greet each of their new associates from London, inviting others who had already arrived to look through the magnificent hall windows at the skyline of Boston. A constant stream of people flowed back and forth down the hallways, through the reception, and into the conference room, where preparations were being made for the presentations.
“Good morning, Bertram … if I may call you that,” David said to Bertram Lancaster, a tall, important-looking man with a high forehead and lantern jaw. “And how did you sleep? The Four Seasons is about the best we have, although I’ve never stayed there myself. I couldn’t afford it.” He laughed nervously.
“Ah,” said Mr. Lancaster. He stood just at the carpeted entrance to Plymouth, tapping the point of his umbrella against the elevator door. His assistant was led by Nate Linden down the bright hallway to the conference room in the back.
“Good Lord, David, don’t badger the poor man with questions,” said Lisa. “Let him have some coffee. I’ll bet you need coffee, don’t you, Mr. Lancaster. We have light-roasted hazelnut and dark Colombian.” She smiled at the vice president of Sperry, who looked her up and down quickly and nodded, as if approving of her smart double-breasted suit with its ivory buttons down the front.
“Coffee is an idea, Ms. Theroux,” he said pleasantly. “Yes.” He looked at his watch.
“Where is Mr. Chalmers? Is Mr. Chalmers here?” whispered Mr. Benjamin Lloyd, who had been led to the Queen Anne sofa immediately upon his arrival. Mr. Lloyd, the oldest of the delegation from Sperry, was gnarled and stoop-shouldered but with eyes sharp as nails.
“Yes, I’m here,” said Bill, proceeding hesitantly toward the sofa with a forced smile on his face. He had been dreading a meeting with Benjamin Lloyd. Bill wished, in fact, that he could have remained in his office until this entire inaugural affair was concluded.
“There you are indeed,” said Mr. Lloyd. He stood up and toddled over to meet Bill. “You look just like your picture on the Plymouth Web page.”
“Thank you,” said Bill, immediately regretting the foolishness of his reply. Certainly he had not received a compliment, for his digitized photograph made him look weary and ten years older than he actually was.
Mr. Lloyd leaned his wizened head close to Bill’s and said in a low but not unfriendly voice, “Aren’t you the young man who did the background check on me?”
Bill cringed. Evidently, it was not enough to be under scrutiny by his own firm, he thought to himself. Now he was being mistrusted and watched by Plymouth’s new partners. His head turned stupidly toward the window as he searched for something to say.
“I wanted to compliment you,” said Lloyd, peering oddly at Bill with his bright eyes. “That was—” He was interrupted by George Mitrakis, who came bounding into the reception area with viewgraphs and colored pens in his hands. “Who’s minding the fax?” he shouted. He stood in the middle of the reception, appearing confused, then hurried into the communications room, where the unattended machine sat screeching and spitting paper to the floor. Poor Leslie, her eyes filling with tears, followed the president in and closed the door. In a few moments, Mitrakis emerged, again confused and preoccupied. Bill had never seen him so uneasy and out of sorts.
“The Four Seasons is splendid,” suddenly boomed Andy Collingbourne. He stumbled from his place by the window, rubbing his knuckles into his left eye. “Rather like our Savoy in London. I’m delighted silly.” He began telling Bill some story about his car and how it gobbled up one of its valves on a roundabout, then abruptly said, “I wondered, Mr. Chalmers, if it would be possible to have a room that faced the park? Do you handle that sort of thing, or should I speak to someone else?”
Bill stared at Mr. Collingbourne without grasping what he’d said.
“That would be a small detail,” said Mr. Lloyd and he threw Andy Collingbourne a swift look of admonishment.
“Andy should be quite happy with things as they stand.”
Mr. Collingbourne glanced at Mr. Lloyd, then at Mr. Lancaster, who sat on the Queen Anne carefully eating a Danish pastry. His face clouded up like a child’s. “Please, Mr. Chalmers,” he said, practically whimpering and again rubbing his knuckles into his eye, “leave my room where it is.”
“I would be happy to do what you wish,” said Bill, addressing himself to Mr. Lloyd. He made a mental note to speak to Leslie about the matter and then realized that he had no idea how long the Sperry party was visiting. Junior partners were never told such things, they were treated like secretaries. How he wished he were in his office at this moment with the door closed.
“No, please, Mr. Chalmers,” said Mr. Collingbourne. “I spoke out of line. I’m not a traveler, as you can probably see, and I’m afraid I had something bad to eat at a little restaurant outside the hotel last night. It seemed
like a harmless little restaurant, but I should never have gone in there. I ate something that didn’t agree with me. The waitress was very friendly.” He turned and went back to the window.
“It’s nine o’clock,” announced David Hamilton.
“I had just noticed that myself,” said Lancaster, rising from the couch.
Bill was at his keyboard later that day, after the Sperry group had gone, when he was buzzed by Amy. Mr. Mitrakis would like to see him. He mumbled into the phone and glanced at his watch. It was 12:17. Minute by minute, the last hour had slid down his screen, like the thousands of numbers and words scrolled away. With a sigh he closed down a file and flicked on his screen saver, stared for a moment at the colored fish swimming through a virtual pond, and plodded down the hall toward the president’s office. He was drunk with exhaustion and he weaved from side to side against the walls and closed doors, and the August sun sliced through the endless glass windows and cut into his eyes. A shape that was Leslie flew past with an armload of documents to be scanned before lunch.
When he opened the president’s door, Bill felt a tension in the room. Sitting uncomfortably on the white linen sofa was a man he had never seen before. Mitrakis, in wrinkled shirtsleeves, leaned silently over his mahogany desk. It struck Bill, in that first moment, that the president was staring down at something he’d lost in the bottom of a deep well.
“Bill,” Mitrakis said, looking up and smiling limply. He lumbered toward the door, huge in his white shirt, his face passing alternately from brightness to shadow as it caught the light from the silver fan blades turning slowly overhead. “Please.” He motioned for Bill to come in.
The man on the sofa stood up.
“Bill,” said Mitrakis, “this is Francis Scherer from Dorgan et al. He’s one of Plymouth’s attorneys.” Mr. Scherer stood motionless by the sofa, holding a spiral notebook in one hand. He was a large man, like Mitrakis, with a head of tousled chestnut hair, and a certain sadness hung about his heavy-lidded eyes. He nodded at Bill and offered his hand.
“Sit down, Bill, sit down.” Mitrakis sank heavily into the chair behind his desk. Mr. Scherer sat down also and placed a silver pen on his notebook and quietly scratched his thick neck.
“Bill,” the president said with a sigh, “I’m afraid we’re going to have to let you go.”
Mr. Scherer had picked up his silver pen. Beyond the sofa, the inner door to the conference room was half open. One of the slide projectors from the morning’s presentations had been left on, a glowing box in the dark.
“This is painful for me,” said Mitrakis. He made a small, helpless smile and became silent, as if waiting for someone else to speak. “I’m fond of you, Bill,” he said and stared down at a glass paperweight on his desk. “You’ve been a very productive member of Plymouth for eight, nine years now.… But you’ve slipped badly in the last couple of months, since the mugging.” He paused and looked up. “What a terrible thing that was, huh. We were worried like hell.” He shook his head.
Mr. Scherer coughed. Mitrakis rubbed his hand back and forth on his face, which had broken out in red splotches. “Bill … we can’t afford to keep all of our junior partners. You know that. We tell everyone. We just can’t afford to. We couldn’t keep Helen. Mark left two years ago. There are pressures.…” He lifted his head and looked miserably toward Mr. Scherer, then back down at the glass paperweight, which he began turning over and over in his palm. “You must know that you’ve fallen behind in your work. You know that, don’t you?” He paused, turning the paperweight over and over. “The account with Transcom. Digitel says you’ve sent them incomplete information three different times. The Hanover-Bryce Group is already blaming their third-quarter losses on us.… Bill, what’s happened? I don’t understand. Was it the mugging? Tell me.” He looked at Bill and waited for him to say something. From the conference room, the fan of the projector could be heard gasping as it circulated on and off.
For another few moments, Mitrakis sat in silence. Then he ran his hands over his splotched face again and said, “We’ve been keeping a record,” mumbled so softly that Mr. Scherer stopped writing and cupped his hand to his ear. Mitrakis repeated himself, only slightly louder, and gestured with embarrassment to a folder next to his keyboard. He looked at Bill and pleaded with his eyes for him to say something. Then he sighed and slapped his desk a couple of times. “Ah, shit. Shit. I’m really sorry about this, Bill, I’m so sorry.”
“We’re all sorry,” said Mr. Scherer.
Mitrakis stood up and walked heavily across the blue oriental rug. At the other side of the room, he put his hands in his pockets and stared at one of the framed commendations on the wall. A telephone rang in the secretary’s office next door. With a grim expression, he moved back to his desk and picked up a brown envelope lying there. “This describes the severance package. Money, extended health insurance for six months, other things … We think it’s generous. I think it’s generous.” He sighed. “Read it over …” The president’s lips continued to move, but no words came out. The room had become empty of sound.
CIDER BARN ANTIQUES
When Bill turned off the highway into the little gravel lot of Cider Barn Antiques, several other cars were parked there, one with its engine running, another so close to the front door that it nearly blocked the hand-painted sign reading “No Restrooms.” An ancient set of cross-country skis leaned precariously against the door frame of the converted two-story red barn.
Bill remained in his hot car, dabbing his face and his neck with a tissue. Should he go in this instant to tell Melissa he’d just lost his job, or wait until the customers had gone? He sighed and glanced at his watch. It was 2:17, right in the guts of the day. Everyone on the planet was profitably at work, except himself. But he didn’t count because he was dead, and worse, a reject. He was not a part of the world. He was a nightmare. Go now, go later, go home—what did it matter.
Listlessly, he slumped back in his seat and stared at the colored bottles in the shop window. There were eight of them, three cobalt blue, two clear, and three muddy-brown old medicine bottles. Beyond the window, he could see things hanging from the low ceiling, people moving about. The corner of the barn vibrated in the heat. Gradually, his head dropped to his chest, his eyes began to close. The motor of the running car began wheezing and trembling as if about to expire in the heat. Out of the corner of his eye, Bill watched a woman come out of the shop with a yellow arrow-back chair and a pantry box. She carefully placed the purchases in the trunk of her car, straightened her wide-brimmed sun hat, and drove off in a spray of gravel and dust. He began coughing and raised his window until the dust had floated back into the hot gravel and the air resumed its bright, syrupy translucence at eighty-five degrees. After a few minutes, another car drove up. It was 2:29. There would be no good time to talk to his wife. Bill finished tearing one of his road maps into tiny pieces and walked slowly into the shop.
At his appearance, unexpected and vague like the ghost that he was, Melissa’s eyes became very big and she put aside the washboard she’d been negotiating with a customer and came quickly to the door. “Bill,” she said softly. “What are you doing here? Is it Alex?” She reached out and grasped his arm.
“Alex is fine,” Bill said and released a hiss of tired air. His head dropped and he gazed at his wife’s small feet on the wide-plank wood floor. “I need to talk to you.”
“What?” She looked at him searchingly, holding his shirtsleeve in her fingers. “Why aren’t you at Plymouth?” she whispered. “What’s happened?”
“I want to talk to you.”
“Are you okay?”
He nodded.
“God, Bill, don’t frighten me like that.” She twisted and untwisted the collar of her beige cotton dress. “You picked a terrible time to talk. Can you wait a few minutes?”
Bill nodded without expression and watched her as she hurried back to the front desk, where one of her pickers was waiting with a collection of old brass bells t
o sell. The man spread the bells out on the wood counter and began jingling them one by one.
Despite the air conditioner that labored in the adjoining room, the shop was stifling and warm, and Bill searched for a shaded corner where he might wait, perhaps next to one of the cedar blanket chests or painted washstands. Twice before he had visited Melissa’s shop in the summer. He remembered that pockets of cool air settled into little corners, mingling with the smells of dried tansy and sweet Annie that hung from the low ceiling beams and with the faint odor of horses remaining from the days when the building had been an apple storage barn. Years ago, he had enjoyed coming here with Alex after a snowstorm, sledding with him on the hill behind the barn. Now, he thought grimly, they would have to sell the whole place. It had never made any money. He stood facing a wall and stared blankly at an old cutting board, from which hung a kitchen strainer, a brass scale, a rolling pin, a sifter, a wooden spoon. He had been standing there for some time, dimly aware of people coming and going behind him, when Melissa tapped his shoulder.
“I have a little time now,” she said in a low voice, “but not much. Someone just called about an estate sale.”
She closed her eyes when he told her. “What reason did they give?” she said and leaned against the wall.
“They don’t need a reason,” said Bill. “I’m a junior partner.” The floorboards creaked as someone walked past them.
“You’re ill,” whispered Melissa after a few moments. “You’ve been to see doctors. They can’t fire you for illness. That’s illegal. Have you been telling them that you’re seeing doctors?” She glanced into the next room, where a customer was calling for her. “Screw her,” she said under her breath. “That woman never buys anything.” The woman kept calling. “Ms. Chalmers, Ms. Chalmers.” Melissa sighed and said she’d be right back.
The Diagnosis Page 22
