by Ed Gorman
Mitch never did get around to telling Jill that he loved her back.
What he did get around to telling her was that he thought maybe he should give it another try with Sara. He tried to make it sound noble. For the kids' sake, he said. 'You knowI've got to think of them first.'
Noble.
Right.
So he moved back to suburbia and they did ten months together, ten fragile months, and then one night a month ago, Sara said, after the girls were in bed, 'I met somebody.'
'You what?' He could still hear the keening wounded sound in his voice, and was both embarrassed and ashamed.
'I met somebody. Not on purpose. I mean, I wasn't looking to. It just happened.'
And he did something he had rarely done.
He went down into the basement family room and closed the door and wept. Actually wept. So hard in fact that he thought he was going to throw up. And when he was finished, he lay back against the couch and looked at all the merry crayon drawings the girls had affixed to the wall with scotch tape, and then he started weeping again.
Round two.
At one point, Sara knocked gently on the door and said, 'Are you all right?'
'Yes,' was all he said. Quietly. No dramatics. 'Yes.'
There was a round three. Around midnight. This one snuck up on him totally. He'd just gone upstairs and fixed himself a bologna and swiss sandwich and opened a can of Hamms and made himself comfortable on the family room couch for the second part of Letterman and thenbam!
And round three was worse than either of the other two because he was crying so hard he couldn't muster the strength or savvy to set down either his sandwich or beer. He held them all during this final attack of the weepies, literally crying in his beer.
Near dawn he went upstairs and got an hour and a half of turbulent sleep and when he woke up, he felt as if a dire fever had been broken. He looked over at the slender and very beautiful woman next to him and realized that just as she no longer loved him, he no longer loved her.
He was in love with that goddammed crazy photographer Coffey and she'd practically handed herself over to him and look at what he'd done to her.
He sat in the church of his boyhood, the church from which he took a sneaky agnostic comfort, and thought of Coffey, Jill Coffey. She really was sort of crazy in a lot of ways, and he realized that he could no longer put off what he'd been wanting to do ever since Sara had told him about her new Significant Other.
He was going to look up Jill Coffey and beg her to take him back.
Boy, was she going to be pissed when she saw him.
He apologized for using the word pissed and then got up and left the church.
Jill Coffey, here I come.
Ready or not.
CHAPTER 11
There was nothing like sex in the office.
Everybody on the other side of his door working their butts off, phones ringing, faxes humming, elevator doors opening and closing, conferences conferencing…
And where was the boss?
Well, the boss was in his big lavish CEO-type office, looking right out on the Chicago Cultural Center, getting a BJ.
Today her name was Cini. Not Cindy, which is what he'd thought she'd said last night when he'd taken her to the Brass Pump. Cini. C-I-N-I.
Three years in drama school, Mr Brooks. I know I can do it. I know I can.
They were never this bold till after he'd given them a few drinks. He always went to the casting sessions pretending that he was Very Concerned that they get the right actors and actresses for this Very Important Spot coming up, when what he really wanted was a new diversion. A new source for BJs.
So, pick one from rehearsals and kind of sidle her on over to the Brass Pump and if they really want to get that part…
Well, they can use their imaginations a little.
What do you think would please a handsome forty-two-year-old, very virile adman, anyway?
You want to know how virile he is, dig those framed photos of him on his African hunting trip when you're up in his office tomorrow. Sure, the colored boys did a little shooting of their own to back him up, but hey, he still brought the rhino down himself. God, he really digs that photo where he's standing with his right boot on the dead rhino's head. Is that virile or what? Who says admen aren't virile some fag who works at the NY Times?
Last night, she'd had a little spunk in her, he had to give her that. He'd called the wife and told her he was working late (she didn't believe him, of course, but it was this little dance they did every night he was out prowling), and then he'd spent about an hour and a half trying to screw this little Drama Major Who Just Knew She Could Do The Part.
And got nowhere.
Felt her up a little, but hey, that was high school.
That was also as far as he got.
Till this afternoon when he calledshe'd left her phone numberand invited her over.
'Did I get the part, Mr Brooks?'
'Hey, what happened to Eric?'
'Oh. Right. Eric. Did I get it?'
'I think so. I should know by the time you get here.'
'Is there somebody else?'
'Well, there's one other girl. She did a very good job with the lines.'
'Did you invite her up, too?'
'Yeah. But she'll be here before you. You'll be here last. That's always best.'
'It is?'
'Sure. The last person is always freshest in your mind.'
'Yeah, I guess that's right. Well, see you around five.' Told his secretary that he was expecting a young lady just at closing, and the secretary all tee-hee intercommed another secretary and said, 'Guess who's going to be having a little sex in his office tonight?' and that secretary called another secretary, who called another secretary, who called…
He knew all about it, how word got around, and he loved it, positively loved it because it was all part of the image.
Biggest new advertising tycoon in Chicago in twenty years. Pilot. Hunter. Ranch owner. Crony of NFL quarterbacks, senators, movie stars.
And one killer ass-bandit.
Everybody pretended they hated ass-bandits but they secretly admired them because secretly that's what they wanted to be. Even chicks wanted to be ass-bandits when you came right down to it.
And so the girlCinihad come up here tonight and she'd done just what he'd wanted her to do (he felt so powerful, a chick doing him that way) and now she was finished and fixing herself up.
He stood at the window and looked out at the gathering autumn dusk, the shadows falling between skyscrapers, the first faint evening stars.
She said, 'So do I get the part?'
He smiled. 'You bet.'
'Oh God, wait till I call my mom!'
He slid an arm around her. 'You going to be around your apartment tomorrow night?'
'Sorry. Got a date.' She walked back to the door and picked up her blazer. She had wonderful breasts displayed in that sheer blouse of hers. She picked up her coat.
'Anything serious, your date?' He realized that he soundedpreposterouslyhurt. No business of his how she spent her nights. But still, he felt spurned. Lonely, even.
She smiled. 'I have a boyfriend, Mr Brooks.'
'God, are we back to Mr Brooks?' He was irritated. 'And this boyfriend of yours, what would he do if he knew'
A sad smile. 'He knows you have to do certain things you might not really want to do, in order to get a certain part.'
She went to the door, put a slender hand to the knob. Last night she'd looked a little sluttish to him, but today there was a kind of dignity to her. He hated women with dignity. You couldn't push them around without a great deal of effort.
'So you didn't really want to do it?'
She looked at him. 'What's the difference, Mr Brooks? I did it, didn't I?' The gaze narrowed. 'You're not going to take the part back from me, are you? I mean, I fulfilled my part of the bargain.'
Hurt. Pain. Great crashing waves of self-doubt. Didn't this girl know wh
o he was? Didn't she know about his powerful friends?
'Jesus, I can't believe this.'
'I really should be going, Mr Brooks.'
'You just came in here and very cynically had sex with me and You probably don't even like me much, do you?'
'I'm late, Mr Brooks. Sorry.' She opened the door.
'You know, that's just what you deserve. You know that, don't you? I mean, the way you're talking to me now, I should take that part right back from you, this minute, and there isn't a goddammed thing you could do about it.'
This time, the look was a glare. 'I did what you wanted me to, Mr Brooks. Now do I still have the part or not?'
'Bitch,' he muttered to himself.
'I'll call the casting director, then, and tell him that you decided to go with me.'
She started through the doorway, paused, and then said, 'I wasn't trying to hurt your feelings, Mr Brooks.' The quick sad smile again. 'I really wasn't.'
CHAPTER 12
'Tappley residence.'
'Mrs Tappley, please,' said Rick Corday.
'May I say who's calling?'
'Mr Runyon.' That was the code name she knew him by.
'One moment, please.'
She came on at once. 'Good evening, Mr Runyon.'
'You asked us to keep you informed.'
'Yes.'
'We're just about to get the project underway.'
'I see. I hadn't heard from you or your partner for some time. I was getting concerned.'
'Everything is fine.'
'So it will besoon?'
'Very soon, Mrs Tappley. Very soon.'
'And you'll keep me informed?'
'Oh, you'll know about it, Mrs Tappley. I promise you that.'
'You're certain you've thought it through?' This was more like the Mrs Tappley Rick Corday had talked to before. He knew her attorney, Arthur K. Halliwell, who had set all this up. Rick had never met Mrs Tappley, but she was certainly formidable over the phone.
'We've thought it through carefully,' he told her now. 'We couldn't have asked for a better set-up.'
'I've waited a long time for this.'
'I know you have, Mrs Tappley.'
'I just want everything to go right.'
'It'll go fine, Mrs Tappley. I promise.'
This was one of the few times he'd heard both age and grief in her voice. Her son had been executed. She'd never recovered. All she had, as the lawyer had said, was her anger and her desire for vengeance. And those things could sap you of all reason and all strength.
'Good luck, then.'
'Thank you, Mrs Tappley. Talk to you soon.'
CHAPTER 13
She went to Fat Camp six years in a row, Cini did, and each summer lost somewhere between fifteen and thirty pounds. Over the first two months of school, she put those pounds right back on. Between her junior and senior years in high school, her last year at Fat Camp, she actually gained twelve pounds over the course of the summer. She was five feet six and weighed nearly two hundred pounds. Whenever Cini was depressed about her weight, her mother always said the same thing: 'But you have such a pretty face, dear.' The frustrating thing in all this was that Cini's father was a heart specialist, a man who could tell you all about what excess weight could do to your health. His warnings, which her mother usually softened by sneaking in with a powdered donut or a Snickers when Dr Powell had gone, did not seem to have an undue effect on Cini. At school, there was kind of a Fat Girls group. It cut across all lines of race, socio-economic status and intelligence. The girls had three things in common. They were fat; they did not want to be fat; boys made fun of them. Some boys even referred to them collectively as 'The Whales,' thus disputing the myth that most boys start to grow up a little as they near graduation. Even in this group, Cini was an outsider. She felt that the others were brighter and cleverer than she was, and so she tended to be quiet whenever anything important was discussed, like what time to meet at the mall or who could get the van tonight or which night they were going to the grand opening of the Ample Lady, which was where girls of their size shopped.
The year she turned nineteen, Cini was hit by a car. She was crossing a street over near Northwestern, not really watching where she was going, just hurrying to get out of the chill March rain, and here this car suddenly appeared. Cini was too big to move with any skill. The car, a new Chevrolet, slammed into her and knocked her down. She was unconscious by the time her head collided with the wet pavement, and she would remain unconscious for more than three months. Later on, her parents told her about all the extraordinary steps they had taken to save her life, including Daddy's old friend Dr Weintraub flying up from Dallas and virtually babysitting Cini during the most critical two weeks of the entire process.
Cini woke up on a sunny May day and looked out the window. She was not sure who she was, where she was, or what had happened. Then she looked down at her body and realized she was dreaming. She weighed scarcely half of the real Cini. No more than 100 pounds. She screamed. This dream was too weird, too real. Nurses came running, shoes squeaking, diving for her bed to see what had gone wrong.
'Help me wake up, please. I'm scared,' Cini said to the first nurse who took her hand.
'You are awake, Cini. You've been unconscious for almost three months but now you're finally awake.'
'But my bodyMy weight'
The nurse smiled. 'I'll have the doctor come in. I'll also call your parents and have them come over right away.'
It was simple enough, explained the doctor who came in.
They'd decided to help rid her of her excess weight as they also slowly tried to woo her out of her coma. He told her about all the fractures she'd sustained, then about all the damage her cranium had suffered. She was lucky to be alive, he said.
On 3 August of that year, the first time Cini was permitted to leave the house by herself, she put on a blouse and a pair of jeans and looked at herself in the mirror and grinned her ass off. Her very shapely ass. She was not just a pretty face these days. She was a pretty body, too.
She spent three afternoons in a row at the mall. God, she loved it. All those young guys looking her over. Smiling. Nudging each other. Even whistling a few times. It was still like a dream. A few times she thought about calling some of her old friends but she was afraid they'd take one look at her and hate her. You know, as if she'd betrayed them in some way.
She enrolled in Northwestern. Her freshman year, four different boys asked her to the homecoming dance. Good-looking boys. Prominent boys. One of them was even a senior. She felt like an imposter, one of those aliens in sci-fi movies who can disguise themselves to look appealing to earthly eyes. Didn't they know that deep down inside she would always be a charter member of The Whales?
The phone calls, the party invitations, the movie dates never stopped. God, it was wonderful. So wonderful. Then she had to go and spoil it all by meeting Michael Laine, a guy who had so many good-looking girls that she was just one more…
And when he dumped her, she got this notion about making him jealous by getting herself cast in a TV commercial. Becoming a star… So she signed up with a talent agency and started going to castings. It was incredible. She must have gone to forty auditions over a month and a half and got not a single call back to read or test for the part.
Her old depression returned. She started eating excessively again. She became frantic about getting a part in a commercial. Getting a part would prove something to her. Prove that she really wasn't deep down still a Whale. That she was just as desirable as she had been feeling there for awhile. She had to get a part. She'd do anything to get a part…
CHAPTER 14
Jill was able to rush from the reception area before the young woman came out of Eric's office. With the door partly opened, Jill had been able to hear the last minute of their conversation. She didn't want to embarrass the girl by being in the reception area.
Having once been half-owner of this agency, Jill knew exactly where to go. There was a n
ook that the art department used as a coffee hutch near the back of this floor. Jill went there and poured herself some coffee.
Her impulse was to leave. It had been a mistake coming here, of ever thinking she could work with Eric even if it was for the sake of the convent.
Eric hadn't changed at all.
For many years, she'd tried to rationalize his behavior. Men were under such pressure to be macho and studly. She'd told herself that Eric was simply a victim of these cultural forces, that within himself there was goodness and kindness and tolerance.
But the way he'd just spoken to the girl told Jill that nothing had changed at all. Nothing.
As she walked toward the front of the office, carrying her cup of coffee, she flashed on her old days in advertising. She'd never been suited to it. The number of awards ad people gave themselves was enormousand told you how important they deemed their work to be. The new generation of ad people, far from being apologetic for pushing products that were either useless or downright destructive, celebrated themselves as artistes. The ad magazines were filled with chest-thumping editorials about advertising being today's most important art form. It was a laughable premise, but ad people and clients alike had a vested interest in deluding themselves that they and their work mattered in the scheme of things.
She was glad to be gone.
No more laughing at lame commercials; no more dull meetings about cost-per-thousand and focus group research and test market results; no more enduring lightly-veiled propositions from clients, and palace intrigues led by young turks as full of themselves as ballerinas.
