by Chris Knopf
“Are you going to tell me why you’re sitting there getting plastered? Or do I have to guess.”
“Seemed like the best course of action, all things considered.”
The ceiling in our living room was two stories high. There was a balcony above that led to three of the bedrooms. One was my daughter’s. She used to sit up there Christmas night and wait for the grownups to go to bed so Santa could make the scene. When I went upstairs I’d scoop up her limp little body and put her to bed, always wondering if she was faking it.
The house had been designed by an architect who’d been a friend of Abby’s father. She told me this guy was the only architect alive who could possibly do the job. I didn’t think we needed an architect at all. Or for that matter, a custom-designed house. She said I had no aesthetic sensibilities. I’d never seen Abby open a book, or listen to a piece of music that wasn’t on a greatest hits album, or go to a museum that wasn’t having a fundraiser or an opening everyone was talking about. In Abby’s world you defined things worth caring for by how they were classified by her parents’ social set. It was much easier than valuing possessions, vacation spots, friendships and personal beliefs on their intrinsic merits. To this day, I don’t think I could tell you what that house actually looked like. I do remember that I didn’t like living in it.
“The mall was so crowded I thought I’d scream,” Abby said to me. “The people here are so rude and pushy. I don’t know why it doesn’t bother you.”
“The people here” was Abby’s secret code for Jews, presumably plentiful in the area because of our proximity to New York. Abby had grown up in a suburb of Boston that fairly bristled with anti-Semitism. It frustrated her that I didn’t share her feelings. It forced her to keep her bigotry euphemistic, but after twenty-five years, I could interpret.
“Because I love people,” I said.
“Oh please. You hate people.”
“Not all people. Only some people.”
“Could have fooled me.”
She watched the ice swirl in the glass, then took a sip.
“No, you’re right,” she proclaimed. “You’re simply indifferent. You don’t even know there are people in the world. You have no feelings for anything. Or anybody. I can’t believe you are smoking a cigarette.”
The way she was looking at her glass I thought she might be trying to see her own reflection. Checking her lipstick.
“Camels. They come in a filter now.”
“How salubrious.”
I looked around at our living room and wondered why it looked the way it did. I paid for it all, but really didn’t understand the significance of the furniture or the decorations. Abby once told me I wouldn’t be much at interior design. She said you had to grow up with nice things to know which things were nice.
“What’re all those boxes in the back seat of your car?”
“That’s the stuff from the office I wanted to keep.”
She cocked her head like a spaniel hearing a high-pitched sound.
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, most of the stuff I threw out or just left there. But some of it I couldn’t part with. Hard to explain, but something tells you to hold on to certain things.”
She leaned forward in her chair, holding the drink in both hands.
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“If you don’t take it with you, they’ll just throw it out.”
“Are you completely drunk?”
“No, not yet. It’s not that easy to do anymore.”
“You’ve had enough practice.”
“Drinking, Abby. I’ve practiced drinking, but not getting drunk. That’s a very important distinction.”
“There’s a word for people who drink all the time and never get drunk.”
“Unlucky?”
I went over to the bar and filled up my tumbler again. Abby watched me in silence. When I sat down, she asked again.
“So, are you going to tell me what’s going on or should I just go take my shower and get on with my day.”
“I quit my job.”
She sat back again, relieved.
“That’s amusing. And I got elected pope.”
“No, I actually quit. I don’t have a job anymore.”
“What are you saying?”
“I said, ‘I quit,’ and they said, ‘okay.’ More or less.”
“More or less?”
“It’s not entirely official yet. I think I have to write a letter, or sign something. I don’t know, it’s been a while since I did this kind of thing.”
I looked to see how the wildlife was doing out on the deck, but nothing was stirring. Too hot, maybe.
“What the hell …”
I waved off the question before she was through with it.
“I got called down to the board meeting. George’s got a strategic plan worked out for TSS. Pretty slick, really. Make ’em a lot of money. Short term.”
“Did you do something stupid?”
I was grateful for the fuzzy cushion provided by the Absolut, even if I wasn’t entirely drunk. I ignored her question.
“The plan was to push really hard for the next six months to show an increase in productivity, lean out expenses and stop filling jobs lost to attrition. This pumps up profitability, as you know,” I paused, she blanched a little at the obvious condescension, “which is what you want to do if you’re fattening up for a sale.”
“What kind of sale?”
“The division. Technical Service and Support. My division. Spin it off and sell it. The whole thing, lock, stock and barrel. The ultimate unbundling.”
“They’re going to sell TSS? You can’t sell a division of a major corporation.”
Abby always told people I worked for a major corporation. It made me think of the blurbs on paperbacks. “Now a major motion picture, starring …”
“That will be a big surprise to George Donovan.”
“Who could possibly want to buy a division?” Like it was a piece of real estate in a crummy neighborhood.
“Probably one of the oil companies. A major oil company. A lot of what we’ve developed supports hydrocarbon processing. Most of the big refiners are dying to get their hands on a little high tech. They want it for the same reason I thought we wanted it. To diversify and hedge against the curse of commodity manufacturing.”
“I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous.”
“Don’t sell yourself short.”
“Even if it’s true, why does it have anything to do with your job?”
“Oh, now Abby, anybody who buys us’ll have a Technical Service and Support division of their own with a bunch of people who do a lot of the same things we do. That means probably half our guys’ll be on the street within a year—after busting their asses for six months running up the value of the spinoff. They’ll gut us like a fish, then eat what’s left.”
“Including you.”
“A definite possibility.”
Abby noticed with a start that she’d finished off her drink. She rarely had more than one a day—usually a glass of white wine. Everything but vitriol in moderation.
“That’s not what they’re telling you. You’re on the presidential track.”
It irritated her that I was just a lousy divisional VP. I’d once made the mistake of telling her my job was often a step on the way to unit president. Which is what they called the guy who looked after a bunch of divisions. This was a pleasing eventuality for Abby to contemplate, though I always thought it was silly having more than one president at a single company, even a major corporation. Reminded me of Gilbert and Sullivan. Everybody gets to be the very perfect model of a modern major general.
“This is why you quit your job? Because you think they’re going to fire you anyway? You were going to be president and now they’re selling you? I’m just trying to understand.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s it. I could fill in the details, but that’s the gist.”
Something had begun to tighten up Abby’s face— probably the first signal to her brain that her life was about to careen off the highway.
“You’re serious, aren’t you.”
“You bet.”
“What do you think will happen to us if you do this monstrous thing?”
She sank way back into her chair, gripping the arms firmly enough to keep the chair from lifting off the living room floor.
“I’m tired,” I said into my drink.
She didn’t hear me.
“You’re what?”
“I’m retiring.”
“You’re forty-eight years old.”
“I’m retiring early.”
“We’ll lose the house.”
“We own the house. If I never earned another penny we could still live a thousand times better than my parents ever dreamed possible.”
“I have no intention of living like your parents.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“I’m not doing anything to you.”
“This is unacceptable. I want you to take back everything you just said.”
I demurred. She pressed on.
“What do you expect me to do with this? What do you expect me to tell people you’re doing? What could possibly be in your head to think it would just be peachy keen with me for you to walk away from an important position at a major American corporation, to just walk away from everything we have so you can, what, just sit around the fucking house and drink yourself into fucking oblivion? Is that what you think would be okay with me? You fucking lowlife wop bastard.”
“French.”
She sucked in a rough breath and said, “French?”
“Fucking lowlife French bastard. Just a quarter Italian. Mostly French. My mom had a little American Indian mixed in there, too, we always thought. Would explain the cheekbones.”
She stood up from her chair, smoothed the wrinkles out of her skirt and picked up her empty glass, I think to provide a prop for the final flourish. She thrust it at me to emphasize each point.
“When you’re ready to stop speaking nonsense, when you get your nose out of the fucking vodka bottle, I’ll be willing to speak with you about this. In the meantime, I have things to do,” she said, and walked out of the room.
The next time I saw her was about six months later, and I haven’t seen her since.
The sun was trying like hell to break out of the early morning haze. I was in the Grand Prix heading down North Sea Road toward the Village. WLIU was playing jazz. Early Miles Davis. I had the windows open and the heat on. Eddie had both ears flapping in the wind. I was drinking a vat of straight unflavored coffee from one of the North Sea delis that catered to locals and tradesmen.
I almost had full use of my tongue. I used it to scat-sing along with Miles. He didn’t seem to mind.
I carried the Styrofoam cup with me when I rang the Lombards’ door bell. I had their New York Times stuck under my arm.
“Do you always bring a newspaper when you come to call?” Rosaline asked when she opened the door.
“Once a paperboy …”
She was wearing a sleeveless, collarless white shirt, a blue jean skirt over bare legs and moccasin slippers. Her long hair was piled up in the back and held in place with bobby pins, randomly situated. Her nose still filled up half the house.
“Did you bring me coffee, too?”
“Get a mug, we’ll split what’s left.”
“Very gallant.”
I followed her into the living room. No Arnold. She pointed at the ceiling.
“Still sleeping. Not dead.”
“I assumed.”
Rosaline settled herself comfortably in her father’s chair and offered me the couch, gesturing with both hands.
“Take a load off.”
When she crossed her legs her skirt rode to the tops of her thighs. Her legs were a pale version of Abby’s— smooth and muscular.
“I feel like an intruder.”
“What do you think you’re intruding on?”
“Your life.”
“What life?”
Then she laughed.
“I’m actually having a nice time. We weren’t that close when I was growing up. Too much of an age difference. It’s funny how you’re a better child when you’re an adult.”
“Or he’s a better parent.”
“Perhaps.”
She put her fingertips together in the prayerful way Burton liked to do. It usually meant he was thinking.
“What are you thinking?” I asked her.
“I wasn’t thinking. I was wondering.”
“About what?”
“About you. What happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why did you quit?”
“Not following you.”
“Your job.”
“I don’t remember talking about my job.”
“You’d be amazed what you can learn on the Internet.”
“I guess I would.”
“You think I’m invading your privacy.”
“Yup.”
“But you’re willing to put up with it.”
“To a point.”
“To get what you want.”
“I’d like what you have on Bay Side Holdings. It’d be a good deed.”
She uncrossed her legs and stretched them out in front of her, knees together and toes pointed, like a dancer.
“That’s supposed to be adequate incentive?”
I didn’t answer her. She kept her legs outstretched, partly supported by her hands gripping her thighs.
“Mr. Acquillo.”
“Sam.”
“You have far greater powers of perception than you seem willing to demonstrate.”
“I perceive you’re a woman of intelligence with uncertain, probably conflicting, desires.”
She pointed at me.
“There, you see? I knew you could do it.”
She dropped her feet to the floor and recrossed her legs slowly enough for me to catch a glimpse of the dark triangle and pink folds between her legs. She reassumed Burton’s prayer posture.
“I’m having it done after he goes,” she said.
“Done?”
She used a forefinger to trace the impressive arc of her nose.
“I can see why.”
“Honesty. Excellent.”
“Your father thinks nose jobs are an affront to God.”
“Right again. Give the man a cigar.”
“I think you should. Then you can face your shortcomings and insecurities like the rest of us, without an excuse looking out at you from the mirror.”
“My. Brutal honesty. Take back that cigar.”
“In the meantime, who gives a shit? You got a swell body and loads of sex appeal, and a nose that makes a great conversation starter. Consider it a gift.”
She sat up straight in her chair.
“Can I get you some coffee?” she asked.
“Sure.”
She stood up demurely, took my hand and led me into the kitchen. She poured us both coffee from an ancient percolator and had us clink the mugs in a toast.
“To honesty. Brutal or otherwise.”
I clinked with her. As I sipped the coffee she picked a stuffed number ten envelope off the kitchen table.
“Names, addresses and phone numbers of everyone who leased or rented a house from Bay Side Holdings— up to 1983 when Daddy retired. At that point, it was all passed over to the Sinitars, who bought up Daddy’s business—whatever was buyable, anyway. Plus whatever correspondence I could find with Bay Side’s office in New York, plus a photocopy of the ledger sub-account that records how Daddy received and distributed rental proceeds. I had it ready the day after you were here. I wondered if you’d be back.”
She handed me the envelope.
“Thanks.”
“Some people thought you lost your mind. Blew up your whole life.”
“Don’t believe everything you read.”
“I don’t believe anything I can’t see with my own eyes.”
“An empiricist.”
I stuffed the envelope into the inside pocket of my jean jacket.
“You’re not gonna check it?”
“I trust you.”
She put down her mug and gathered a handful of my jacket, pulling me toward her. I leaned into the kiss, which was long and warm and filled with promise. As she kissed me she felt around the front of my pants.
“You act so sure of yourself, but you’re not,” she said, pulling back far enough to see past the bridge of her nose.
“I’m not.”
Still holding me with one hand, she adjusted a lock of hair that had fallen across my forehead and tidied the area around the big scab on my head.
“Then it’s a good act. Maybe you can teach me how you do it.”
She put both hands on my chest and gently pushed herself away. That’s when I heard sounds upstairs, and the raspy wet croak of an old man clearing his throat. She gripped my arm, then went upstairs to see her father. I let myself out.
I drove directly to a picnic table in the park behind Town hall and opened Rosaline’s envelope. I put the list of names and addresses she’d prepared on top of the stack of papers. Then I got out Jackie Swaitkowski’s map, unrolled it and held down the corners with a mug and three stones I picked off the ground.
Next to the map I put an extended plot plan I’d picked up from Bonny Martinez at the Town tax collector’s office. It showed the borders and street addresses of every taxable piece of property in North Sea owned by Bay Side Holdings. They were all contiguous. Lombard’s records carried the same plot designation as Jackie’s map, so I could easily cross-reference between the three documents.
My fourth data point was a telephone directory I’d dug out of the trunk of the Grand Prix.
First I matched up the Oak Point street addresses on the tax map with Lombard’s records, which corresponded to the highlighted sweep of territory that started with Regina, curved around Oak Point following the waterline of the cove, washed across the WB grounds and over to the next peninsula, where it also followed the water about three-quarters of the way up the coast. Regina’s house, 18 Oak Point, was labeled number thirty-three. Next was lot thirty-five, Herbert and Louise Radowitz at 16 Oak Point, who’d rented for about ten years, followed by John and Martha Glenheimmer. Then Edward and Sherry Feldman, then Eric Fitzsimmons, and so on. I was a little disturbed to realize that Regina Broadhurst was the only name I recognized on my own street.