by Wil Mara
“What happened?”
“An elderly woman who was on medication struck you from behind, pushing you into a busy intersection. Then you were struck again, by a truck filled with railroad ties.”
“Whoa.”
The doctor laughed again. In that instant, somehow, Bell knew he was a fan.
“‘Whoa’ is right. You’re lucky you weren’t killed. Your car wasn’t so lucky, I regret to inform you. It’s headed for the junkyard.”
“How long have I been out of it? I haven’t been gone for like ten years or anything, right?”
“No, just a few days. Frankly we were expecting you to come back any time. There doesn’t appear to be any permanent damage to your brain, I’m very glad to say.”
Bell managed a smile. “Other than the damage I already had, right?”
“Right.”
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The burning came back with a vengeance. He tried to rub them again, and again his hand refused to obey. This time the motory disobedience filled Bell with a fear like none he’d ever known before.
“I can’t move my hand!”
“I know.” The doctor’s voice had changed. The gentleness was still there, but the carefree aspect had vanished. It was more businesslike.
“Why not?”
“Because we’ve got your arms and legs restrained. We didn’t want you moving around too much, which some people do even when they’re comatose.”
“And why would that be?”
Blackman and the nurses looked to each other.
“Michael, you suffered some spinal damage.”
A cold finger touched the pit of Bell’s stomach.
“I what?”
“Your spine suffered severe trauma during the accident.”
“Do you mean I can’t walk?”
“No, no, I don’t mean that. It’s too early to tell what the long-term effects will be.”
“But my legs … I can feel them just fine.”
The doctor motioned to the twin sister of Nurse Ratched, and together they removed the sheet from Bell’s feet.
“Can you move your toes?”
Bell tried, but it was more difficult than he expected. All of a sudden this simple action required the supreme effort of his life. He strained like he was on the last mile of the Boston Marathon.
“Did they move?”
Doctor and nurse threw the sheet back to its original position. “Yes, there was some movement.” Bell was relieved to see the doctor’s smile return. “That’s very good, especially at this stage.”
“So I’ll be able to walk again?”
Blackman said to the younger nurse, “Jennifer? Please tell Margie that Mr. Bell is back with us.”
“Yes, doctor,” she said before heading out. Bell did not follow her with his eyes. She didn’t exist now.
“I can’t predict the future, Michael, but as far as I can tell, yes, you’ll be back to your normal self eventually.”
“Full recovery?”
“I believe so.”
“And I’ll be able to play again?”
“I don’t see why not.”
Now it was his turn to smile. “Well that’s great, doc. Fantastic. Just tell me what I have to do, and I’ll do it.”
“Good. Nurse Moreland here will oversee most of your physical therapy.”
Bell shot her a quick look. Her eyes were already going over him. Probably searching for signs of weakness, he thought.
“How’s it going, sweet thing?”
The doctor said quickly, “Uh, Michael, I’m going to check on some other patients now. But I’ll be back in an hour or two to see how you’re coming along.”
“Okay, thanks, doc, I really appreciate it. I appreciate everything you’ve done so far.”
Blackman put a comforting hand on his patient’s shoulder. “It’s been my pleasure. This is something of an honor for me—I’m a big fan of yours. Haven’t missed a home game in three seasons.”
“Thanks.”
Just before he got to the door, Bell said, “Oh, one more thing, doc.”
“Yes?”
“Minicamps start late next month. Will I be ready for them?”
Doctor and nurse looked to each other again. In that instant Bell knew the answer.
“No, I’m afraid not. I’m sorry, Michael, but you won’t be able to play at all this season.”
The numbness returned. Bell searched the ceiling for something to say, but no words were there. Then came with yet another concrete certainty—the team would try to replace him with Christian McKinley. And with that, to Bell’s complete surprise, followed an almost drug-like feeling of relaxation. Of course they would. McKinley was the only other QB available that could get the job done. Bell knew it. He’d watched the kid, knew he had the right stuff. He even once thought, Damn, he’s as good as I am. And that’s how it went in this business—one day your were The Man, the next you were The Memory. He wanted to be upset, wanted to be frightened and angry, but he just couldn’t muster it. He reached down, and it wasn’t there. Just a sense of ease and, also to his surprise, a feeling of tremendous relief.
A smile broke across his face. “Well, it was great while it lasted,” he told his two-person audience. They responded only with expressions of confusion.
* * *
“You’ve got that kid from Fresno State,” Jon said into the phone. “Marcus Draper. He’s a tremendous linebacker, and I’d be interested in acquiring him if you’d like to make a deal.”
There was a pause, and then, “Well, let me think about it,” Anderson said. Greg Anderson had been the GM of the Carolina Panthers for three years, and many theorized this would be his last. He was a competent man, but nothing more. No imagination, no willingness to take a risk. He’d built a team with mediocre talent, and thus the Panthers were just that—mediocre. Draper was a fourth-round draft acquisition from the previous management who’d turned out better than anyone expected, and he had a bright future to be sure.
Jon already knew Anderson didn’t care for him very much. He knew about some of the snide remarks he’d made to the media. Sometimes Susan Schiff, in her unswerving loyalty, would Google Jon’s name in search of interesting items, and if she found anything negative, no matter how small, she’d print it and leave it on his desk. Not to taunt him, but to make sure he knew who his enemies were. The latest Anderson comment came from the online version of The Charlotte Observer. When asked if he thought he would still have his job next season, Anderson replied, “We can’t all have the security enjoyed by guys like Jon Sabino, who seems to have made a pact with the devil. Luck follows that guy around like cats follow garbage trucks.” Jon was long used to this kind of petty jealousy; it was to be expected when one was successful. But was it so severe with Anderson that it would actually get in the way?
“Okay, how long? I’m sorry to push, Greg, but I’m running on a tight deadline with this one.” Another pause, no response, and he added, “And I can make it a pretty good deal for you. I’m familiar with the details of Draper’s contract, and I know your cap hit won’t be that much if you give him up. But if you keep him, it could cost you. Give him to me for two less-expensive players and save yourself more cap stress next year. I’ll give you two decent players that’ll end up costing you less.”
“Um.…” Jon could hear the sound of papers being shuffled. “Yeah, let me toss it around here a bit and see what happens.”
Jon shook his head. He’s stalling on purpose. He’s just busting my balls.
“Okay, but can I ask when you’ll get back to me?”
“I don’t know. I’m just not sure.”
More silence. Anderson was waiting; Jon could feel it.
“How about later today?”
“I can’t, I won’t be around.”
“First thing tomorrow?”
“No, Mr. Burke won’t be in all day.”
“Okay, when?”
Anderson let out a long sigh. In tha
t one gesture, the message was clear—I’m trying to give you the runaround here, and you’re not letting me get away with it.
“I’ll … I’ll have to call you back.” Jon was just about to reply to this when Anderson continued with, “You know, other teams are interested in Draper, too.”
This was his idea of negotiation. About as awkward and clumsy as it got.
With thinly controlled anger, Jon said, “Like the Chiefs and the Seahawks? Yeah, I know.”
“It’d be unfair of me to reneg on the deal I’ve been negotiating already.”
If Jon could’ve reached through the phone and choked the bastard to death, he would’ve done so without hesitation. Having to come begging to this poster boy for the Peter Principle made him sick to his stomach. The guy knew it and was twisting the knife just for the fun of it.
“Well, perhaps we can do a better deal, Greg.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t think that’s possible.”
“You have no intention of helping me out here, do you?”
Another pause, and then, very quietly, “No, I don’t.”
8
Jon was still behind his desk two hours and four more fruitless phone calls later when he found Robert Macintosh leaning into his doorway, an eager look on his face.
Macintosh was invisible unless he wanted something. There were times when Jon didn’t see him for weeks. He knew what Macintosh did, technically—he was an assistant in their marketing department. But whether he actually did anything related to marketing was another issue. He was almost ghostlike, a leftover from the previous regime who was harmless enough and, Jon believed, functional enough to be kept around. Whether he had any value beyond that, however, was still up for debate.
“Robert, what can I do for you?”
“Do you have a minute? Can I talk to you about something?”
“Sure, come on in and have a seat.”
“Thanks.”
Macintosh stepped in and, avoiding direct eye contact, made a beeline for one of the chairs. He was slim and good-looking, with dark hair and a fresh, boyish face. He wore plastic-rimmed glasses that made him look more like someone sitting outside a Paris café or wandering through an art museum than the front office of a football team. Otherwise he fit the image pretty well—the cotton trousers, the Polo button-down, the conservative haircut. Neat as a pin, as if he mother still dressed him every morning. In fact he dressed and groomed himself as he had done for the last thirty odd years, and he took great pains to make sure he always looked perfect.
Jon stood and stretched. “So what’s up?”
“I, um … I heard Keith Armstrong got that communications position.”
“Yes, I gave it to him today.”
Macintosh nodded, looked around the room. He was hunched forward, his elbows on the armrests and his hands laced together.
“Why do you ask?”
“Oh, no reason.” Macintosh laughed quietly. “I was kind of hoping for that spot myself, but that’s how it goes. Keith’s a good guy.”
“Yes,” Jon said, suddenly hoping there was a larger, more meaningful reason for this interruption than to praise the promotion of Keith Armstrong. “He’s a very good guy.”
Macintosh kept nodding. “There’s one other position still open, I believe—that management spot in personnel. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to be considered for that, too. I’ve been here eight years now and—”
“I’m sorry, Robert, but we’re going to find someone outside for that job.”
Macintosh turned, locking his eyes onto Jon’s. “Outside?”
“Yeah. We want someone fresh, maybe even a little naive. Someone with new ideas, not someone stale. Someone who hasn’t been here before.”
“But I—”
“In fact I think we’ve already found someone. We’ll be bringing him in one more time next week,” Jon added quickly to avoid a bickering match about it.
Macintosh opened his mouth to say something more, then closed it again and went back to his affable, patronizing nods.
“I see, I see,” Macintosh said. Then, abruptly, he stood and said, “Well, thanks very much for sparing me a few moments. I appreciate it.”
“Sure. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you better news. If something else opens up in the future and you’re interested, let me know well ahead of time.”
“I will, I definitely will. Thanks.”
Macintosh turned and went out.
* * *
He waited until Jon went out for lunch, then ventured back to the top floor and found the sign he was hoping for—Peter Connally’s door was open just a few inches. It was common knowledge around the Raven offices that this meant he was inside and available. Macintosh pushed it back gently and stuck his head in. Connally was behind his desk, turned sideways, reviewing some papers.
As always, Macintosh was surprised by what a dump Connally’s office was. The furniture was worn, almost ratty, like stuff you’d find at a yard sale. The blinds hung crookedly. There were piles of papers on the desk, on the filing cabinets … everywhere. And the carpet looked as though it hadn’t been vacuumed in months. Interestingly, however, there were no unpleasant odors. Connally appeared to be a clutterbug, but a hygienic clutterbug.
“Mr. Connally?”
“Yes?” He said it crisply, as if he’d known someone was there all along. He did not, however, stop reading.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Macintosh slipped inside and came forward, unsure if he should invite himself into a chair. There were three of them, but two were occupied by more papers and folders.
Connally solved the problem by saying, “Have a seat.” Then he muttered, “Christ, these fucking assholes,” and turned back, tossing the papers onto the desk in disgust. “All right, Macintosh, what can I do for you?”
The fact that Connally was the only one in the organization who never called him by his first name bothered Macintosh. He believed the formality was calculated to keep a distance between them, and this made him nervous. He’d had an easy, almost friendly relationship with the previous owner. This was by design. Schmoozing, he firmly believed, was integral to getting ahead in business. If you couldn’t sidle up to the person who pulled the purse strings, you’d never go anywhere. And up to this point he did not feel he’d developed any warmth between himself and Peter Connally.
He leaned back and propped one leg on the knee of the other. He wanted to appear casual and chummy.
“I understand Jon Sabino gave Keith Armstrong that promotion in communications.”
“Yes, I believe that’s correct.”
“Well, I’d like to be considered for the other position—the management job in personnel that Karen Dobler has now but will be vacating after she gets married next month.”
Macintosh was proud of the confident delivery. It was the voice of a man worthy of such a request.
But Connally wasn’t buying it. He shook his head, smiled, and reached for another pile of papers. “No, no … I don’t think that would work out.”
The quick dismissal was irritating. “You don’t? Why not?”
“Because you’re not a worker.” Connally said. He made it sound as though everyone in the organization already knew this. “Karen comes in early and leaves late. She works on Saturdays, sometimes Sundays. That’s not your style.”
Macintosh didn’t know how to respond. What rattled him the most was how accurately Connally had summed him up—and Connally barely noticed him most of the time! Between the Ravens and his numerous other business interests, he probably had between five hundred and a thousand employees. Yet he cut through the bullshit and squarely evaluated one tiny cog in the machine as if he’d been studying him for years.
The simple fact that Macintosh knew he wasn’t deserving of the promotion, however, didn’t stop him from arguing the point further.
“I work harder than you might think.”
“Okay, may
be you do, but you’re still not on Karen’s level. In fact, I’m not sure what level you’re on at all.”
Macintosh didn’t know what that meant, but he didn’t like the sound of it.
“Every time I walk down the halls,” Connally continued, sifting through a sea of papers to figure out what to read next, “I see you leaning against someone’s doorway, talking to them. That not only means you’re not getting anything done, it means they’re not getting anything done, either. So you’re wasting two people’s time. And you don’t even talk about Ravens’ issues. You talk about books, movies, music, that kind of shit.”
Macintosh’s stomach tightened. How in the world did this guy who rarely saw him during the course of a day know all this? Did he have spies? Hidden cameras?
“I’ll be honest with you. I’ve had moments where I thought about letting you go.”
Connally made eye contact—direct and unflinching—for the first time. Macintosh was as stiff as a cigar-store Indian. That famous Connally bluntness. Was this the lead-in to an employee termination? By coming in here today, did he inadvertently give Connally an opportunity he’d been waiting for?
Macintosh was too punch drunk at this point to offer even a feeble response.
“Now, if you’d kindly get back to your office and go do something of productive value, I’d appreciate it. I’ve got a lot to do.”
Macintosh would not remember rising from the chair and leaving. It was too dreamlike, too surreal. In fact he would not remember walking through the hallway and closing and locking his office door, either. His basic senses didn’t really return until some hours later, by which time the humiliation had mellowed into something else.
* * *
Macintosh had never asked her where she learned to cook. They’d been together almost eight months now, and never once had he asked her.
It was an amazing meal—rolled breast of veal with roasted potatoes, a warm goat cheese salad, and a bottle of Vernaccia San Gimignano, one of the finest of all Tuscany white wines. She ate like this every night, he knew. She was an attorney, and not just any attorney—a corporate hawk in her fourth year at Henderson, Landers, and Flynn. Not a place for the faint of heart.