by Joan Cohen
Mariana had obtained combat fatigues for Bart, Parker, Lou, Alberta, and Jake. Jake’s jacket was embellished with more stars than any real general would be sporting. Their hats were the same patrol caps as the sales reps’. Mariana was working at the end of the conference room table, stuffing the last of the backpacks, when Jeanne sat down next to her. “Great job on all of this,” Jeanne said, her arm sweeping the room. “I’m sure Bart appreciates all your hard work as much as I do. Any more of your previous problems with him?”
“He’s been fine. Very sweet, really. Alberta asked me the same thing—two or three times.”
Bart, even at his best, was never sweet, so Mariana’s response assuaged one concern and raised another. He was a superb sales strategist who was entirely capable of devising more than one approach to close a deal. Alberta knew that too—probably the reason she kept asking Mariana about unwanted advances. Jeanne guessed she was concerned advances might become welcome. Alberta may have said the right words about giving up on Bart, but she wasn’t over him. With age, we may grow thick-skinned about life’s disappointments, she thought, but our hearts remain poorly insulated against lost love.
Jeanne’s mind wandered to Vince and the leggy brunette she’d seen him with at the Emerald House. If he was still seeing her, maybe she was the one who’d advised him to make peace with her. If I had been in her shoes—six-inch platform heels, as I recall—I’d feel charitable toward a pregnant, middle-aged woman too. No competitive threat there. The thought was enough to give Jeanne heartburn.
The coffee was hot and the pastries fresh at the breakfast buffet. Since many Salientific employees who in some way supported the sales force had been invited for the first half day, the room was crowded and noisy. Jeanne spotted several board members, including Vince talking with Franklin and Jake.
She moved toward the coffee pot, keeping her back to the room in an effort to go unnoticed. The military theme was no longer a secret. As new arrivals registered and received their backpacks, they became part of the homogeneous group, all arrayed in camouflage vests and caps. One of the women had such a small head that her hat came down over her eyes. She entertained her colleagues with a Charlie Chaplin imitation until Lou plucked the cap off her head and placed it on top of his own mammoth skull, where it perched like a billed beanie. A wave of laughter spread through the room.
Jeanne munched a blueberry muffin and sipped decaf. It was heartwarming to see Jake so animated with no hint of moodiness or erratic behavior. He had probably invited the board to come by for breakfast and the opening session, when he would deliver kudos to the sales force. She was glad Vince and Franklin could observe him in command of himself and his company’s performance. Was she fantasizing to think Parker’s mutiny might just go away?
“Good morning, Jeanne.”
She turned, flustered, to face Vince. “Hi, I . . . uh . . . need to return your casserole dish.”
“No hurry on the dish, unless you’d like a refill on the mac ’n cheese. Sorry to hear about Bricklin.”
“Thank you. It’s hard without him.” She blinked back the tears that had become a reflex when she thought of Bricklin. She asked about Vince’s holidays, which, as she’d expected, had been spent in New Jersey with his mother and family. When he asked about hers, she mentioned volunteer work without identifying Dawning Day. No point in bringing up anything related to Alzheimer’s. She looked around the room for someone she could break away to talk to. Conversation with Vince was awkward, with too many landmines to avoid. She excused herself to check in with Mariana.
Inside the ballroom, rows of chairs flanked the center aisle and faced the stage, where a podium stood in the center, skirted with camouflage fabric. A large video screen covered a good-sized chunk of the back wall. When Jeanne climbed the steps to the stage, she heard Mariana’s voice in the wings conversing with a sound system specialist about the music and special effects. Jeanne joined them as they moved onto the stage to verify that both the podium and lavalier mikes were functioning so presenters’ preferences for speaking from the podium or moving around the stage could be accommodated. “I’ve double-checked everything, Jeanne. We’re good to go.”
“When this is over,” Jeanne replied, “I’m ordering you to take some well-deserved comp time.”
Mariana saluted with a smile. “Kevin and his people have been awesome to work with.” The long-haired young man at her side murmured something about giving us their best effort and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Their equipment is at the back of the room, so Kevin and his assistant, Bruno, will be accessible to handle any last-minute adjustments.”
Jeanne laughed. “As Mariana can attest, ‘last minute’ is anathema to me, so I’m hoping we can spare you any of those.”
Mariana wrinkled her nose. “Um, there is one wildcard. Bart has something up his sleeve for the opening, and he won’t tell me what it is. He wants it to be a surprise and swears it won’t be a problem. Just keeps saying, ‘No worries.’”
No worries, my ass. Jeanne excused herself and returned to the reception area to look for Bart, who was nowhere in sight. Jeanne saw Lou heading into the ballroom and looked at her watch. It was almost time to start. Jake must have gone with Bart, because he was no longer at the breakfast buffet. Whatever Bart was up to, she hoped Jake would make sure it wasn’t off-the-wall.
Mariana threw open the doors to the ballroom as the bugler began to play jazzy arrangements of Reveille, First Call, and Assembly. Jeanne took her seat next to Lou and Parker in the front row. Alberta stood in the back sharing a laugh with the Kevin-Bruno duo, but as the room quieted, she hurried down the aisle, scooted past Parker, and slid into her seat.
The house lights dimmed, and the bugler departed. The music, soft at first, came up loud and percussive. Jeanne was no fan of hip-hop, but the beat of Aloe Blacc’s “I Need a Dollar” was irresistible. She could feel the floor vibrating. Her baby must be a Blacc fan. He gave her a couple of kicks in the ribs that seemed in time with the music, prompting Jeanne to spread her fingers over her moving belly.
“You okay?” Lou asked, cupping his hand to her ear.
Jeanne leaned over. “Baby’s twerking.” Lou’s laugh was subsumed into the sudden roar from the audience. The ballroom’s rear doors had been thrown open for what looked like an army jeep. The car, a well-adapted golf cart sporting the Salientific logo, sped down the center aisle with Bart at the wheel and Jake standing and waving.
The sales force cheered and clapped, the music blared, and Jeanne berated herself for doubting Bart. He might have a talent for demoralizing the marketing department, but he was a master at motivating sales. Jeanne felt upbeat, lifted along with the rising applause. When had she last felt so much a part of the company? She became eager for her turn to present.
Bart and Jake strode onto the stage, waving at the reps who were still on their feet clapping. Kevin ran down the aisle, climbed into the cart, and threw it into reverse. Several of the reps began clapping in time to the back-up beeps as the cart retreated toward the doors. Bart looked exceedingly pleased with himself, and Jake seemed to be enjoying the joyful clamor.
As Bart adjusted the lavalier mike, Jake joined the rest of the management team in the front row. The music, which had been steadily diminishing in volume, faded out as Bart began his welcome. He thanked everyone for a great year, hitting the highlights. When he announced the closing revenue numbers, everyone cheered. His next slide was Quick Response Force with the definition he had first told Jeanne. QRF was his acronym to live by for the coming year. “Troops, we’re all in this together.” He described the responsive, mission-tailored units—from the field as well as from headquarters—that would chase high-value targets.
Bart’s message seemed to be going over just as he had hoped. Although Jeanne still had reservations about the military theme, she was pleased to see how well it was received by the sales force. As she looked down the row of her fellow senior managers, she noted the sour expression on
Alberta’s face. She, alone, was not impressed . . . at least not with Bart.
Jake took the stage next, relaxed and totally in his element. He complimented everyone in the company for superb execution during the fiscal year just ended and waited for the stomping and whistling to die down. Jeanne hoped she was the only one who noticed the nearly imperceptible shaking of Parker’s head, especially when Jake spoke of Salientific’s futuristic technological opportunities.
As Jake’s company strategy overview drew to a close, Lou took the side aisle out of the room. Costume change time, Jeanne thought. Lou’s talk was next. Her own costuming would be a simple matter of throwing on her poncho and helmet and making sure her chin strap was snug. The hardest part would be lacing up her combat boots. Her belly was already something of an obstacle, but Mariana would be available to help.
Since Jeanne’s talk was scheduled to follow a coffee break, she and Mariana had plenty of time. After everyone was again settled in the ballroom, Kevin drove up in the golf cart. “I was told to give you special treatment, so hop in.” He looked at her girth, exaggerated by the poncho, and came around to her side to help her in.
The theme music started up again, and Kevin accelerated down the aisle while Jeanne waved to the applauding audience. When she climbed the steps to the stage, laughter broke out. She clipped her mike to her poncho and raised a bottle of water from the podium. “Here’s to a year pregnant with potential.” The audience groaned, and Jeanne grinned. She was back—the old Jeanne—and it felt great.
She was a strong presenter, and with so much positive energy in the room, she knew she was connecting with the reps. They needed to hear that plans for the year—for PR, advertising, product intros, trade shows, and seminars—would raise the company’s visibility and bring in leads. She assured them they weren’t out there alone. Marketing was their partner. She knew that in spite of her words, there would be conflicts and gripes over the coming year, but, hey, a sales kickoff was all about optimism—optimism and laying out the plan.
She was confident her team could provide the continuity that would be required during her maternity leave. She felt pumped in a way she hadn’t since she’d learned she was pregnant. Jake beamed at her from the front row.
Applause followed Jean to her seat. Bart took his place at the podium and opened his mouth to speak. BOOM! Out of nowhere came a deafening noise that shook the floor. Gunfire and explosions followed. It took Jeanne a moment to remember they were Bart’s special effects, but the volume was intolerable. Bart stumbled back from the podium and clapped his hands to his ears.
Jeanne turned to Jake, who was on his feet. Light glinted off the barrel of the gun in his hand, a gun he was pointing at the audience. At first, she thought it was a prop, but none of this was in Bart’s plan—he looked terrified.
Shrieks rose above the gunfire. Jeanne couldn’t tell if the shots were coming from the sound system or Jake’s gun. Instinctively, Jeanne wrapped her arms around her belly. This couldn’t be happening. Wild-eyed, Jake waved his gun toward the corners of the room.
Parker bolted to the aisle and tried to back up the golf cart. Jake winged him, and he went down on the seat. When the gun swung back toward Jeanne, Jake focused on the belly bulge beneath her poncho. “Bomb,” he yelled.
“Jake!” Jeanne screamed, searching for recognition in his eyes. “It’s not a bomb.” She yanked off her poncho. The muzzle of his gun loomed like the mouth of a cannon. “The baby’s yours, Jake. Don’t kill your son,” she pleaded.
His eyes drilled into hers, then clouded with confusion. He looked down at the gun in his hand and backed up to the wall. Slowly crumpling to the floor, he lowered his head to his knees. The sound effects had ceased. The room was quiet. No one dared move with Parker bleeding in the cart.
The faint wail of sirens from outside the hotel grew louder. Jake lifted his face as though to speak, pushed the gun into his mouth, and fired.
“No!” Jeanne screamed, falling to her knees, sobbing. She remained, her face hidden, curled over her baby till an EMT gently pulled her to her feet and guided her to a chair. He took her vitals, but his voice sounded distant. Though commotion surrounded her, she was immobilized in a hitch in time when Jake’s calculus determined his life had to end so his son’s could begin; or Jake awakened from his PTSD episode and saw that its consequences had made his suicide necessary; or Jake saw a future where, like some Sisyphean warrior, he’d bear the burden of his memories forever; or . . . She’d never know why, only that he’d allowed her a scant moment to plead for their son before giving his instantaneous response. She couldn’t even say for sure he knew she, Jeanne, was there.
The EMT trailed Jeanne through the reception area, where police officers were interviewing the sales reps who’d been in the front of the room. Alberta, ashen faced, sat in a folding chair twisting her fingers. Everyone fell silent, staring, as Jeanne passed. Lou rushed to her side. “I need to go home, Lou—please. Can you find Mariana? She has my bag.”
The EMT intervened. “You’re in shock, Ms. Bridgeton. You need to come to the hospital, so you and your baby can be checked over.”
Lou was firm. “No way you’re going home after what you’ve been through, even if I have to carry you to the ambulance myself.”
The triage nurse at the ER directed them to the Maternity and Fetal Medicine Department, where Jeanne was installed in a prenatal room. A nurse, wearing a set of scrubs Jeanne recognized as a staple of Maggie’s work wardrobe, checked Jeanne’s vital signs again and wrapped a strap and fetal heart monitor around her bare belly. She instructed Jeanne to relax and push a button whenever she felt the baby move. “We’ve notified Dr. O’Rourke.”
“But I want to go home.”
“We’ll release you as soon as we can. We need to hear from the doctor first.” Muriel, as she introduced herself, returned moments later with a copy of Parenting magazine and the latest issue of People. She placed them on Jeanne’s bedside table. “Sorry, best I could do. Here’s the TV remote, in case you really get bored.” She hesitated. “On second thought, leave the TV off.”
She spotted Jeanne’s cell phone on top of her purse and turned it off, admonishing Jeanne to rest while she was being monitored. “Let’s try to get that heart rate of yours back where it’s supposed to be.”
Jeanne glanced at the cover of People, which showed two kittenish blondes clinging to the arms of an overage, pot-bellied film star. How could such characters have the temerity to exist in the same world where people shoot themselves in the middle of upbeat business meetings?
To enjoy escapist entertainment required a mind capable of escaping. Jeanne’s was etched with the picture of Jake blowing his brains out. And Parker—she didn’t even know how seriously he’d been hurt. How could the universe be reordered so quickly? Muriel hadn’t needed to warn her away from the TV news. The last thing she needed was an endless repetition of the most terrifying and sickening moment of her life. Jake was dead. His son was alive. His baby was inside her, kicking, and she had to record his activity.
It was dark when Jeanne arrived home by taxi. She had been too sapped of energy to fetch her car from the hotel parking lot. Her condo, which she’d thought bereft of comfort after Bricklin’s death, felt like a blessed sanctuary. She turned on the lights in the kitchen she’d left a hundred years ago and continued into the living room, where she collapsed onto the couch.
The brass table lamp on the end table beside her cast its sixty watts of incandescence on her face. It was on a timer, more for Bricklin than to deter burglars, and Jeanne thought about the lights in Jake’s apartment, switching on and off for no one.
Jeanne turned on her phone and began reading messages. Between texts and downloaded email, there seemed to be more communications than there were people at Salientific. A frenzied voice mail from Maggie begged her for a return call. “It was on the news, Jeanne. What a nightmare! Where are you? Please let me know you and the baby are okay.” Okay? Jeanne thought abo
ut how uplifted she’d felt that morning when Jake and Bart had rolled down the aisle in their faux jeep, surrounded by laughter and cheers.
She’d never be okay in that same way again, not even close. Jake, pursued by his memories into the barrel of his gun, had left her with an indelible image even Alzheimer’s could never erase.
CHAPTER 15
Unable to face reimmersion in the Salientific community, Jeanne spent the morning at home. The sounds of those final moments replayed themselves—the teeth-rattling music and gunfire—no matter whether she pulled the covers over her head or paced from room to room. She kept reaching for her cell phone and putting it away without turning it on.
Her home phone rang over and over, but Jeanne ignored it. Solitude at home was unattainable, but then, who in senior management was at the office? Probably no one but Lou. Maybe she was needed. Guilt and restlessness propelling her, she climbed behind the wheel.
As soon as Eduardo spotted her, he ran out from behind his desk. “Jeanne, you’re a hero—heroine. Everyone is talking about you. Reporters have been calling.”
“Where’s Bart?”
“At the Marriott helping the reps arrange early flights home. He decided the conference couldn’t continue with everyone so upset. I heard no one is allowed back in that ballroom, because it’s a crime scene. I don’t know why anyone would want to—blood and, Dios mio, who knows what else.”
When Jeanne reached her office, Clara Nordell appeared in her doorway. After Jeanne waved her in, Clara entered and stood behind a guest chair, hands gripping the back. “I’m so glad you weren’t hurt, Jeanne. Everyone is just blown away . . . I mean . . .”
“That’s okay. I know it’s hard to find the right words.”