by Peter Israel
But this isn’t New York. This is definitely not New York City.
Besides, what could have happened to them in broad daylight? In St. George, New Jersey?
And how do I even know they’re not back? My house has twelve rooms, on three floors.
I get up, search. Upstairs, down. Nobody. Even Clotie has already left for the day.
Once planted, the idea won’t go away. Haven’t I myself noticed strangers in the parks, men without children? And what about the milk cartons, the ones with the photos of missing children on the front and back panels?
I can’t help myself. Maybe it’s hormonal, but goddamn, why hasn’t she brought him home?
They’ve been gone over three hours!
Hyperventilating—not hard to do in your seventh month—I grab my purse, grab her keys from the butcher-block counter in the kitchen.
I can barely wedge myself into her Civic, even with the seat all the way back. It’s been years since I last tried a stick shift, and I never really learned. I start up, lurch, stall. Damn! I start again, stall again. What if I’ve flooded it? Tears of frustration welling. With a terrific grinding sound I get it going one more time, manage the driveway, find another gear, and lurch onto our road. And then—new thought—how do I even know which park they went to? We covered them all, Monday, including the closest one on our side of the town center and the big one he likes best because it has the best swings. God Almighty, why, in such a well-heeled town, where every house has a backyard and most a swimming pool, do there have to be so many parks?
I do the parks. They’re repaving Main Street again, which means detours and traffic lights that make no sense, and by the time I find them—in the big park with swans on the lake and broad fields for soccer and kite-flying—I’m flushed and dripping sweat. I’ve just spotted the Volvo. I manage to tuck in near it, stalling one last time, and stumble across the uneven ground, under the trees, toward the playground.
The sandbox is full of kids. Not mine.
The swings?
No.
Past the last row of stone benches, beyond the sandbox … I see them!
My impulse is to shout, run forward, but an inner warning holds me back: For God’s sake, Georgie, don’t lay all your fears on him.
He and Harriet are halfway up the high slide.
All summer, I’ve refused to let him go up it. “You’re too small,” I told him, “and it’s too dangerous. Look, only the big kids are doing it.”
This wasn’t entirely true. We’d both seen kids smaller than he shoot down it like missiles. About halfway down, the shining metal buckles out, then back in, and I’ve always expected to see one of them go soaring off the buckle and break his neck.
Maybe it’s never happened, but does that mean it can’t?
There must be fifteen steps or more, from bottom to top. Enormously high and Justin—they’re close to the top—looks so tiny. But Harriet is right behind him and, I guess, means to ride down with him in her lap—something I’d never do, pregnant or not.
They’ve reached the top. I watch him swing his legs forward into position. He hunkers down. I can see his little hands gripping the side rails while, from behind, Harriet talks intently to him.
But then—suddenly—she’s climbing down, alone, backtracking the way they came.
No, I think, goddammit, no!! I may have shouted it aloud. I can see his hesitation, the doubt on his little face—he is too small!—and suddenly I imagine what it looks like to him: the ground swaying, so far below him, the giant gleaming sweep of metal.
Harriet’s just spotted me. She’s already at the bottom of the slide, beckoning to him. She waves. I can see her lips moving: “Hi, Georgia!”
And Justin sees me too.
And lets go.
I watch him plummet. I hold my breath. His body hits the buckle, swoops over it and … back in. Then, with a whoosh, he slides through Harriet’s outstretched hands and hard into the dirt.
The landing has to have hurt him, but he’s running toward me like a dirty Indian.
“Me did it, Mommy! Me did it all by my ’elp!”
He still says “my ’elp,” two separate words, for myself.
I have to sit down. I slump onto the nearest bench, stone with wood slats painted green. Too much, too fast. I close my eyes to purple dots and bursts on a black field, nausea in my stomach and the baby kicking up a storm.
Justin’s tugging at me. Then I feel hands on my shoulders.
Harriet’s.
“Are you all right, Georgia?” I hear her ask.
I nod, fighting off tears.
“It’s really okay,” she says softly. “Don’t worry, I’d never let him do anything he can’t do.”
I shake my head.
“Shouldn’t have done it,” I manage. “He could have hurt himself terribly.”
“I didn’t think there was a chance of that. He wanted to do it.”
I open my eyes. Through a blur of tears I see her head. It blots out the sky. I want to let the tears go—sheer relief—but then I see Justin’s flushed little face, and I take slow deep breaths instead until the baby quiets inside.
I pay her for the week, cash in a white envelope. We stand on the front porch between two of the graceful Victorian columns, while Justin, already bathed by Harriet, runs around us in the Giants sweats outfit his father insisted I buy him, and slippers with Mickey Mouse faces.
It’s late, twilight. Past six, and up till now she’s always left at six on the dot.
“I’m very sorry about today,” she says, holding the envelope in her hand. “This afternoon. Really I am. I’m sorry I upset you.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” I reply. “You were right anyway. Probably I’m much too overprotective.”
“I shouldn’t have let him do it.”
Saying, I think fleetingly, just what Mommy wants to hear?
“Anyway,” I say, “it’s over.”
Except it isn’t. It was in me, in the park, to fire her on the spot. Selfish, to be sure, but isn’t she here to make things easier for me? And if, right or wrong, every time I can’t see them, hear them, I’m going to have to worry about where they are, what they’re doing, then what’s the point?
What holds me back, of course, is Justin. Already, after just one week with her, I don’t know that I could do that to him.
What would I say to him?
I expect her to leave. Instead she lingers, in the Friday twilight. It’s as though she’s gearing up to say something. Suddenly it occurs to me: Suppose I have it reversed? Suppose she wants to quit? How do I know, maybe she can’t stand criticism, maybe she can’t stand …
“Please don’t,” she says quietly. Her eyes hold mine.
“Don’t what?”
“You were thinking of firing me,” she says.
Startled, I reach out, touch the white balustrade.
“Well …”
“I want the job. I can’t explain, but I really need it.” Her voice is so earnest. “It’s very important to me. I know I’ll do better next week. I promise I will. I’ll check everything with you first. I’ll—”
“But Harriet,” I interrupt. “It’s fine, really. Let’s forget about this afternoon. It’s done, over. And I don’t want you checking with me all the time, I really don’t.”
I can’t get over it, though. It must have been her outward poise that had me fooled, her air of confidence, but underneath, apparently, is just another scared and sensitive little girl—well, young woman—who is in addition, I think, a thousand miles from home, and living with a stepfather she doesn’t like talking about. (Is he remarried? I can’t remember exactly what she said.) And knowing no one else, it seems, no friends, and taking care of someone else’s kid, in a strange house, with a strange employer who’s over six months pregnant and given to jumping at shadows?
Could I have done it, at twenty-one?
All she wants, I realize suddenly, is a little reassurance. (Is that such a cr
ime?) While all I’ve done, for God’s sake, is think about firing her!
I feel a rush of sympathy for her, remorse too. I tell her the truth—that I think she’s done wonderfully well with Justin, that, from the minute she arrived, he’s never looked back and already I can see the changes in him. Good changes. I tell her that I won’t stand on ceremony with her, and she shouldn’t with me either, if anything is wrong. We need to trust each other. Or even if she’s just lonely, wants to talk, whatever …
“The truth is, Harriet,” I say, “it feels as though you’ve been here much longer than a week. Already,” smiling, “I can’t imagine how we’d cope without you.”
She smiles back at me.
“Thank you,” she says. “You’re a very kind person, Georgia. I also think—probably I shouldn’t say this, but I think you’re the most beautiful woman, pregnant, I’ve ever met. I really do. I mean, you, your home … it’s all so perfect …”
It’s in me to touch her, embrace her despite my bulge. I reach, but she seems to duck, calling out, “And then there’s this young camper!” She swoops Justin off his feet and into her arms, grinning at him, and watching them, hearing his laughter, I think again: Those gray-blue eyes. Devastating, even to a very young man.
“Take a chill, Phil!” she exclaims to him. “I’ll see you Monday morning!”
“Relax, Max!” he answers back, delighted.
She hands me my son. I hold him, and together we watch her drive off in the white Civic, both of us waving, and I think to myself, on that particularly mellow, end-of-September evening: You silly goose, she’s going to save your life.
14 October
“I’ve been waiting to hear from you.”
“Yeah, well, they just walked out the door. Another day in the suite. It’s driving me nuts.”
“How did it go?”
“Slow. They’re taking their fucking time.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Yeah. But so far so good. We’ve given them everything they’ve asked for.”
“What about personnel?”
“They still want me to clean house. I’m about to oblige them.”
“That’s not what I had in mind.”
“Oh? Yeah, well, we’re still arguing who they get to talk to. It’s sensitive. They understand I can’t let them get down to the cleaning women. I’m trying to keep it to people who know nothing, or know too much, if you catch my drift. On the other hand—”
“Logically they’re going to want to talk to him, aren’t they?”
“Who?”
“You know whom I’m talking about.”
“Yeah, right. Well, look, as far as that’s concerned, we’ve got three choices. One, we leave him alone, hope they never find him. Too risky, I say. Two, we try burying him in a corner. It’s a little late for that, though. Three, we let him go.”
“What have you decided?”
“I say: Let him go. It’s the cleanest, the least risk.”
“Are you sure?”
“Remember, he won’t be the only one who gets canned. It’s gonna be lean-and-mean time around here.”
“He’ll be bitter.”
“So? Everybody’s bitter about something.”
“And vindictive.”
“You mean he could talk? Sure, he could talk, but who’ll listen? He doesn’t know enough. Shit, who’s going to waste their time with a bunch of wild-sounding allegations?”
“They might.”
“He knows nothing about them.”
“Not now. But we live in a very small world.”
“Well, anything’s possible, but on a scale of one to ten, I’d say that’s pretty remote.”
“Your job is to minimize the risks. What does their attorney think?”
“Their attorney? For Christ’s sake, what makes you think I talked to him about it?”
“Because you talk to him about everything.”
“Jesus. Either you’re pretty fucking clairvoyant or—”
“What does he think?”
“Well, I didn’t go into all the details, naturally. He said someone like that, who could be obstructive, I should get him off the premises. Said I should string him out till it’s over, do a little tap dance with him.”
“Can you do that?”
“Shit, I can tap dance with the best of them.”
“Good.”
“I take it that means I’m outvoted?”
“No. As far as I’m concerned, it’s your decision. You’re the chairman.”
“Okay. I’ll deal with it then.”
“When? I want to know exactly.”
“I’ll do it this week. Wednesday. That’s when I’m doing the others.”
“That’s fine.”
“He may come crying to you.”
“I expect him to.”
Lawrence Elgin Coffey
16 October
The other phone rings, the private line. It’s 8:15.
“Larry Coffey here,” I say automatically, picking up with my right hand, “would you please—?”
“Larry, tomorrow morning. Nine-thirty, thirty-ninth floor Conference. Any reason you can’t make it?”
It’s the Great White Himself. (On the private line?)
“No. What’s up, Leon? Anything you want me to bring? Hello?”
But he’s hung up already.
“Shit,” I say aloud. Then, into the other phone, “Sorry, babe, I got interrupted. You were saying?”
I’ve got south Jersey on the other line, Gerry Mulcahy, my early-morning schmooze. That’s how I start my days, with coffee on the pull-out of the desk and my Gerry Mulcahys on the horn. I punch the board while we talk, give him some of the overnight numbers—which he could as well get from the Aquarium, but there’s nothing like Big Bear first thing in the morning, is there? When you’ve just stepped out of your shower?
They keep bankers’ hours in south Jersey. Not at The Cross, I like to tell my trainees. We start at eight, sharp. If you think you can’t make it, go sell shoes on Fifth Avenue.
“Sorry, babe,” I say into the phone, “I’ve got to cut you off now. Something’s come up. Corporate shit, you know how it is. I’ll catch you later, at your desk, or you call me. How much? Yeah, we can do something with that. I know, the market sucks, what can I tell you? We’ve been there before, babe. Later.”
I hang up on Mulcahy. My console is lit up, as usual. All incoming too, like Flight Control at JFK, and I could tell you who each and every one is. 8:18? We’re into the Central Time Zone already. Denver and Texas come later, California too, though not by much. Money men get up earlier in California. They’ve got to make the opening.
All of them pissing and moaning too, looking to recoup. Recoup? Hell, looking for a fucking miracle. Looking for Big Bear to produce a fucking miracle, one that’ll keep the regulators off their case.
At least Mulcahy has cash. Mulcahy always has cash. I scribble a note to Howie about Mulcahy’s 180 grand, tell my secretary to deliver it to the Aquarium, tell her to tell all the others I’ll call them back later, and head down the interior staircase to the thirty-ninth floor.
A different atmosphere. Carpeting, hunting prints on the walls. Private johns. You knock first on the thirty-ninth, and nobody’s in his shirtsleeves.
“He’s not in,” Annabelle Morgan says, glancing up at me from her CRT in the outer office of the Great White’s suite.
“I already know that, honey,” I answer. “I just talked to him.” If he’d called from inside the office, he’d never have used my private line and he’d have had Annabelle set the appointment. “But what’s going down? What’s it all about?”
“What’s what all about?” she says.
She’s one beauteous piece of work, Ms. Morgan, and just as well-spoken, just as snooty. Keeper of the Great White’s lair and secrets. The Aquarium pundits like to bitch that she earns more than they do, but hey, this is an “Equal Opportunity Company,” guys, doesn’t it say so unde
r the corporate logo? It also happens to be ninety-nine percent male and lily-white, at least in the jobs that count, which makes Ms. Morgan a double treasure.
The idea that the Great White has done something—anything—without telling her must be tickling the hackles on her long and lovely neck.
“He wants to see me tomorrow morning, nine-thirty,” I say. “How come you don’t know about it?”
“Well, I don’t.” Coolly. “All he told me was to clear his calendar.”
“For the whole day?”
“Morning till night. Do you want me to find out for you when he calls in?”
The message is clear enough: Do I want the Great White to know that, five minutes after he called me, I was nervous enough to snoop?
I tell her not to bother. She turns back to her PC, but when I head out, though still not looking up, she adds a parting barb: “You should know, sugar, you’re not the first one who’s been in here to ask.”
I duck into Schwartzenberg’s office—he’ll know—but he’s not there either.
Upstairs, I finish my duty calls and, out of habit, patrol the Aquarium. It takes up most of the fortieth floor, sellers and traders elbow to elbow. Normally, even in a slow market, it’s bedlam city, where the filtered air takes on its sweet, faintly aquatic smell. Nobody, including building engineers, has ever been able to determine why, but it’s distinctive to The Cross and the fortieth floor. Someone once said it’s what making money smells like. More likely it’s what you get when you put sweat and nerves together with electronic machines and windows that don’t open and the remnants of crullers, sandwiches, mustard, coffee.
Sellers and traders. My old stomping grounds.
In ’87, when the Great White decided I was making too much money and made me a shark, complete with title, private office (cum windows and secretary), and a bonus in lieu of commissions, I was expected, automatically, to move downstairs. Instead, I opted to stay put on the fortieth. It was the smell, I told people. How could I run other people, teach them the tricks of my trade, without that secret elixir that takes a bunch of harmless guppies—Ivy League for the most part—and turns them into ravenous carnivores of the financial depths?