by Richard Hine
We drive back to Coral Gables with Sally, who exchanged numbers with the salsa dancer before we left, talking loudly between us the whole way.
We ride up in the elevator. Erika and Sally get out first. They’re sharing a room to save on expenses.
“OK, guys. Have a good night,” I say.
“I feel tipsy,” says Sally, stepping out first. “And my ears are ringing.”
Erika takes Sally’s arm to steady her. She turns to me and says, “Good night, Russell. Sweet dreams.”
In my room, I throw my jacket on the back of a chair and lie down on the bed, still clothed. One floor down and three doors down the hall, Erika Fallon is undressing. The phone rings. I was dozing. I roll over and see that several minutes have passed. I press the receiver to my ear.
“Russell. I wanted to tell you something before I went to sleep.”
“What is it?”
“I dream about you too.”
I pause to consider the appropriate response.
“I have to go,” she says. “I think Sally’s throwing up.”
At 3:17 a.m. I wake up again. Still clothed. The phone is in the cradle. I head to the bathroom, not a hundred percent sure if that conversation happened or if I dreamed it.
By morning, Pete has emailed me his draft of the Livingston Kidd presentation. I print it out at the hotel’s business center to read on the plane home.
I’m on an earlier flight than Erika and Sally. My plane sits on the tarmac for forty-five minutes. I grip the armrest next to me, trying to remember the sensation I felt when Erika first put her hand on mine. Slowly, I turn my palm upward. My fingers wriggle in the air like the legs of a dying bug. I stare back out at the tarmac until we taxi for takeoff.
Pete’s done a good job with the Livingston Kidd proposal, but I feel something’s missing. I decide to look at it again later and compare it to the samples of my best work I keep at home.
“Hey, how’s it going?” I keep my voice casual. It’s not the voice of someone who held hands with—and whispered inappropriate things in the ear of—a female colleague last night.
“It’s good,” says Sam. “How was your trip?”
“Not bad. The usual media conference stuff. Everyone predicting things that won’t come true. Like this new thing Twitter that’s supposed to take over the world. I don’t see it. Hey, what happened to that box in the hall closet? The white one. With my work stuff in it.”
“The one I kept asking you to put in the basement?”
“That one.”
“I put it in the basement.”
“Great. Where’s the key?”
“Right here. On my key ring. So I won’t lose it.”
“That’s OK. You can give it to me tomorrow when you get back.”
“Ooooohh. That’s the thing. I just told Beth-Anne I might stay till the weekend if you said it was OK.”
“Well, I need my stuff. Maybe the super can cut the lock.”
“What if I mail it to you? I’ll do it tonight. You’ll probably get it by Thursday. Would that work?”
“I guess I can wait. When are you coming back?”
“Maybe Sunday night. Or Monday. What do you think?”
“That old I’m-staying-till-Sunday-so-I-might-as-well-stay-till-Monday routine.”
“So it’s OK?”
“I’ll miss you,” I say.
“I’ll miss you too.”
“I don’t want to institute a ton of process,” says Judd as he hands out new three-ring binders to the project team gathered around the table of the small conference room. “But remember, I’m a process kind of guy.”
“What is this?” asks Susan Trevor, flipping through the photocopied forms and charts in her binder. “Project Management for Dummies?”
Judd doesn’t address her point directly. For the first time, though, he seems slightly rattled. Most Rainbow Painters don’t stick around after their concepts are approved. But Judd’s been given the role of project manager on the Daily Edge launch team. Even aside from having to deliver against his rosy financial projections, I’m guessing he’s nervous about keeping this fractious group motivated and his idealized process on track. He stands at the head of the table and refers to a page of notes as he speaks.
“Welcome to our first planning meeting as we move toward the successful launch of the Daily Edge. I think we’re all excited about the prospect of working on such a major new initiative for the company. And we all know how much work needs to be done if we are going to launch our new edition successfully. Every one of you has to manage a team that will contribute multiple deliverables to this project. And it’s my job as project manager to help clear your path of obstructions and ensure we meet all our critical path objectives. Does that make sense to you all?”
He looks up from the paper trembling in his hand, searching for some sign that his team is buying into this notion. All he gets is hostile silence until Hank Sullivan nods his head almost imperceptibly.
“Great!” says Judd. “One of the most important things we need to do today is to identify our interdependencies. Because even though we’re all owning our own department’s deliverables, we have to be aware of each other’s deadlines so the whole project can come together seamlessly. The last thing we need is for a delay in one aspect of the project to cause a delay in another area. Are we all good with that?”
Dave Douglas clears his throat.
“Excellent!” says Judd. He turns to the easel he has set up next to him and flips the cover to reveal a grid he has drawn with eleven rows, representing the weeks until we launch, and six columns, each labeled for our separate departments.
“We’re eleven weeks from launch,” he says. “And frankly, that scares me. I just want to make sure we map out everybody’s role so we can parallel-process most effectively. Susan. Let’s start with you. What do you see as your key deliverables over the next few weeks? What are the interdependencies that we need to be aware of?”
“I don’t think my deliverables are going to fit into those little boxes you’ve drawn,” says Susan. “Do you have any idea what I’ll be doing the next few weeks?”
Judd is thrown for only a second. “I don’t want to get too granular here. This is the thirty-thousand-feet view. Right now, I just want to get our schedule agreed so Jeanie, Hank, Russell, Martin and Dave know when to expect their pieces from you and vice versa.”
“OK,” says Susan. “As long as you remember I’m leaving at four thirty today.”
And so it goes. Somehow we get through the session, sharing enough information, taking the appropriate level of responsibility for meeting the deadlines we each need to meet. All the while, my head grows heavier and my body starts aching a little more.
“Good meeting,” says Judd. “I’m calmer. You guys should know by now, I’m all about process.”
Martin and I walk four blocks to a Chinese restaurant we’ve discovered on Forty-sixth Street. It’s a place that meets the three basic needs for a candid lunchtime conversation: The food is good. The service is fast. And Henry wouldn’t be seen dead here.
We’re seated at a small table next to a mirrored wall. Tea, crunchy noodles and duck sauce appear before us. Within sixty seconds we’ve ordered our favorites from the lunch specials menu.
“So,” I say. “What’s new?”
“It’s official,” says Martin. “Barney made the offer this morning. I accepted.”
“Fuck,” I say, dipping a noodle into the sauce, popping it into my mouth and chewing. “So that’s why you were so quiet in Judd’s meeting. Congratulations, I guess. Has anyone told Henry yet?”
“Not yet. Barney worked it out with HR. There’s nothing Henry can do.”
“Fuck,” I say again. “He’s going to have a cow when he hears.”
Two hot and sour soups are deposited in front of us.
“So what happens after you’re gone?” I ask. “If Henry’s looking to cut staff, he’s not going hire someone to replace you. He’
s going to have to promote from within.”
“That’s one reason I don’t feel so bad. Rachel’s obviously ready to step up.”
I slurp at my soup while Martin tells me all the reasons Rachel is right for his position. How incredibly organized she is. How she sees the big picture. How she used to manage three people in her last job. He’s wearing a brand new denim jacket designed to look like he’s been sleeping rough in it for years. Tufts of hair are sprouting from his ears.
“You don’t think Liz can do it? She’s been here longer. Everybody likes her.”
“Liz? Your old flame? No. She wouldn’t be right. She’s a good designer. But she’s not a leader. I can’t see her running the department. Plus she just had the kid and all.”
The waiter returns with our food. I pick up my fork and attack my plate of prawns and mixed vegetables.
Martin fumbles with his chopsticks and works on a mouthful of chicken and broccoli before saying, “I’m getting out just in time, Russell. You should think about it too. The newspaper business is in the toilet. Barney thinks the Chronicle is fucked. If this new project doesn’t work out, Larry Ghosh will probably fold the paper and take it all online.”
We talk more about the reasons why I should follow Martin’s lead and jump ship while I can. But somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear Henry whispering, “Loyalty’s important.” And I do feel a loyalty. If not to Henry, at least to the Chronicle and to the people who work for me. I can’t leave now. I can’t leave my team at the mercy of Judd. Plus there’s that little matter of my ten-million-dollar mistake. Sometime soon, I’m going to have to own up to that. It’s my mess. I’m a hundred percent responsible. One way or another, I need to clean it up.
Martin and I are quiet for the first three blocks as we head back to our building. I feel chilled. I need to lie down.
“Just for the record,” I say, “nothing ever happened between me and Liz. And despite that, I’d still promote her over Rachel any day of the week.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I’m running for a train. I know it’s leaving in sixty seconds, and I’m about three minutes away. But I run anyway. Quickly, I’m out of breath. I can see the train in the distance, about to pull away. I’m gasping for air. There’s no way I can make it, but I keep running. Everything is heavy. I’m moving in slow motion. I want to collapse and die. Instead, I wake up. I’m breathing heavily through a dry, bitter-tasting mouth. I’m alone in the bed. My nose is stuffed with congestion. My whole body feels sore, beaten up. It’s 3:17 a.m. I caught a cold coming back from Miami. I need to pee, but I don’t want to get up.
I call in sick and lie in bed watching TV. I ask Mike, my doorman, to buzz me when the mail comes so I can at least look for the files I want to crib from for the Livingston Kidd project.
Midafternoon, Mike calls and I put on shorts and sneakers to go get the mail. I’ve been feeling sorry for myself, drinking red zinger tea and eating cereal. My head is still foggy.
I sort through the mail. The usual bills and fundraising solicitations. And a handwritten envelope from Sam. Like her voice, I’ve always liked Sam’s handwriting, as if she curls her pen around words the same way she does with her tongue. This script is hurried-looking, more angular than normal, but it’s still recognizably hers. I can feel the key inside.
The elevator door closes, and I try to slide my finger under the envelope flap. The flap’s stuck tight, so I turn the envelope on its side to rip off the end instead. The elevator bumps to a stop, the door opens, and I step into the basement. Something’s not right. The envelope won’t tear. My fingertips send an urgent message to my brain: they’ve felt this kind of envelope before. I spin round and kick my leg forward to make the closing elevator door slide open again.
I inspect the envelope as the elevator glides slowly up to the sixth floor. The postmark is Enfield, Connecticut. Not Hartford where Beth-Anne and Steve live. The paper feels lighter but slightly thicker than a standard business envelope. I didn’t notice at first, but there’s an easy-open tear-off strip. It’s the kind of feature that makes opening envelopes fun, that increases direct mail response rates from ten to fifteen percent. I pull the strip, tilt the envelope, and let the small metal key slide into my palm.
I don’t know Connecticut well, so I check it on the internet. Enfield’s easy to find. Just south of the Massachusetts border. Only a few miles from Springfield, Massachusetts. The town where Sam grew up. The town to which high school sweetheart/envelope salesman/natural foods entrepreneur Greg Witchel has recently returned.
“Hi, Beth-Anne. Is Sam there?”
“Hi, Russell. Not right now. Can I have her call you?”
“That’s OK. I just wanted to ask her if we had any cold medications.”
“You have a cold? That’s too bad.”
“When do you think she’ll be back?”
“I don’t know. Did you try her cell?”
“No. Maybe I’ll do that. You guys having a good time?”
“Yes. It’s been great to see her.”
“What have you been up to?”
“Not much. Just the mall and back. The doctor wants me to take it easy till the baby comes. We’ve mainly been sitting around chatting.”
“Just the two of you?”
“And Steve when he’s around. Which isn’t often.”
“That’s nice. When do you think Sam will be back?”
“I don’t know. She borrowed the car. Went for a drive. I think she was getting a bit stir-crazy.”
“OK. I’ll try her cell then. Can you tell her I called?”
“OK. Feel better, Russell.”
“OK. Good luck with everything, Beth-Anne.”
“You too.”
I leave a message on Sam’s cell phone. Casual. Asking her to call me. Telling her I’m home sick. Just running downstairs, but otherwise I’ll be here.
I go to the basement, fetch the box I need, and sit with it by the phone. Half an hour goes by. I open the box. This was supposed to be my best work. But now it seems average and uninspired. I compare it to what Pete has done for me on Livingston Kidd. I can’t quite figure out what parts of his presentation I was hoping to fix. Today, his stuff looks better than I thought and mine looks worse than I remember.
Another half hour goes by. I try Sam’s cell phone again but don’t leave a message. I email Pete and tell him the Livingston Kidd presentation looks great. He should get it to Randy Baker. If it’s OK with Randy, then send a copy to Henry and we’re good to go. I tell him he should be the one to email Henry with it. I don’t tell him that the effort is worthless. All along, we’ve just been going through the motions. It doesn’t matter how good the presentation is. The Livingston Kidd account is already lost.
I call Beth-Anne again.
“Hi, Russell. She’s not back yet.”
“Yeah. I tried her cell a couple of times. Should I be worried?”
Beth-Anne hesitates, then says, “I just think she loves to drive. She said she doesn’t get much chance in the city.”
“You have no idea where she went?”
“She didn’t say.”
“Maybe to meet an old friend?”
“I don’t know, Russell.”
“It wasn’t me who wanted to sell the car,” I say. “She was the one who didn’t want to deal with the alternate-side parking.”
Later when I try Beth-Anne’s number again, it rings four times and the answering machine picks up. I don’t leave a message. I try a couple more times, in case Beth-Anne picks up while her recorded message is still playing. After that I start hanging up on the fourth ring, before the machine picks up.
I call Fergus at home. Julie tells me he’s working late, closing the new issue of Vicious Circle. I try his office, leave him a message. Ask him to call me back no matter how late.
The apartment is quiet. I pad to the kitchen in my thick hiking socks. I fill the electric kettle and sit at the kitchen table waiting for it to boil. I rinse out
the mug I’ve been drinking from all day. My favorite mug. The one with the red London bus on the side. I sit in the corner of our kitchen at our glass-topped table. In the time it takes the water to boil, I realize how easy it would be to lose my grip completely. Slipping into insanity would be as easy as walking through the wrong door. Insanity is the chair next to mine. Because I sat in this chair, I can stare at the kettle, the mug, the colorful box of Celestial Seasonings tea. I can stand up and pour the boiling water. I can sit back down and wait for the phone to ring or the tea to brew. It was just luck I sat in the sanity chair. If I had sat in the other one, I would be mad already.
The herbal tea is meant to soothe, but I grow increasingly agitated. I try a different flavor. I sit on the couch. I watch TV with the sound turned down.
The phone rings. It’s after midnight. It’s Fergus. I need to tell him about Sam. But he’s talking first. He’s excited. He has news he needs to tell me. He wants me to hear it from him before I hear it from anywhere else.
“Is this about Sam?”
“Sam? No. What’s wrong with Sam?”
“It doesn’t matter. Tell me your thing.”
“Brace yourself.”
“I’m braced.”
“I really hope this won’t ruin our friendship.”
“Why would it?”
“It’s this article I’ve been working on.” And then he stops talking. As if he’s hesitant to reveal something really bad. I turn off the TV and toss the remote onto the coffee table.
“Just tell me what the fuck it is.”
“You know how much I hate Larry Ghosh.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, a few weeks ago I pitched my editor a story idea.”
“About?”
“We were looking for a new angle. We had that torture-porn article last month. We wanted to follow it up with something different. And not just the usual right-wing nutjob stuff.”
I lean forward on the couch, the phone pressed to my ear. “And you came up with…?”