The Easy Way Out

by Stephen McCauley

  It was never too difficult to talk these people out of going away, since they hadn’t really wanted to go anywhere in the first place. It gave me a great deal of satisfaction to know that I’d been of some assistance. At least I was saving them money. Fredrick was pleased because he’d found someone who would always take calls from the most depressed-sounding individuals, and I don’t think Tim, my boss, had any idea how much business I was turning away. I didn’t mention it to Sharon, either; she hated talking people out of going away, because it meant a lost opportunity to cheat the airlines.

  During one of our late-night calls, Tony pointed out that what I was doing with these clients was trying to help them put off major moves. “You know, like getting married,” he said.

  “Or buying a house,” it occurred to me.

  “Exactly. But you’re happy about that, aren’t you?”

  “Delighted. Except I keep having these dreams that I’m moving to Australia. I’m sitting on a plane by myself, with one suitcase in my lap, and just as the plane lifts off the ground and they pull in the landing gear, it crashes into a tall building. And the building’s always bright yellow, like the house.” I’d had the dream three times since sending in the mortgage application forms and had woken up in a cold sweat each time.

  “Heavy. You better get to a psychiatrist fast, before you make out any more checks. See if you can get some answers for me, too. Vivian thinks I should see a therapist, someone to help me out with my mess.”

  “Maybe it’s not a bad idea.” He was into opera; analysis was the next logical step.

  “Come on, Patrick. I’m not the type. Anyway, I don’t have the time to sit there. I wish I could describe the whole situation to somebody, show them some pictures or something, and have them go do it for me, like those people who do your Christmas shopping.”

  “I hear it doesn’t work that way.”

  “Probably not. What’s this about you trying to set Ryan up with that Sharon friend of yours?”

  “They both happened to show up at my place for dinner on the same night, nothing more than that.”

  “That’s not the news I got. Somehow I can’t picture Ryan going out with her. I mean, someone who walks around in January in sandals and a sunbonnet obviously isn’t operating on the same wavelength as the rest of the human race. Hey, I’ve got a great idea: if you’re so eager to talk people out of taking trips, how about convincing Loreen to cancel the honeymoon?”

  Whatever the subconscious reasons for the delight I was taking in helping the insulted and injured dig in their heels, it was the first time I’d felt I was doing anything worthwhile at the agency, and it made me happy.

  * * *

  A few days after the dinner with Ryan and Sharon, Fredrick rang my intercom and told me there was a woman at the front desk to see me.

  “Did she give you her name?” I asked, trying to imagine what dreaded customer it might be.

  “No,” he said quietly. “I can’t tell, but from the appearance, I’d guess it’s either a Joy of Sex or a Party’s Over. Tall, gorgeous, tons of hair. You’ll see in a minute.”

  “Not Professor Fields?”

  “No. Not even in another life. I’m sending her back.”

  A few seconds later, there was a knock on the open door to my office, so soft the customer must have been using her fingertips and not her knuckles. I barked out what I hoped was an intimidating “Come in,” and Loreen Davis stuck her head into the doorway. There was a hesitant smile trembling on her lips, and in her low, self-effacing voice, she said, “I hope this isn’t a bad time?”

  I experienced a sort of anatomical landslide, in which my jaw, my shoulders, my chest, and my stomach all dropped at once. “Loreen,” I said, as cheerfully as I could manage. “What a surprise! Come in.”

  She walked into the office with a dainty, halting step, as if she wanted to make sure her feet made no sound. Politely, she kept her eyes straight ahead, although I could see a look of contained horror pass across her features as she took in the chaos of the office in her peripheral vision. Just that morning, Tim had loaded several old airline rate tariffs into the bookcase, and it had collapsed onto the floor. Loreen had on a knee-length white skirt, a scoop-necked white angora sweater, and a pair of white running shoes. She walked with absolutely perfect posture, as if she were on a runway in a modest one-piece bathing suit. My parents often bragged that Tony’s bride-to-be was “a dead ringer for Miss America,” significantly neglecting to mention a specific miss; what they were referring to was not a particular set of features or facial bone structure but a type of beauty and a certain air of delicate self-confidence. Today’s beauty queen, tomorrow’s alcoholic housewife.

  I got up and embraced her. She was so thin, I felt as if my arms could easily circle her several times. Not thin in a sickly, anorexic way, but with a kind of meticulous, carefully and healthfully maintained resistance to fleshiness. I’d have bet even money her weight hadn’t varied more than an ounce in several years. I never really had anything to say to Loreen, and I always felt brutish and crass in her soft presence, but there was a glimmer of independence lurking in her somewhere that I admired a great deal. Today, however, she had a downcast look, and I was reminded that for the past six weeks I’d been trying to convince my brother to break off his engagement with her.

  “It really is wonderful to see you,” I said. “Take a seat, if you dare.” I pushed some books and papers onto the floor and dusted off the cushion. Given the time, she must have been up and about for several hours; it was incomprehensible to me how anyone could remain so spotlessly clean for even a few minutes.

  “If this is a bad time, Patrick, let me know and we can make an appointment or whatever.”

  “No; this is as good a time as any. You look different somehow.”

  “You probably haven’t seen me in my work clothes. We used to have to wear nurse’s uniforms, but they’ve got more lenient. We have to wear white now, that’s all.”

  She took a seat in front of my desk, carefully arranging her jacket on the back of the chair and pulling her skirt modestly over her knees. I had never seen her dressed for work at the diet center, but it wasn’t only the outfit that was different. Her hair was lighter than I remembered, as if she’d had it frosted, and it was teased up fairly high in that frizzed-out, prime-time, soap-opera look. Her eyes were heavily made up, and her face seemed smooth and poreless, as though made of porcelain. There was something captivating in her appearance, a perfect blend of natural beauty and artifice. Her lips were covered with raspberry gloss and faintly outlined in some darker shade of red or in black. It must have taken hours to apply and years of practice.

  “You do look lovely,” I said.

  She smiled and turned away. “I should have called, but I had a couple of cancellations, and I thought I’d drive in and take a chance.” Her small voice was made for apologies and tearful admissions of inadequacy. “I’m sure this must be your busiest time, everyone planning their spring vacations.”

  I mentioned the annual rush to Bermuda and college-week trips to Florida, trying to sound professional and knowing. “Is it a popular time . . . for diets?” Somehow I always felt I was insulting her by even mentioning her work.

  “January and spring are the biggest times. In January everyone’s full of New Year’s resolutions, and in the spring they’re getting ready for bathing suits. But I had cancellations this morning, so I had some free time. I guess I already mentioned that.” There was a hotel index open on top of my desk, and Loreen was smoothing her hand across one of the pages, ironing out the wrinkles. “It’s actually kind of sad,” she went on. “Spring should be happy, everything coming alive. For people with weight problems, it causes a lot of stress, which just makes them eat more, which creates more stress, which means more binging. . . .” She sighed, looked up at me, and shrugged.

  Spring, clearly, was not such a happy time for Loreen. It would have been the right moment to say something upbeat about the wed
ding, but I didn’t dare. “Still,” I said, “it must be satisfying to know you’re helping people. Like a doctor or a psychiatrist.”

  “Oh, not really. Most of the people come back in a few months, heavier than they were when they started out. And even more depressed and desperate to lose weight as fast as they can, which means the chances are they’ll gain back still more. And that increases their risk of heart attacks. It’s a cycle.”

  “Sounds it.”

  “I don’t know if Tony mentioned it, but I’ve been looking into physician’s assistant programs. Something with more challenge.”

  I made an encouraging remark. Obviously she’d come in to discuss something other than her career, and I didn’t know if it was shyness, uncertainty, or some rules of male-female communication I was unfamiliar with that prevented her from coming out with it. Everything in her perfect posture and averted eyes suggested anticipation. She reached up to her throat and started to finger her string of pearls—more likely fake pearls, if Tony had given them to her. Out of desperation, I began hitting the computer keys. I brought up the file on her trip and started telling her that everything was in order, which was the truth. But she didn’t seem the least bit concerned about the plans and assured me that she hadn’t come to check on them, as if doing so would have been an insult. This narrowed the chances that she was here for a simple business transaction, and I felt myself sinking into dread. She had the pearls looped around her fingers, and she was still looking off, just over my shoulder. I leaned in toward her and tried to make eye contact. “Was there something you wanted to change or cancel?” With horror, I realized I was speaking in a soft, hushed voice, unconsciously imitating hers.

  She looked down at her hands and laughed. “I guess there’s a lot I’d like to change.”

  I’d never heard even a single note of irony in her voice before, and I wasn’t sure how I should respond. Gutlessly, I chose to ignore it. “Well, that’s what I’m here for,” I said.

  Sharon strolled into the back of my office, frowned at the collapsed bookcase, and lit a cigarette. I had the feeling she was about to make some outrageous comment, and I tried to motion for her to leave. Fortunately, she’d never met Loreen. “Well, guess what?” she challenged me. After Loreen’s soft voice, Sharon’s sounded like a subway train. “I have a date with your brother tomorrow night,” she shouted and walked out.

  Loreen spun around in her seat, but Sharon was gone.

  “That was my friend Sharon,” I said. I forced out a particularly unconvincing laugh, but when Loreen turned back to me, there were tears in her eyes. “Loreen,” I said, “she’s talking about Ryan.”

  She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut, and two perfectly formed tears rolled down the smooth surface of her cheeks. “Don’t mind me, Patrick. I’m under a lot of pressure these days. All the wedding plans and everything.”

  This said, she hid her face in her hands, and her thin shoulders began to heave. I couldn’t help but notice that all that blown-out hair didn’t move an inch. It really is unfair that the status of victim is, on top of everything else, so damned unflattering to one’s appearance. The intercom on my phone buzzed, but I ignored it. I reached out and took Loreen’s bony wrist. I had to restrain myself from calling her “honey” when I asked if she was all right.

  “I’m fine, I’m really fine. No kidding. I’m just under a lot of pressure.”

  “I can imagine. I’ll get you some Kleenex.”

  “No, no. I have some right here.” She reached into the pocket of the jacket she’d hung over the back of her chair, took out a single sheet of tissue, blotted the tears under her eyes delicately, and squeezed her nose. Then she folded the tissue as if it were a lawn napkin and dropped it into the wastebasket. “It contains aloe vera,” she said. “I have sensitive skin.”

  The intercom had been buzzing insistently, and when it finally stopped, the room seemed silent. The Spanish restaurant next door had begun preparing lunch, and my cramped office was filled with a smell of garlic that was making me ravenously hungry. “Would you like to get some coffee?” I asked. “This isn’t the most appealing place to talk, I know.”

  She looked at her watch and shook her head. “I don’t have time. I knew I shouldn’t have come. I was afraid I’d end up doing something like this.” She lifted up her shoulders in a heroic fashion and picked what might have been a fleck of lint from the angora sweater. “Something’s wrong, Patrick. I know it is. I’m not a genius, okay, but I’m not exactly a moron, like some people seem to think.”

  “Tony?” I asked, as if there was any question.

  She nodded. “I haven’t seen him since Christmas. He calls less than once a week. I leave messages on that stupid machine of his, but I don’t hear back. I even get the feeling your father knows something. He’s been calling me a lot lately, checking to see how I’m doing. I mean, it’s nice, but I didn’t know I was engaged to him. Oh, and I got this.”

  She pulled a postcard out of her purse and handed it to me. I quickly scanned the message on the back. “Can I read it?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Read it and tell me if that sounds like something you send someone you’re marrying in a couple of months.”

  “‘Reenie, Stuck in New York on business. Tied up around the clock. No time to think. Incredible views from this place, but New York’s a nightmare. Glad you’re not here—you’d hate it. Miss ya. XX, T.’”

  On the front of the card was a picture of the infamous hotel in Times Square.

  True, he’d at least had the decency to tell her he was glad she wasn’t there, but all things considered, I was appalled by the line about the “incredible views.” And he could at least have sent her a postcard of Grant’s Tomb or Radio City Music Hall; anything but the hotel where he’d met his lover.

  “Isn’t that sweet, how he says he misses you,” I tried. “Tony’s usually so secretive about his feelings.”

  “Well, if he misses me so much, why doesn’t he call?”

  I was at a loss about what to do with my hands, so I started playing with the postcard. It accidentally flew out of my fingers and over my shoulder, landing on the windowsill.

  “Just leave it there,” Loreen said. “Maybe it’ll blow out the window. If he’s busy, he’s busy, but he probably has time to get lunch, don’t you think? It takes less time to pick up the phone than it does to write a postcard, even one with as little on it as this. And most of those fancy hotels even have phones in the bathroom. And he’s not exactly broke. He could have taken the shuttle up for an evening.”

  “Yes, well . . .”

  I heard her catch her breath, and then tears started to roll down her cheeks again, in a steady flow. This silent, spontaneous flood was almost more than I could bear, but she was staring at me with her eyes open wide, and I felt locked into her pained, innocent gaze. If only her face hadn’t been so carefully made up, or there were a chocolate stain on her sweater, or one of her long magenta nails were chipped, the whole outburst might not have seemed quite as sad. But there was no chance for that. Even her tissue was perfect.

  “There’s nobody I can talk to about this. You know, I never said this to anyone before, but my parents don’t exactly love Tony.” She actually laughed. “Yeah, well, that’s the understatement of the year. They haven’t liked him from the start. So I can’t talk to them, and I don’t want to turn my friends against him, not before we’re married. And anyway, I guess the real truth is I feel so ashamed.”

  “Ashamed?”

  “I mean, have I done something wrong, Patrick?”

  “What could you have done wrong?”

  “Sometimes I think everyone thinks I’m the kind of person who can’t deal with bad news, like I’m going to kill myself or something. Well, believe me, Patrick, that’s not me.”

  I considered the options for a moment, swiveled my chair around, and looked out the tiny window behind my desk. “Loreen,” I said, “the fact is . . . the fact is, I was in New York a couple
of weekends ago and I bumped into Tony. I was walking down the street and I bumped into him. How’s that for a chance encounter?”

  I turned back and looked at her. Her eyes were wide with curiosity, and she’d stopped crying. She pulled another tissue out of her jacket pocket and dabbed at her eyes once again and gave a rearranging push to her mass of hair, as if she expected Tony to walk into the office and she wanted to be certain she looked her best. Something in these prettying gestures made my heart sink. She was laying her own heart open, putting her biggest flaw on display, the one that was destined to disrupt her life for an untold number of years, stunt her growth, and pull her down as reliably as the force of gravity.

  Loreen Davis was in love with my younger brother.

  I turned back toward the window. “He really looked like hell—overworked, exhausted. . . .”

  Twenty-three

  After Loreen had left the office, my mind wouldn’t stick on anyone’s idiotic vacation plans, no matter how hard I tried to concentrate.

  I called Tony’s number in Chicago, but it was the middle of the day and of course he wasn’t home. I thought about leaving a nasty message on his machine, saying that Loreen had come into my office and I’d accidentally told her I’d met him in New York, just to keep him guessing and make him sweat. But despite Loreen’s hopeful look of love when I mentioned Tony’s name, I found I couldn’t really get angry with my brother.

  The only call I took that morning was a Whole Catastrophe, and after listening to the customer for ten minutes, I told her I’d love to make reservations for her family’s trip, but Disney World was being shut down by the Environmental Protection Agency and fined billions for destroying precious swampland in the lovely state of Florida. After lunch I told Fredrick I had to have my wisdom teeth pulled and would be out for the rest of the afternoon. I biked home, leapt into my Yugo, and sped out to the suburbs.

  * * *

  My parents and Ryan were hanging over the cash register at the back of O’Neil’s, squabbling so loudly they didn’t hear me enter.