What a clever man I’d become. How resourceful and innovative. (“Walter Brimm!” the partners cheered.) So pleased was I by the course of my deception that I barely noticed the fever that returned and lingered in my head. I assumed the trouble I had sleeping was nothing more than my mind’s inability to wind down, that I was excited by the promise of things to come, of Tod being cast into financial ruin, all his free time given over to keeping creditors from seizing his home, his restaurant, and the Kerrytown Review until he was forced to confront his note holders in shame and driven from Renton absolutely.
A week into September, Tod received word—as delivered on false letterhead from the “broker” I told him of before—explaining that the manufacturers currently supplying Old Soles with shoes had decided to go into the business of selling their back stock for themselves and as a consequence, Old Soles would receive no further shoes in the future. Tod phoned in a panic. “How can they? What are we going to do?”
“Unfortunately, Tod, there’s little we can do. Our contract was only for last year’s shoes. Remember, I warned you going in, this is the problem when you don’t control production.”
“But the deal was sound.”
“I said your plan had excellent potential. I also said there were risks. I’m afraid this sort of thing happens all the time in business. As soon as someone hits upon a good idea, the big guns take aim and try to blow them out of the water.”
“But my debt.”
“It’s a tough break, I admit.”
“And you were so encouraging.”
“Are you blaming me, Tod?”
“Walter, no. Of course not.”
“I don’t understand what else you expected from me.”
“I didn’t mean to imply.”
“I cautioned you.”
“I realize that.”
“I’m not prescient. I told you all along, if you’re reluctant to pull the trigger, don’t. I said the deal had potential, but there were no guaranties. I helped you get started. I did everything I could to minimize your risk. Nothing I did was for any reason but that you asked.”
“I understand.”
“I should have been more insistent. I should have made sure you understood the risks. I tried to dissuade you initially, remember? I warned you what can happen. I’m very sorry.”
“It isn’t your fault, Walter.”
“Let me make a few calls. I’ll try to bail you out the best I can.”
I hung up the phone and turned my attention at once to Tod’s file. Under the language of his lease at the mall, his loans through the banks, his new mortgage, and the money put toward purchasing the shoes, I estimated his outstanding debt, not counting interest and liability to his limited partners, would top $250,000 by the time Old Soles was forced to close. What a victory this was! (Welcome to the real world, Mr. Marcum!) Here was what came of men who tilted at windmills, who filled their heads with foolish visions, and assumed the purity of their intentions protected them from defeat. Here—indeed!—was what came of false prophets who dared to strut and crow and hide behind a facade of moral impunity as they attempted to seduce the wives of friends and neighbors.
I phoned Tod back that evening and feigning a sympathetic tone said, “The ship is definitely sunk. It’s a matter now of salvaging what you can. There’s no sense throwing good money after bad. My concern is keeping you from absolute bankruptcy, which is why I’ve cut a deal I think you’d be wise to accept.” Having decided I could do away with a portion of Tod’s debt and still accomplish my goal, I assumed the role of savior and said, “All things considered, you’re in a bit of luck. Most times, when a business goes under, the carcass is left for the buzzards to pick apart. I don’t normally do as much, but for you, I’ve exchanged a few favors and persuaded the companies to buy back whatever stock you have remaining at two dollars a pair.”
“Two dollars?”
“That’s right. And they’ve also agreed to assume your lease the day after Thanksgiving.”
“But I paid eight.”
“Paid, yes. One deal has nothing to do with the other. I’m telling you, it’s generous, Tod. The companies could easily let your stock rot, but they want the shoes now and don’t mind doing you a favor.”
“And the lease?”
“They’re looking to capitalize on the start of Christmas sales.”
“What if I held out through the holidays?”
“You’re not listening. You won’t have any shoes. They want your stock now.”
Tod sighed hard into the receiver, paused several seconds, and then sighed again. “Alright. If you think it’s best. I appreciate your helping me like this, Walter. Truly, I do.”
“Not at all, Tod. Don’t mention it. What are friends for?”
To the victor then, yes? The effect of my effort deserved celebration and I waited for my reward, convinced it was only a matter of time before Tod disappeared altogether, his days occupied by financial matters and keeping the wolves from his door.
How happy I was—how ecstatic!—and yet immediately following the closing of Old Soles, the intensity of my sleeplessness increased three-fold. I lay in bed and listened to the wind move the branches of the trees, and some nights, unable to keep still, I pushed back the sheet and drifted down to the den where I sat until dawn. My restiveness acquired mass, while such brutal fits of fever turned my dark eyes red and swollen, brought an unhealthy pallor to my cheeks, caused my mouth to dry, and produced a shudder in my shoulders, hands, and hips. Time and again an ache seized my muscles, arrested my joints, robbed me of appetite, and increased the heat on my brow. What nonsense it was, how utterly unjust!
Gee was sympathetic at first. She felt my head, commented on how haggard I looked, diagnosed my affliction as a stubborn strand of flu, and made an appointment with our doctor. (He prescribed Zithromax, suggested a daily dose of vitamins, gave me a B12 shot, none of which helped.) At night, with the rest of the house so utterly quiet, my insomnia became part of a cruel and dark exclusion. One evening, after pitching about too long, I got up and went downstairs where I stood in the darkened bathroom and washed my face in cool water. My hands trembled and a weary ache passed through my bones as I stared at the mirror, somehow afraid to turn on the light, searching and failing and searching again in an effort to locate my face. I brought my head closer until the tip of my nose was pressed flat against the glass and there I could see an outline, the contours and outer edge of what seemed vaguely familiar. Beyond the shape of my brow and thin puff of cheek however, I found nothing that appeared remotely as I remembered.
By October, the resale of Tod’s remaining shoes was complete and Old Soles was officially shut down. (Tod paid rent on the empty space for another six weeks, the cash drawn from his reserves at the Appetency Café.) On the day the papers were signed, I sat quietly in my office, the symptoms of my flu attacking me in endless waves. I rested my head against the cool surface of my desk, stirring only when Ed Porter came in and asked what I knew of Dewiche Corporation. “You don’t look so hot, Brimm,” he said this with a disapproving click of his tongue. “Some of us have noticed. If you’re ill, you need to keep it to yourself. Clients take it as a sign of weakness.” I told him I was fine, though the moment he left, I turned my office light off and put my head back down on my desk.
I remained that way until shortly before noon, when a search I was running came up. (I had programmed my computer to conduct hourly checks on Sun Lytes stock as well as any new articles referencing Jim Catrell and here suddenly eight separate sources flashed on the screen.) Each report confirmed Sun Lytes’s merger with Kolor Beeme, Inc., and Panunscia Sciences, the three companies restructured under the name Kolor Lyte Sciences, Inc. Word of the merger—as handled by the investment bank of Dorfetcher & Kline—came on the heels of Kolor Lyte obtaining $14 million in R and D capital from the Swedish Deuhaman Bank to help advance a patent on a unique L.E.D. design. Overnight the value of Kolor Lyte stock soared from $12 to $32 a
share.
I printed out the articles, circled the names of Dorfetcher & Kline and Jim Catrell, who was not only a board member of D&K but chief negotiator in the deal. I documented Tod’s purchase of Sun Lytes and the profit he earned as a direct result of his dinner with Jim—all original shareholders received a split of their stock which was then transferred into Kolor Lyte securities—and after typing out a draft of the anonymous letter I planned to send the SEC, locked Tod’s folder back in my desk.
The events of the last few hours invigorated me, the final piece of the puzzle. The money Tod made was not nearly enough to affect his outstanding debt but was certainly sufficient to land him in serious legal trouble. I thought of driving to Talster’s and drinking a toast, perhaps even inviting Jack Gorne so I could brag of my decisiveness and have him exclaim, “Goddamn, Brimm, but that’s the way!” Instead, the pleasure of the moment proved fleeting and I wound up pitching forward, leaning to my right, and throwing up into the plastic liner of my wastebasket. I spent the next twenty minutes trembling and feverish, and struggling to recover, finally went to the washroom where I rinsed my face, brushed my teeth, and straightened my tie. I insisted again, “It’s only a bug,” and promised to go home and sleep as soon as I felt well enough to drive, but even the effort of waiting weakened me, and frustrated I tested my fever with the palm of my hand against my head, felt the heat within me burn and burn some more.
I left my office at a quarter to seven and drove straight home. Rea greeted me with an embrace about my legs, her grip staggering me with its sweet intensity. As I bent down to reciprocate and lift her toward my face however, I nearly blacked out. Rea squealed and raced away, altogether playful and imitating of her mother who had her own deftness now for avoiding my touch.
Gee settled Rea in the front room with a large pad of paper, markers, and scissors. “Daddy’s a bit under the weather,” she explained. “We don’t want you to catch what he has.” I sat in the kitchen, sipping at a warm cup of green tea. Gee was at the far end of the table, a stack of student essays in front of her. I appreciated her company, how she made an effort of late to look after me, compassionate in her concern even as the atmosphere surrounding us remained tenuous; a broad barrier of secrets and confusions I could not wish away. “So?” she asked without looking up.
“So what?”
“Anything new with Tod?”
“You’re asking me?”
“You’re helping him, aren’t you?”
“I have helped him.”
“Better than before, I hope.”
“Gee, please. I feel like shit.” When Old Soles first began to falter, Gee assumed an attitude of confidence, convinced of my ability to help Tod weather the storm and make everything all right. After weeks of praising my efforts however, she grew uncertain, and fearful of Tod’s financial reversals—the current obligation on his debt was extreme, his credit in shambles, the interest on his loans compounding his liabilities by the minute, the profit he made on Sun Lytes stock a drop in the bucket, his Review, his home, and the Appetency Café one late payment away from being seized—she took to challenging me. I was disappointed that she still refused to see the incident with Old Soles as further proof of just how bumbling and incompetent Tod was, how in the grand scheme of things men were measured by the consequence of what they created and not the superciliousness of their ideals, and to that end Tod was worthlessly inept. “One does what one is; one becomes what one does.” I took to quoting Robert Musil, a claim Gee threw back in my face, questioning my responsibility, approaching me with imputation. “What happened, Walter?”
“Everything. Nothing. Who knows? Bad luck.”
“You were supposed to help him.”
“I did everything I could and then some.”
“He came to you for advice. You suggested he go forward with the deal.”
“I wouldn’t have touched the deal but for his insistence.”
“What does Tod know about business?”
“My point exactly. He should never have pitched his ideas to me.”
“But you encouraged him. You went to his house and suggested the deal.”
“As a way of doing him a favor,” I rubbed hard at a pain in the side of my chest. “I also loaned him $30,000, remember?”
Gee interrupted. “That wasn’t a loan. We invested right along with him.”
“Wait now.”
“The deal went bad for everyone.”
“Are you telling me it’s alright for Tod to take our money, but I’m a bastard if I want to be repaid?”
She didn’t answer, forcing me to go on. “What about the thousands of dollars I saved him by calling in favors to lessen his debt? Don’t I get credit for that? If not for me, he’d already be ruined.”
“That’s all fine, Walter, but what are you doing for him now?”
“What more can I do?”
“A lot, I think.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Am I?”
“Gee.”
Our talks went around this way, circular and unresolved. I grew nervous, embittered, and afraid of what was happening. I had hoped—naively perhaps, desperately I admit, and still with anticipation—that Tod’s need to confront his financial troubles would leave him no time for my wife. Instead, she rallied to his side, applauded his brave front, encouraged his fortitude while insisting—together!—they’d find a way to stem the tide.
I looked across the table at my wife, my hands wrapped meekly around my tea, the pain in my back, in my head, and chest and neck unremitting. I was worried about my health, about what was afflicting me and why, and eager then to extend a gesture suggestive of future promises and commitment, said, “Perhaps when I’m better we can get away for a weekend. Your mother could watch Rea.”
Gee looked at me then, cautiously yet clear in her response. “I’m not sure now’s the right time,” she replied, and before I could ask why not (“Why, Gee? Why?”) she added, “I’ve been thinking.”
“About?”
“Tod.”
“Gee.”
“I have an idea,” she said. “I want to give him a dinner, as a way to raise money for Melstar and help pay off some of his debts.”
I sat without moving, my shoulders stiff and knotted. The discomfort in my body crushed me with disappointment and alarm as Gee continued to explain, “We can rent a hall at one of the nice hotels and have people pay a few hundred dollars each to celebrate the work Tod has done in the community. The money can go into a trust for Tod to reopen Melstar and satisfy his loans.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I groaned, whatever wind remained in my sails was now completely gone and at best I managed to stammer, “You want private citizens to payoff Tod’s personal debts?”
“People will be happy to give.”
“But Old Soles was a private investment.”
“Made to earn money for the community.”
“Everyone has a reason for why they go into business. Not everyone has the luxury of a dinner to help cover their losses.” I slid forward in the chair, leaned over and settled my arms on the table. Rea had gone upstairs to her room where I could hear her bouncing about on the bed while singing the theme song from some early morning television show. The sound of her voice, both fragile and sweet, produced an odd sort of accompaniment to the argument taking place below. I cleared my throat and tried a different tact. “Have you spoken to Tod about this?”
“Not yet, no.”
“Well, you can’t expect him to agree. A dinner like this is not his style. He won’t appreciate being singled out for special treatment.” I struggled to remain firm, but was feeling ill again, the ache in my head heated and pounding. Gee’s face, otherwise lovely, was absent of compromise. She took offense to my objection, and determined to brook no complaint, insisted a bit cruelly, “I know what I’m doing. I know what Tod needs.”
And there it was. What a farce the world! What an ever churning bit of folly. I felt the suppo
rt of my body give way and bracing myself, by sheer will, before my chin crashed down on the table top, I cried, “A dinner? For God’s sake, Gee! (For my sake, please!) Why can’t you leave the man be!” I got up then and went into my den where I paced about until my illness got the best of me—it didn’t take long—and I collapsed in a chair. My heart beat wildly. I lost track of time, did not know whether I remained seated a few minutes or half the night.
When I at last made my way upstairs and changed out of my clothes, the house was already dark. Quietly then, I slipped into bed beside Gee who, not yet asleep, reached over and touched my hip with her fingers.
All of life is ground in such moments of brief encounter, either accepted or denied. (Love is a moment not stolen but dared.) Fool that I was, angry and weak, I lay silent and still, waiting for her to extend me more, but she didn’t, and when I reached for her finally, my effort was eclipsed by the cool blanket pulled over her vanished form.
CHAPTER 11
Mid-November. A cool, dry patch of days filled the city with a crisp, frozen charge. The windows of our house were long locked against the breeze, and we flooded each room with a steady stream of preternatural heat.
Walter Falls Page 11