Ride a Cockhorse

by Raymond Kennedy

  “Must be important,” he cracked pleasantly, and waved the envelope.

  Mrs. Fitzgibbons flashed Mr. Donachie a reproachful look that was not devoid of feminine allure. “You’re just supposed to deliver it, Alec.”

  When she left work minutes later, going out the rear door to the vestibule and street, Mr. Donachie was standing at his post by the outside door. As she came past, he smiled and touched the visor of his cap with his fingertips in the way of a polite military salute. “All serene,” he said. “Mission carried out.”

  Mrs. Fitzgibbons swept past him, her heels rattling on the marble floor, nodding as she went, acknowledging the genuine respect behind the playful manner. Alec Donachie was someone she could rely on in a pinch.

  She stepped briskly across the open-air mall toward the parking garage. It was a lovely October afternoon. The sun dropping low behind the spires of the towering city hall sent shafts of yellow light ricocheting from the store windows to the sparkling granite fountain and igniting the colorful leaves that blew across the red brick walkway that was once the main street of the business district. She was going to get her car. She always walked hurriedly these days, impelled by an unknown urgency.

  For all her recent outbursts, and whatever worrisome signs she might have betrayed, the fact was that Mrs. Fitzgibbons had truly always hidden her light under a bushel. She could not remember one instance in all her years when she had been asked to show what she could do. She had played the part that life assigned her, of caring wife and mother, and of responsible employee, an unwitting champion of the very things that had obscured her light. She was just a name that appeared on papers; a person of no special account or personal history—walking up the ramp to the parking garage at Maple and Main.

  Sitting alone in her Honda, behind one of the steel columns, Mrs. Fitzgibbons surrendered to feelings of pity for herself; she pressed a Kleenex to the corner of her eye. She was recalling, by chance, an evening many years earlier when, for just a minute or so, she had asserted herself. On a winter night in 1960, as a member of the Holy Rosary High School debating society, she had astonished herself by suddenly speaking out in the midst of a heated argument, and dominated the stage for an impressive interval with a brilliant, impromptu rebuttal of an opponent. To this day, she could remember the silence of the audience of parents and faculty, the hush on all sides, as she held forth in a commanding voice. The words had leaped from her. She could still recall verbatim her impassioned conclusion, and of the way she turned and pointed a finger about indiscriminately, at this individual and that, both on stage and in the audience, saying, “These are not concerns of the so-called general public, but are yours — and yours—and yours.” There was applause when she sat. She was trembling inside, as though the soul within her were shaking its cage to be let out. As it happened, of course, in her subsequent life that episode was not repeated; her triumph was a little candle glow burning somewhere in the past, soft, wavering, impermanent.

  Mrs. Fitzgibbons shivered in the car. She wiped tears from her eyes with the tissue and blew her nose.

  THREE

  In the week to follow, events took a turn, or rather a double turn, that even Mrs. Fitzgibbons, for all her surging optimism, could not have foreseen. The first and lesser of these two unexpected developments arrived in the form of an elegant, curly-headed young man who came to her desk to make application for a home mortgage. Mrs. Fitzgibbons knew him by sight. He operated a hairdressing salon and beauty parlor in the indoor section of the mall next door to the bank, an establishment she had patronized herself once or twice. The young fellow, whose name was Bruce, was just a trifle effete in manner and appearance. More important, he showed Mrs. Fitzgibbons an attitude of cordiality and polite deference which she could not help warming to, as it harmonized comfortably with her own mounting self-esteem.

  “I’ve been waiting for you to return from lunch,” he said. “I didn’t want to talk to anyone else. I was here one day last week, and while waiting to see Mr. Hohenberger, I heard you talking to someone on the telephone about their late payments, and decided that you were the businesslike sort of officer I’d like to talk to.”

  Mrs. Fitzgibbons liked him instantly. She liked everything about him. She liked his neatness of person, the good taste of his herringbone suit, white button-down Oxford cloth shirt, and paisley necktie, and his darkly polished, tasseled loafers, not to mention the immaculate, manicured look of his hands. Mrs. Fitzgibbons sat back in her chair.

  “You don’t remember me,” he started to introduce himself.

  “Of course, I do. You’re Bruce Clayton. From the mall.”

  Her quick retort ignited the young man’s face. He was sitting as straight as a rule before her. “You know me?”

  Swiveling toward him, Mrs. Fitzgibbons rocked backward at the same time and showed him an expression of executive gravity that she was sure in advance he would enjoy seeing in her. “How can we help you, Bruce?”

  “Well,” he began softly, “a friend of mine and I would like to purchase a property. It’s an eight-room house up on Homestead Avenue. The asking price is a hundred thousand dollars. It’s probably a fool’s errand, as we only have a few thousand dollars in cash.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Mrs. Fitzgibbons remarked encouragingly. The elegant young fellow was leaning forward stiffly in his seat now, hands clasped, and was fixing upon her a hopeful smile. Something about Mrs. Fitzgibbons’s authoritarian manner on the telephone the previous week, when she had badgered and scolded that woman about her late payments, had obviously attracted the young man’s interest.

  “Who has the money?” she asked.

  “I beg your pardon.” Bruce colored guiltily. He couldn’t comprehend the thrust of the loan officer’s question.

  Mrs. Fitzgibbons pressed him more emphatically. “Who is your friend?”

  “His name,” said Bruce, “is Matthew.”

  “Matthew what?”

  “Matthew Dean.”

  “And what does Matthew do?” Mrs. Fitzgibbons was holding a long yellow pencil horizontally between the tips of her forefingers, her elbows resting comfortably on the padded arms of her chair. She noticed how Bruce repeatedly stole glances at her black pleated dress and stockinged legs. He wanted her to be important and officious.

  “He’s a computer programmer for the city. He works for Mary Daly, the tax assessor.”

  The fact that Bruce’s friend worked for a woman brought a smile to Mrs. Fitzgibbons’s lips. “Who has the money?” she asked again. “You, or Matthew?”

  As earlier, the handsome, curly-headed man blushed. “I wouldn’t want to insult you for the world,” he said, “but may I ask, Mrs. Fitzgibbons, what bearing, exactly, that would have on the application?”

  “It’s simple,” said she. “If Matthew has the money, you’re doing the sensible thing to come here as you are. If it’s your money, you should apply for the mortgage yourself.”

  “Oh, I see.” The candor of the woman, combined with her obvious effort to favor him in any possible arrangement involving his friend, appealed both to Bruce’s vanity and common sense.

  She was still examining him over the outstretched yellow pencil. “Whose money is it, Bruce?”

  “It’s mine,” he said.

  Mrs. Fitzgibbons opened her hands to signify the obvious and flipped her pencil onto the desktop. “I think we can do business,” she said.

  Bruce Clayton didn’t pretend to be nonchalant in the face of Mrs. Fitzgibbons’s airy reply. His astonishment and admiration showed in his face. “Are you telling me, Mrs. Fitzgibbons, that it’s possible?”

  “It’s better than that,” she came right back at him. “I like you,” she said. “I’d like to do business with you.” Moments like this gave Mrs. Fitzgibbons a warm, flushed feeling that she could not recall having often experienced prior to this autumn. The look on the young man’s face alone was worth a thousand dollars.

  “Explain to Matthew,” she counse
led him, “how it will have to be.” She revolved slowly to and fro in her chair, while wagging the toe of her black leather pump and staring at her admirer with an expression on her lips that bespoke the need for firmness in the face of personal considerations. It was a condescending look. “Tell him I said so. Put the burden of blame on me.” Mrs. Fitzgibbons let that sink in. “It’s going to be your house, Bruce.”

  The young man looked pale. He was shaking his head in wonderment. “I was so afraid it was all a hopeless proposition.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Can you be certain of the outcome even at this preliminary stage?” he said.

  “We’re going to do business,” she said firmly. “This is the outcome.”

  Up until now, in dealing with a customer like Bruce, Mrs. Fitzgibbons would have portrayed herself as a model of caution; she would have been polite, informative, and attentive to detail; she would have elicited a wealth of background material, got it down on paper, and sent the young fellow away with a dozen different forms to fill out and return. Now she operated differently. Instead of the great abstract institution of the bank arriving at ultimate decisions, to the delight or torment of the applicant in question, Mrs. Fitzgibbons did it herself. Bureaucratic procedures were replaced by flashes of intuition. At this same moment, Mr. Frye had come out onto the floor from his office and was quietly discussing certain specifics contained on the piece of paper in his hand, and Mrs. Fitzgibbons, spotting him, capitalized on his presence near at hand to compel Connie McElligot to do her bidding.

  “You’re not busy,” Mrs. Fitzgibbons said, and handed Connie the young man’s preliminary application form. “Give Bruce what he needs to make formal application for a single-family home mortgage.”

  The bossy tone of voice, combined with the presence nearby of Mr. Frye, who had just chastised her in matters concerning Mrs. Fitzgibbons, caused Connie to take the paper in hand without demur. The fact that Mrs. Fitzgibbons’s dictatorial voice caused the vice president himself to glance over in astonishment only heightened the air of menace, and further encouraged the other woman to do as she was told.

  As Bruce got quickly to his feet, to follow Connie’s pink blouse back to her desk, Mrs. Fitzgibbons halted him with a word. “I want an appointment at your salon,” she insisted, “for a consultation and a shampoo.”

  “That would be wonderful,” he replied, flattered. “I’m booked for the afternoon but can give you an appointment any time tomorrow, Mrs. Fitzgibbons, or any day thereafter.”

  Mrs. Fitzgibbons waved that aside. “I’ll be in this afternoon at four o’clock sharp.”

  “This afternoon is fine,” Bruce said, reversing himself on the spot without a hint of hesitation. “I can easily make time for you.”

  In fact, Bruce was waiting at the door when Mrs. Fitzgibbons, about ten minutes late, came breezing in from the mall and sailed past him and past two of his girls who were tending customers under dryers. Peeling off her coat, she made for the rear. Within a second, Bruce had Mrs. Fitzgibbons’s coat and scarf in hand and was seating her with a show of ceremony that concealed nothing of his feelings toward her. He switched off the radio, skipped away, and was back in a flash with a little glass of ruby port. To provide an extra measure of privacy, he opened out a hand-painted silk room divider. A month or two ago, Mrs. Fitzgibbons would have colored to the roots of her hair if anyone had shown her such fawning solicitude; but as she was coming to regard herself as one of the movers and shakers, and recognized also the young fellow’s obvious need to associate himself with such a figure, his brisk and obeisant manner reinforced her vanity. She liked Bruce Clayton, but her appreciation of him was a balanced one, tempered by common sense. While he was affable and polite, and doubtless artistic in his ministrations, he was not more than that. (She guessed in passing that Bruce had a very fashionable, authoritarian mother somewhere, who probably telephoned him nightly to listen for a half hour or so to soap opera updates on his love affair with Matthew, dishing back dollops of maternal advice.)

  Bruce didn’t mince words with Mrs. Fitzgibbons, either, as he surmised from his brief knowledge of the woman that she liked candor. “I don’t have to tell you,” he enthused, “that I’m thrilled you want my help.”

  “You act it,” she said.

  “I’m so transparent!”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “Being transparent?”

  “No,” said Mrs. Fitzgibbons. “Being thrilled.”

  “Oh, not in the least! I want you to know. Why shouldn’t I?” He adjusted a lamp in order to deflect the light from her eyes. “Having a client like yourself has to be a joy. Say,” he said, “it puts me on the map.”

  “Are you always this charming?”

  “I’m usually horrible.” He hovered at her side. “Would you like to rest your feet?”

  “Please.” Mrs. Fitzgibbons lifted her legs, as Bruce slipped off her shoes. “You realize that I’m going to put through your loan. I hope your friend is agreeable to our putting your property solely in your name. That’s the way I want to do it.”

  “I already spoke to him about it,” Bruce admitted.

  “Was he upset?” Mrs. Fitzgibbons employed a truculent tone that implied the need to be steadfast in such matters.

  “I would say that he was more surprised than upset.”

  Mrs. Fitzgibbons made herself comfortable. “When Matthew has the money, let Matthew buy his own house. This way, when the two of you have a lovers’ quarrel, you’ll have the upper hand.”

  Turning away, the hairdresser blushed furiously.

  “Sentiment has its place in bed,” Mrs. Fitzgibbons added, “not on the dotted line of a home mortgage.”

  In short order, Mrs. Fitzgibbons agreed to a complete makeover and rested herself enjoyably as the talented young man busied himself about her. He was talking all the while, remarking on Mrs. Fitzgibbons’s skin and complexion, and the strong points of her face. She had classic cheekbones, he said, a smooth, high forehead, prominent eyes, and beautiful lips; her natural beauty was a cosmetician’s dream. He rattled off the trade names of a hundred different skin care products, citing various foundations, blushes, moisturizers, and cortisone creams. He worked at close range to her face, his voice an intimate whisper. Mrs. Fitzgibbons was touched by the realization that this attractive man had grown oddly infatuated with her and that the source of his feeling was her forcefulness. Her dark blue eyes followed him as he worked on her with his brushes and pencils. His adoration of her shone in his face. “This is what I do best,” he spoke softly. “You have a face. You have character.”

  When Bruce faltered, Mrs. Fitzgibbons helped him. “I do understand.”

  Bruce laughed nervously; he shook his head. He was gazing at some microscopic point of interest on her face. “I doubt that.”

  She took from his hand the mirror he was about to give her and regarded herself. The effect, in fact, was remarkable. The face in the glass was composed with such artistry, the eyes luminous above the perfect angles of her cheekbones and the seductive golden red coloring of her mouth, she couldn’t look away.

  “I knew from the moment I laid eyes on you,” he whispered, “I could do my best work with you.”

  While inspecting the beautiful mask of her face in the mirror, she reached absently for her empty glass. “Get me some more port.” She spoke pleasantly while continuing to marvel over the transformation.

  Bruce was back in a flash with the decanter. “You should look like that every day. I’ll darken your hair just a fraction, and that will be perfect.”

  The warm sensation coursing through Mrs. Fitzgibbons’s veins could not have been explained by the small amount of alcohol she had consumed.

  While pouring, Bruce couldn’t restrain his excitement. “You have it all, Mrs. Fitzgibbons. Eyes, lips, nose, temples, hair, everything.”

  “You’d better not let Matthew hear you.”

  “Matthew would be in raptures over you. He know
s I’m working on you right now. I told him you were coming. He ... wished me luck.”

  His constant pandering to her vanity, in combination with the genuine surge of enthusiasm she felt over her reflection, displaced any feelings of pity that Mrs. Fitzgibbons might have felt for the young man. She handed him the mirror. “You’re gifted, Bruce. If you’re worried that I won’t come back, you can stop worrying.”

  “Why don’t you come in every morning on your way to work and let me touch you up. I wouldn’t charge you a cent.”

  “Don’t be an ass.”

  Bruce stopped what he was doing. “I’m never going to charge you.” He was mortified at the thought of it.

  “I will not come to you if I can’t pay.” A trace of surliness appeared in her voice. She showed him an adamant eye.

  Bruce stood before her in his shirtsleeves, nonplussed, his hazel eyes sparkling. He was sincerely perplexed.

  “You’re not being fair,” he said.

  Mrs. Fitzgibbons recognized the hopelessness of her position.

  “Finish me up, then,” she said. “If I can’t pay you, I’ll take you for cocktails. I’ll take you out. I’ll take you to Toto’s.”

  “And you will come in mornings? Before work?”

  “I’ll come,” she replied, “when the spirit takes me.” She regarded him steadily. She knew that he wished to be handled with affectionate deprecation.

  “But you will come regularly,” he persisted in earnest.

  For the first time, Mrs. Fitzgibbons gave scope to her waxing egoism. She turned in her chair and stated imperatively, “I am sitting here, Bruce!”

  The timeliness of Mrs. Fitzgibbons’s grooming and rejuvenated looks was evident the very next morning when she came into the bank from Bruce’s salon in the mall, her face and hair made up so subtly and artistically that she was scarcely recognized by Julie Marcotte, the receptionist in the home mortgage department, and found on her desk a sealed envelope bearing the imprint of Mr. Louis Zabac himself, the president and chairman of the bank. The typed note inside consisted of a single sentence. It said, “Please come upstairs to me, Mrs. Fitzgibbons, first thing this morning.”