The Eulogist

by Liz McKinney Johnson

  "What you got so far?"

  "He eats lunch every day at Nobel’s Deli on 12th Street. I got the owner there keeping track of what he orders so we can follow the whole diabetic angle.’

  "And?"

  Dennis attempts a fancy, arcing toss of the paperweight, misses the catch and it thuds to the floor, dangerously close to my wounded feet. Reaching for it, he whacks his head on the corner of my desk.

  "Geeze, are you okay?"

  He straightens up, sets the paperweight back on my desk and rubs his head, which makes his hair stand up like a hamster’s.

  "And?" he repeats, ignoring my sympathy.

  "And, he has a girlfriend."

  "A girlfriend? Now, this could be interesting. Have you talked to her?"

  "Circling, Dennis. Circling."

  Talked to her? I just made her up this minute.

  "I know who she is and where she works. If I spring too early, it will tip him off."

  Dennis purses his lips and pushes his glasses up his nose.

  "It sounds good, Charlie, and you know I have all the confidence in the world in you, but I gotta get something for Corporate. Fill out a 20-23 report, would ya? Give me something to send ‘em."

  "You got it, Big Guy." Dennis loves it when you call him Big Guy. Almost as much as I hate it when he calls me Tiger. "How about tomorrow AM?"

  "How about today?"

  I point at my slippers and shrug.

  "I have to split to take care of the home front, remember? Tomorrow. I absolutely, positively promise you a 20-23 by tomorrow."

  He reaches up and smoothes his hamster hair.

  "I’m going to email corporate and tell them that."

  "Go right ahead. You’ll have it. I guarantee you."

  Dennis leans forward and punches me in the shoulder. "I knew I could count on you, Tiger."

  He disappears around the divider and down the hall. I can hear him calling out to my compadres as he goes. Slim, BJ, Shack, Buddy, everybody’s got a nickname. I suspect most of the time he simply doesn’t remember anyone’s real name.

  I slip on my coat. No use sitting back down. It’s almost noon. I’ll stay up late tonight and manufacture a few facts about Hugh Klein’s imaginary girlfriend for the 20-23. It’s really nothing more than a status memo. I could probably copy the stats on some starlet from a gossip column in People magazine and no one would be the wiser.

  I wave to Helen as I pass her desk on the way to the elevator. I think she’s worked on this floor since before I was born. I like her. She’s old school working-girl. Always wears a dress, high heels and hose. Hair always up in a hairspray helmet. Nails always bright poppy red.

  "You outta here?"

  "Got an appointment, Helen. I’ll be back first thing tomorrow."

  "Okay. By the way, I forgot to compliment you on your footwear earlier. Looks mighty comfortable."

  "You know it. Tomorrow, I’m wearing the robe."

  Helen lets out an enormous laugh then makes a little snorting sound as she gasps for air on the intake.

  "You’re a stitch, Charlie. A stitch and a half."

  The elevator opens and I step in. Helen’s still laughing as the doors slide shut and I begin my descent. On the way down, I push the annoying Dennis dilemma from my mind in favor of another looming responsibility. There was a message on my answering machine this morning from Howard Stanich. I heard the ringing when I was in the shower, but in my crippled condition I knew I’d never make it to the phone in time. So, I let the machine pick up. The burglars left the answering machine. They probably had cell phones.

  His message said he was following up on the first message he’d left about the summary report. Since I’d never returned the first message, and then there was a pause in which I imagined the annoyance on his face, he was checking back to make sure everything was okay. He wondered if there was a time that would be good for us to get together.

  As much as I dislike Howard, I think he finds me twice as objectionable. But we still need each other. Kind of like the United States and China. We just need a summit meeting to lay down a few ground rules. If we can agree, in principle, not to blow each other up, everyone will be happy and we can continue to pretend to be civil and sell each other computer games and cars and flimsy T-shirts.

  There are no repair vans outside the apartment yet and it’s very cold inside. Lily asked me to turn off the heat until the window got fixed. The call light is blinking on the phone.

  "Albert, it’s Lily. The guys won’t be there until around 2:00. Everything’s taking longer than it should today. Sorry to make you wait. Let’s not even try to get together until tomorrow or the next day. Okay with you? Call me."

  I erase Lily’s message and pick up the phone to call China. Or maybe I’m China.

  "Nesler Pharmaceuticals," says a lilting voice I’m sure is front-desk Janet. Her voice is super cheery, as if answering phones for Nesler was just this side of euphoric.

  "Howard Stanich," I say. "It’s Albert Mackey returning his call."

  "Certainly, Mr. Mackey. I’ll connect you right away."

  "Thank you, Janet."

  I like to use people’s names when I’m talking to them. Someone I interviewed once told me he found it incredibly annoying. That’s what I like about it. It keeps folks off balance. A person instinctively responds to the sound of his own name. So, pepper a conversation with someone’s name and he thinks, "hey, that’s my name, that’s me, that’s me again." This constant disruption makes it harder to follow a train of thought, which makes it harder to lie, if you are trying to lie.

  "You’re . . . uh . . . you’re welcome," Janet stutters.

  The phone clicks and I hear the plaintive wail of Kenny G’s saxophone for a few seconds.

  "Albert, thank you for returning my call," Howard says on the other end of the phone. "I was beginning to worry something was wrong."

  "Nothing wrong, just been busy. You know how that is, don’t you?"

  No answer. He’s probably outraged to think anything about us could be similar.

  "I was thinking," he says, finally. "Perhaps we should get together and discuss some of the more technical aspects of Michael’s research. Just you and I. No need to bother Lily with the dry details."

  I remember how distraught Lily was at being kept out of the loop by Michael. Howard was doing exactly the same thing, shielding her from something she was really dying to find out more about. Still, I think a meeting between just Howard and me is a good idea.

  "Actually, I could come over right now if that fits into your schedule. I was supposed to meet some repair people here at the condo, but they’ve been delayed. Are you free?"

  "Right now?"

  "I know it’s last minute, but I just found out myself."

  "Let me juggle a couple things around and make a few calls." Howard is sputtering a bit. I can hear pages flipping. "Can you give me a half an hour?"

  "Perfect. See you then."

  Driving across town, there’s an odd break in the clouds and bright blue patches of sky. People are out on the sidewalks, hurrying, probably figuring it will start storming again at any moment. At a light, I watch a young woman, tethered to an Irish setter, jog past in a blue warm-up suit. The sidewalk’s cracked and she dodges the uneven surface; the setter matches her pace. I like animals. I don’t have any. My nomadic lifestyle doesn’t really lend itself to pets. One of my foster families let me get a puppy once when I was about thirteen. I think they felt sorry for me. Orphan guilt was always good for a few presents. This pup was just a humane society mutt: part lab, part collie, part whatever. I named her Billie because she was mostly white with a stubby little tail like a goat. She was a barker. The neighbors called a lot to complain, which made my foster mom get all flushed in the cheeks and slam down the phone. We tried everything to get Billie to stop. Even one of those collars that send out a shock every time the dog barks. Except Billie figured out just how loud she could bark without setting off the shock. She
wasn’t stupid, just annoying. I came home from school one day and Billie was gone. My foster mom said they took her out to live with some friends in the country. They gave me a turtle in a shoebox. Two months later, I went to live with another family. I wasn’t stupid, just annoying. It’s interesting how easily some people let go and others hang on for dear life. Take it from someone who’s tried to hang on and had the rope cut. It’s better to let go. Hanging on only gets you heartache … and a nasty road rash.

  I pull up in front of Nesler Pharmaceuticals and check my watch. It’s been just twenty minutes since I hung up from Howard, but I like being early. It shows respect. Being late is inconsiderate and self-centered. It says you believe your time is more important than anyone else’s. Being on time is considerate and shows you to be organized and efficient. Being early encompasses all the benefits of being on time and adds the extra bonus of showing the person you’re coming to see that he is important enough for you to be willing to wait. Appearance is everything. I wonder what Howard will think of my slippers.

  Janet looks up and smiles as I walk in. Her braids are tied together today in a loose ponytail.

  "Hello, Mr. Mackey. Here for Mr. Stanich?"

  "Yes, Janet. I’m a little early."

  "Let me ring him for you. Coffee?"

  "No thanks, I’m fine."

  I take a seat. The phones ring incessantly and I watch Janet calmly punch buttons to route messages. She’s wearing a headset so tiny it makes it look like she’s talking to herself, like those damn cell phone headsets. I don’t know how many people I’ve crossed the street to avoid only to realize they weren’t paranoid schizophrenics, they were just chatting on their phones.

  "Mr. Mackey, Mr. Stanich will be right out. Are you sure I can’t get you anything?"

  "Really, I’m fine. You can tell me how you manage to handle all those calls by yourself. Looks like air traffic control if you ask me."

  "You get used to it." She laughs. The phones begin to ring again and again she juggles the barrage without breaking a sweat. "It’s not as hard as it looks," she says, looking at me after the ringing stops.

  "I certainly couldn’t do it."

  "Sure you could."

  The door behind Janet opens and Howard emerges. Janet stops smiling and directs her eyes to her desk. She seems to be waiting for one or possibly both shoes to drop.

  "Albert," Howard says, striding toward me.

  He’s wearing a deep blue suit, but is without his usual shirt and tie. Instead he has on a cream colored sweater. Very lightweight. Looks like silk. I’m sure it is.

  "I’m certainly impressed by your flexibility, Howard," I say, standing to shake his hand. "I don’t think there are many CEOs who could wedge in a last-minute appointment like this."

  "I’m happy to do it. You actually gave me an excuse to cancel a lunch appointment I’d been dreading with one of our investors."

  "Glad to be of service."

  Howard notices my slippers. I jump in to defend myself.

  "Ah, the slippers. Sorry about that. I had some storm damage last night. Broke a big window and managed to cut up my feet pretty good in the dark. Regular shoes were not an option today."

  Howard looks concerned, and I can’t help thinking he’s probably less worried about my feet or my window then about the fact I’ve gone out in public wearing bedroom slippers.

  "Well, then, let’s go sit down, shall we?"

  I follow Howard back towards the door.

  "Did Janet offer you coffee?"

  Ah ha. There’s shoe number one. Janet’s shoulders tense as we walk by but she doesn’t look up. The phones start ringing again. I’m not about to let the other shoe drop.

  "Yes she did. Twice, in fact. I turned her down flat both times, but it was very nice of her to offer, especially with the phones ringing continuously like they do."

  Howard doesn’t answer, but I notice the sliver of a smile on Janet’s face. Howard and I continue through the door and down the corridor to his office in silence. He is several steps ahead of me the entire way.

  Howard’s office is as immaculate as before. I take a seat and remove a small notebook from my briefcase. With his back is to me, he thumbs through files in a drawer in his rear credenza and I notice a bald spot is forming at the top of his head. He spins back around in his chair to face me, holding several file folders.

  "As I’m sure you know, Albert, there’s a lot riding on the release of this new drug. You’ve been around the industry long enough to know how things work. We’ve already fielded preliminary calls from some of the big guns. If things continue going well, we’re in line for a billion dollar buy-out."

  Billion with a B. I try to keep my eyes from popping out of my head.

  "I’ll be blunt," Howard continues, holding the file folder in both hands as if ready to rip it in two. "The investors are nervous. All the press surrounding Michael’s death is getting to them. They’re starting to question everything, but I think your book has the potential to settle things down."

  He releases his grip and sets the folder on the desk, stretching both palms across its cover. Maybe it will levitate. Howard’s hands are freckled with age spots and he doesn’t wear a wedding ring.

  "It will get people focusing on Michael’s dream again instead of agonizing about cost overruns on the lab construction. How far away are you from the final draft?"

  He stares at me. His eyes are so close together I’m surprised they don’t cross. How far away am I from finishing? What a crack up. He thinks I’ve started.

  "I’m not ready to set up a book signing schedule, but Lily and I have made great headway. I’d say by summer, we . . . "

  "Summer!" Howard spits out the word like a piece of gristle. "We can’t wait until summer. There’s too much on the line."

  He’s breathing very quickly. If he hyperventilates I won’t know what to do. But as my own panic rises, Howard seems to pull himself back together.

  "There are too many lives on the line is what I mean," he says. He closes his eyes and draws in a deep breath. "I apologize for that outburst. It was completely unnecessary and, I’m sure, wholly undignified. It’s just that the situation I am in requires immediate attention."

  A thin line of sweat glistens on Howard’s upper lip. Lip sweat is tertiary level nervousness. Primary is armpit sweat, secondary is back sweat; if you get to lip sweat, you’re just one misstep away from the full faucet-down-the-side-of-your-face sweat.

  "Are you in danger of losing your funding?" I ask.

  "I won’t lie to you. I’ve had at least one investor threaten to pull out. I was hoping to hear your book was closer to completion. Of course I understand you have a complicated task under normal situations let alone working in the shadow of Michael’s death."

  I am fascinated by Howard’s transformation from poodle to pit bull and back again. I’m beginning to think he’s more of a chameleon than I. A clock ticks loudly from somewhere behind me.

  "Tell you what, Howard, I’ll pretend that outburst never happened if you agree to give me some real information about those original test participants. What do you say?"

  Howard is shocked. I can tell because one eyebrow is slightly raised. He moves his hands back to the file folder on his desk.

  Tick tock.

  "I take it you were dissatisfied by the information I provided you in the summary report."

  Tick tock.

  Howard sits back in his chair. He has something for me in that folder, but he’s not giving it up without a good reason. He’s a shrewd man. More than that, I’m starting to believe he has a real sentimental streak when it comes to Michael, protective even. He’s old enough to have been Michael’s father. Maybe there’s more to the relationship than I understand.

  "We’re being blunt here, right Howard? Time is of the essence? Then I need something more than I could have gotten off your web site. I need real information. You said you wanted to get together today without Lily so we could go over the ‘t
echnical details.’ I have the standard research. In order to move forward, I need to know the background, the details, the dirt."

  Howard lurches forward, hands on his thighs. His eyes drill into mine.

  "There is no dirt," he says, giving the "t" so much emphasis it sounds like an extra syllable.

  I push it, wanting to see how far Howard will stretch before he breaks.

  "There is always dirt."

  "Not here!"

  Crack. The room is silent except for the ticking clock and Howard lowers his voice.

  "Not on Michael’s project," he says and then he’s quiet.

  I lean forward and place my notebook on Howard’s desk. I take a pen from my pocket and begin scribbling notes. Howard reaches forward and slides a heavy crystal pyramid out of my way. We both understand the first game is over, I’ve run the table and the balls have been re-racked.

  "Michael came in after your early phase three testing, right?"

  "Right."

  "And, it was those early results that captured his interest, right?"

  "Right."

  "Did Michael interview the original participants?’

  "A few. Not all."

  "Why not all?"

  Howard pulls on his ear lobe. That’s called a "comfort gesture." Tugging on your ear, rubbing your nose, grabbing and holding one finger—these are all childlike gestures, things we might have done when we were young to calm ourselves in a stressful situation.

  "I assume he felt it was unnecessary," Howard continues. "As you’re aware, anonymity of participants is strictly enforced, however Michael was coming in as a surgeon and researcher himself, not merely an investor. We were prepared to set up interviews with everyone."

  Howard twists the crystal pyramid until its base is square against his stack of file folders. As he does, the light hits it from a new angle and I catch the image of a plane etched into the surface. I stop taking notes.

  "Do you fly Howard?"

  "What?"

  "Are you a pilot? That looks like it might be some kind of flying award."

  "No, just decorative, a gift, but yes, I do fly. I’ve been a pilot for about ten years. It was something Michael and I shared."