Willing

by Scott Spencer

  I allowed myself to be trotted around the waiting room by Castle. The introductions began with the Gordons. Dr. Gordon gave me a baroquely strange look, a kind of silent double entendre, as if the two of us had once met under sordid circumstances and were going to keep quiet about it.

  Chicago, Chicago, Castle said, pointing to Curtis and then to Jordan. Then, pointing at me, he said New York.

  Actually, I’m originally from Chicago, I said. Nothing original happens in Chicago, Dr. Gordon said, and we’re actually from Evanston, which is not quite the same thing.

  Castle laughed and shook his finger at Gordon. I’m going to have to keep an eye on you.

  A compact, exhausted-looking man stood before the room’s sole window and looked out at the airfield. The sun was setting now; a long fiery orange crack separated the dark blue sky from the shadowy curve of the earth. The exhausted man, with dark brown skin and deep-set eyes, seemed to be checking the landing strip for some sign of our plane, but when he patted his thinning hair I realized he was using the window as a mirror.

  Tony? The man turned toward Castle’s voice, with an expectant look, as if he were about to be asked to perform a task. Tony was wearing a brown summer-weight suit and a pale yellow shirt, open at the neck. This is Avery, Tony. New York. Castle jabbed his finger in Tony’s direction, as if pushing a series of buttons. Cleveland, right? Close, yes, but Akron. Tony’s voice was heavy with the fatigue of sadness. He seemed like someone who recently endured a severe beating; he stood as if trying to minimize his clothes’ contact with his skin. Castle shrugged. Well, I got the Ohio right. You know what, Tony? Maybe you can tell Avery the story of how you got the money to come on this trip. Tony looked worried, but he moved his head up and down in a show of willingness, not so much out of a desire to please but from a great anxiety to not displease. Maybe on the plane I can tell him, Tony said. As we shook hands, I noticed my own reflection in the darkening window, as well as a reflection of the back of Tony’s dark hair, with comb lines furrowing down in eight perfect rows. I could not, however, see Castle in the window, and though I am not now nor have I ever been given to supernatural interpretations of everyday phenomena, I was startled by Castle’s absence in the reflection. I moved my hand toward the tour leader, thinking that it was just the angle of vision that excluded him from the tableau, but, as I did so, Castle stepped away and beckoned me to follow. I glanced a last time at the window and moved on.

  Next, I was introduced to a man with eyes of two different colors: one dark gray, the other light blue. I knew in that instinctual male way that this guy was going to be trouble. In fact, in one incarnation or another, he had been making things rough for me all my life. Like my third father, Norman Blake, my traveling companion was fit, wearing a form-fitting canary yellow T-shirt that showed off his sculpted muscles. Unlike Blake, this guy didn’t seem as if he would be grousing at the back of the pack. He was that most daunting of all things—a leader of men. You could imagine him shouting his war-weary troops up over the hill to their certain death. Castle introduced him as Webb, and Webb quickly supplied his last name—Doleack—in a tone that implied Reporting for duty. He looked me over. If Castle’s eyes were programmed to make quick decisions about Want/Don’t Want, Webb’s main decision was Threat/No Threat. Castle continued self-testing his own memory by pointing at Webb and saying, Hillsboro, New Hampshire, to which Webb did not object.

  Webb was chewing a wad of gum, which he moved from one side of his mouth to the other. His jaw muscles were as well developed as a bulldog’s. Best private airport in the country? he asked. And then quickly answered, Would have to be Santa Monica. This place? He took our surroundings in with an impatient wave of the arm. Extremely sub-standard. My line of work, I travel all the time. These things come to matter.

  What do you do? I asked, since the opening was there and it was, after all, my job.

  I sell sporting equipment. Okay? We can leave it at that.

  What he was saying had a peculiar sound to it, like the slightly hollow thud of a drawer with a false bottom. But I couldn’t press the weight of my intelligence against it. I’ve never been able to discipline my mind; it goes where it wants to go. Monkey mind, as the Buddhists say. I had not been able to stop myself from needing to know what Deirdre had written in her diary, and now I could not stop trying to figure out a way to maneuver Castle so we could pass the reflecting window again. Most likely my eyes had been playing tricks on me, but I wanted to make sure. However, the window was to our right and Castle went left, to meet a small, soft man in his fifties named Sean. Castle was still trying to demonstrate his ability to remember where everyone lived. Los Angeles, he said, with great confidence, and then he added The verdant hills of Beverly. Sean, with a round, sun-kissed face, and an air of gentleness and agreeability, nodded, as if to say Close enough.

  Standing near Sean was a man I would have bet money was a psychiatrist. He wore a jacket, vest, watch fob, and tie. Delicate hands, folded like the wings of a dove. His demeanor was so calm, it almost seemed as if he were in a trance. Like Freud in the standard pictures, he had closely barbered thinning gray hair and a well-tended beard, each bristle of which suggested wisdom and equanimity. He stood with one hand on his hip, and when Castle introduced us—Avery, this is Russell—he turned toward me and nodded formally in my direction.

  Is that guy a shrink? I asked Castle as he steered me to another part of the room. Well, he said, I don’t like to say, but I will say that’s an amazingly good guess. He seems like a Park Avenue psychiatrist, I said. Ninety-third and Fifth, said Castle.

  Then I was introduced to three athletically built men in their early thirties who seemed to be traveling together: one, called Hap, had an angular face, close-cropped hair, large teeth, a prominent Adam’s apple; the next, named Olmo, had a reddened, weather-blasted face, which made his small squinting eyes look furtive, almost hunted; the third, called Hutton, had a little hipster’s soul patch, broad shoulders, a trim waist, and was conventionally handsome enough to be a model, except he looked rather mean. They all had vigorous handshakes and used my name once or twice, probably something they had learned in an executive training weekend early in their careers.

  These are our Metal Men, Castle said. Oh man, I fucking hate when you say that, Hutton said, but with a smile, as if he and Castle went way back and were used to teasing each other. But that’s what you are, Castle said. What’d you do? Make a killing in gold, right? Or was it spot oil? It was actually tin, said Hutton, but don’t call us Tin Men.

  Hey, Lincoln, give me your take on this, said Olmo. He had a deep voice, like the bass in a country gospel quartet. He nodded his head continuously as he spoke. He combined an air of sincerity with a sense of wanting to grab whatever he could get his hands on. Hap here proposed to his girlfriend thirty-six hours ago. Well, I guess congratulations are in order, Castle said. Afraid not, Olmo said, with delight. She passed. Well, as a matter of fact she did, Hap said. She was very polite about it, which was how she was raised by two lesbians. He dried the corners of his mouth with his thumb and forefinger. Don’t let me down easy is all I had to say, which is not a favor, since it’s an insult. Plus I want you to think about it. If you really and truly think you can do better for yourself, then by all means pass on my offer. I’m keeping it on the table. But it’s like any other offer, it doesn’t stay there forever. And when I take it off the table, it’s gone for good. Just watch. I’m not cowardly and I’m not lying.

  My feeling about Candace is she goes for the artsy type, Olmo said. Hutton scratched his chin whiskers with his fingernails. She does have that tattoo, he said. That’s the one real negative, Hap said. The paint? Olmo asked. No, no, the tattoo’s fine. It’s the artsy thing, that’s a red flag. These girls who want someone quote unquote creative. It is so stupid. Some jackass who can do a little dance? Hap waved his hands around, with his eyes half closed. That’s supposed to be manly or dignified? Oh, but they’re so creative, they’re so sensitive. He
did a startlingly true approximation of a woman’s tone of voice. Well, listen up, honey, he said, addressing that same imaginary woman, Mr. Arty Pants wouldn’t even be able to make his fake-ass morning espresso if people like my friends weren’t out there busting their asses getting the oil drilled, the coal mined, the tin, the copper—it’s called the real world, it’s called things that actually fucking exist, it’s called reality. So do me a favor and do not even mention art, and singing and dancing and making little pictures because where I come from that is strictly child’s play; it’s just something to watch at night when you’re completely exhausted and you’re trying to relax, and there’s nothing else on.

  Just then, the door to the waiting room opened and an immensely large man in his early forties walked in, with the help of two canes. Despite the fact that simple locomotion was an event for him, he exuded an air of stunning self-confidence and enormous good cheer. He had silvery hair, dark brows, heavily lidded eyes spaced far apart, and a candy pink little mouth, through which he breathed, since the air he could take in through his nostrils was not sufficient. He had small square feet, like satyr’s hooves. He was dressed in denim dungarees with an elastic waist and a voluminous red sweatshirt emblazoned with soccer balls, diving players, and the name of a Korean soccer team. Make way, make way, he said, and pretended to roll back and forth, as if he could barely control himself and might at any moment go careening into a wall or knock someone to one side like a bowling ball picking off a spare. This is the Jenny Craig tour, isn’t it? he called out, and then laughed breathily at his own joke.

  The potential value of my story had just increased—for this lumbering, panting man was surely Michael Piedmont, the computer software genius and billionaire, forced out of the company he founded by his once trusted lieutenants, victoriously reinstalled three years later, and then the object of an SEC investigation that he plea-bargained into a large fine and eighteen months in Allentown. Now he was a highly sought-after speaker, said to make $200,000 each time he addressed a trade group or a convention on the subject of Business Ethics in the Twenty-first Century. I was good at spotting notables, I had a radar for the boldfaced name. I had always been the first one to notice that Michael Douglas was sitting in a back booth in the coffee shop, or that Zubin Mehta was waiting on line to pay for an umbrella at Eddie Bauer; I could even spot less publicized people of accomplishment, the niche-celebrities whom few others noticed—Linda Lavin, Don DeLillo, Martha Reeves, Boris Spassky, Joshua Redman, bell hooks, and Bruce Jay Friedman.

  Will you excuse me? Castle asked me, giving me a little See-you-later squeeze on the elbow and making his way toward Piedmont. I saw that Castle’s path would take him past that reflecting window and I followed close behind, but Castle moved with surprising speed, his skimpy black loafers seemed to glide over the tiled floor, and before I could get myself into position, Castle had already passed the window and was greeting Piedmont with an upraised thumb, exclaiming You’re just in time!

  At that moment, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. I turned to see an expensively dressed woman in her late thirties, perhaps early forties. She had a round, old-fashioned looking face, soft and guileless, a comfortable, humorous, forgiving face. Her dark hair was luxuriously wavy, full of highlights. She looked like a youngish widow, pleasantly surprised by how far her late husband’s pension could be stretched with a few small economies. You dropped this, she said to me, and to my horror she had my notebook in hand.

  I overthanked her, masking my panic with gratitude. I’m Gabrielle Castle, Lincoln’s wife, the woman said. I introduced myself, and Gabrielle went on to tell me that she was from Montreal and that she had met Castle on the inaugural Fleming Tour, and the two of them had married a few months later. Now she was making her livelihood working for Fleming.

  Whenever we are in New York I take myself to a spectacular lunch, Gabrielle said. Montreal has very fine restaurants, and of course Paris. But to me New York is unique, not only for the variety but for the uniformly high quality of the cuisine. Yes, well, that is certainly true, I said. There’s no question about that.

  Gabrielle smiled radiantly, as if relieved to at last find someone who saw eye to eye with her about something. Right now, my passion is fusion, she said. I go alone. They say that the single women have difficulties in restaurants, getting a decent table, being served efficiently, but only in Zurich have I had this. In New York it’s…how do you say? They smooth your silk. First thing, always, I ask them—Bring me a glass of champagne. This way they know that I plan to spend money; I’m not some little old lady with her fingers squeezing the top of her purse, afraid to let a penny escape. I always act as if I am pleasantly surprised by the prices. Oh! Thirty-one dollars for the seared goose liver and orange zest appetizer! I thought it would cost forty-one! I should have two, but I want to leave room for your wassail lobster ravioli, which you are practically giving away for sixty dollars. And I always bring a good book. There is something about excellent food that makes my brain hungry, too. She had strapped over her shoulder a gaily colored straw bag, such as you’d carry to the beach, and she reached into it and brought out a copy of La Chute, by Albert Camus, and she gave it a little shake. This is one of Lincoln’s personal favorites, she said.

  I was momentarily tempted to quote my favorite line from the Camus novel—the book’s final sentence—but I refrained. I knew it only in translation—sort of knew it, anyhow, something about it being too late to save the drowning woman, too late, always too late, thank God—and for all I knew she wouldn’t even recognize it in English. And there was the matter of exercising some caution. It was enough that Castle’s wife had found my notebook on the floor; I didn’t need to further advertise my literary bent.

  Look at him over there, Gabrielle said, pointing toward Lincoln. So happy to be talking to the important man. Castle was speaking animatedly to Michael Piedmont, gesturing, shrugging, wagging his heavy head, like an old Russian innkeeper at whose humble establishment a nobleman has stopped. Gabrielle pursed her lips. Piedmont had plopped himself down onto a bench and was squeezing his hands together, reviving them after the difficult job of supporting his weight. Clever Lincoln, so anxious to please. How could she say such a thing? I was careful not to react. Once my mother had said something similar to Norman Blake. You’re a brownnoser, that’s what I think. She stood up, pushed her chair away from the table. It squeaked against the kitchen floor, and then she was gone, leaving just the two of us. I had been astonished by her gumption. It was like seeing a geisha suddenly spring into a jujitsu stance. What the hell are you smirking about? Blake said, and then, of course, it was time for me to suffer—no outright physical punishment on this occasion, but rather an assault of mimed pokes and slaps, so unnerving that I ended up in tears.

  Are you looking forward to the trip? I asked Gabrielle. Oh yes, yes. It’s very pleasurable. The men are always in a wonderful frame of mind. It’s good to see them on their adventure. Often, at home, their lives are very sad. She gestured with her eyes toward the Gordons. Such a beautiful thing, she said. The boy was in the U.S. Army, he comes home so terribly injured, he thinks his life is over, he goes into the most terrible depression, and the father says No, this is not how it’s going to be. We are going to enjoy life.

  She sighed. As a girl, I always longed for travel. The museums, cathedrals, the most magnificent wonders of the world. The cafés. It’s good to travel, no phones, no responsibilities. Sometimes I see old friends. I carry books, and I read at least one every day, without fail. When I was a girl I didn’t have a chance at education. I was on my own from the time of eleven years old, my father—poof!—and my mother very sad, too sad to leave her room. So no one told me Gabrielle, go to school; Gabrielle, you don’t want to be a backward, ignorant woman, do you? So now to read and see paintings and to have my own hours, it’s very nice. A great privilege.

  I don’t think too many of the people on this trip will be looking at paintings.

  I am here t
o show that you meet a woman, a girl on the tour and then you fall in love. I am proof it works. You can bring her home; you can marry. Or not. Just for enjoyment. You gentlemen have worked hard all your lives. You deserve these things. There is no judgment, no punishment, no harm. It is something that has always been. Napoleon, who I learned last week was unable to have sex for more than a minute, he would wait in his tent, and his lieutenants would bring him a woman. With one he even made a son. The film directors, you know, they are given big books from the modeling agencies with pictures of all the girls; they go through them like a mail-order catalog, and they point to the one they want. But of course. They are lonely, like all men.

  I heard the squeak of wheels on the waiting-room floor. The two men who had been checking IDs at the gate outside were now rolling in refreshment carts. On the first were ruby and black grapes, squares of yellow and white cheese, each impaled by a ruffled toothpick, wicker baskets of dusty white crackers, tumblers filled with cashews, and a fishbowl stuffed with miniature candy bars, such as you’d hand out to children dressed as serial killers and vampires on Halloween. The second cart carried drinks: wine, beer, Coke, bottled water, and carafes of fruit juice. Behind them was a woman in her late twenties or early thirties, with a slightly lopsided, friendly face, wavy brown hair. She looked like the unmarried sister upon whom the other siblings depend when their parents become aged and infirm. Judging from her clothes—a blue skirt and matching jacket, black shoes with two-inch heels—she was going to be our flight attendant.