George Mills

by Stanley Elkin

  Cornell figured Sam figured it had to be enmity. She was essentially a lazy woman. Cornell figured Sam figured she was jealous of his health. Hadn’t it been held up to him on more than one occasion not that he was free of cancer while she carried hers to term like some malignant pregnancy, but that he’d been sane the whole eleven years she’d been nuts? So it had to be enmity. She was lazy. Intestacy wouldn’t have caused her to lift a finger. But there were those numbers to deal with, the difference between that half and that third she was screwing him out of by lifting the finger, by painfully crabbing all her suffering fingers around the uncongenial Mexican motel pen and laboriously writing out the inter vivos trust that either her father or brother—Cornell figured Sam figured—had dictated to her over the phone and that left everything to the girls with Harry as trustee, and that she had to be at pains just to get the handwriting right, probably working from actual memory to recall the once free-flowing cursive, the idiosyncratic flights and loops of her own signature.

  “I feel sorry for the guy,” Cornell told Mills on the telephone. (He hadn’t seen him since the night George had walked out of his home leaving Messenger alone with his wife.)

  “Yes?”

  “She put him through hoops. The hoops were on fire. There were prenuptial agreements, did you know that?”

  “Prenuptial agreements,” George Mills said evenly.

  “He didn’t have a pot to piss in. What was he? Some poor graduate student. Maybe he had a typewriter and a ream of paper to do his assignments on. Maybe he had a few dollars’ worth of dictionaries and a handful of those composition manuals and examination copies they hand out to TA’s to look over.

  “The poor bastard was marrying big bucks. I told you. There were prenuptial agreements. He had to sign to go the distance. If the marriage broke up before they got through the first fifteen years he wouldn’t get a penny. He was on probation, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Yes,” George Mills said.

  “They were married seventeen years,” Messenger said. “She did him anyway.”

  “Yes,” George Mills said. He sounded distant even to himself. “What does he have to do now?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “To fight it. To break the trust.”

  “I don’t know, George. I’m no lawyer.”

  “Victor’s a lawyer,” George Mills said. “Find out. Call me back.”

  “He says he’s got three ways to go,” Messenger said when he called back the next day. “If he can prove fraud, undue influence or mental incapacity.”

  “There was no undue influence,” George Mills said.

  “No,” Messenger said slyly, “but there may have been fraud.”

  “I don’t see it,” Mills said.

  “The prenuptial agreement, the numbers. If she left everything to the girls in a will he could set aside, he’d have taken a third, half if she left no will at all. He thinks it could be fraud because she didn’t leave him anything to set aside. Not a bad will or a nonwill either. There was malice and intent. He served more than his time, those fifteen-year articles of apprenticeship. Those fifteen-year articles of apprenticeship and then some. He was entitled to his expectations.”

  “Thank you for your trouble,” he said. “She was crazy,” George Mills said flatly.

  “It’s good I’m enhanced,” Messenger said. “I don’t owe you shit. I never fucked your wife.”

  “I know that,” George Mills said. “All you ever did was want to.”

  Messenger called again instead of coming over.

  “You might as well have all the facts,” he said.

  “Yes?” George Mills said.

  “Grant’s dead.”

  “Mr. Glazer?” Mills said.

  “Who’s this?”

  “George Mills,” George Mills said.

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s my back, sir. I’m afraid what might happen to it this winter.”

  “Yes?”

  “If that job in buildings and grounds is still open, I wouldn’t be out in the weather.”

  “I’m not sure it’s available,” Sam Glazer said.

  “That’s too bad,” Mills said. “Oh, Mr. Glazer?”

  “What?”

  “That senior partner called. After I spoke to you last? But I’m doing just what you said.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good.”

  “I’m keeping an open mind.”

  “Look,” Sam Glazer said, “I want to be frank.”

  “Sure,” George Mills said, “me too. Absolutely.”

  “I’d be looking around for something else if I were you.”

  “I’m hanging in there,” Mills said, hoarsely rushing the message into the mouthpiece. But at the other end the line had already gone dead.

  He decided he would go in person. He wore his suit, the one he had worn to the funeral. He was going to take a hat he could hold in his hands but decided that would be too much. A receptionist passed his name in and in five minutes a young man Mills had never seen came out to greet him. The young man walked briskly over to where George was seated on the edge of a deep leather couch and stuck out his hand. Mills started to rise, but by pushing his handshake at him the young man managed to keep George off balance and shoved him further back into the couch.

  “Good to meet you, sir,” the young man said. “What can I do for you?” George Mills realized that the kid meant for him to state his business there in the outer office. He hesitated and the young man’s smile became even wider. He’s going to sit down next to me, George Mills thought. That’s what happened. The young lawyer leaned toward him and lowered his voice. “They’ve painted my office,” he said. “It’s a relief to get away from those fumes for a minute.” Mills smelled cologne. The receptionist smiled.

  “I asked to see your boss,” George Mills said. “My business is with your boss.”

  “Hey, pal, give me a break,” the kid said. “Harvard ’80, editor of the Law Review, two summers clerking at the Supreme Court. Why do you want to make me feel so bad? Don’t you think I can handle it?” The receptionist was grinning.

  “This isn’t a law thing,” George Mills said. “It’s about a car.”

  The young man looked at the receptionist, who shook her head.

  “This is the automobile department,” the kid said.

  “Give him a message,” Mills said, speaking past the young man to the receptionist huskily. “Tell him the price of the Buick Special is negotiable.”

  “I’ll let him know that, George,” the receptionist said.

  “Tell him,” and now he was standing, “tell him I just heard about the terrible tragedy and …”

  “The terrible tragedy, George?” the receptionist said.

  “Grant’s death,” George Mills said.

  The receptionist and the guy exchanged puzzled looks.

  “Ask him to extend my condolences to the Claunches, and to tell Mr. Claunch Sr. that if there’s anything I can do …” But he couldn’t finish. He walked past the snotnose kid and the girl at the desk and out the suite into the hall.

  It was a good building but not a new one. An operator was still required to drive the elevator. He wore a uniform like a doorman’s but much more subtle. He called George “sir” and greeted many of the passengers personally as they got on at their floors. About George’s age, his name was George too, and several passengers passed the time of day with him while they descended.

  “How’s it going, George?” a tall gentleman said. “Your wife’s cold any better?”

  “She’s fine, Mr. Brooks.”

  “Get that yard work done this weekend?”

  “No ma’am, Miss Livingston,” the elevator operator said. “My brother-in-law never brought my mower back.”

  “How were those seats, George?”

  “Considerably better than the Ca
rdinals, Judge.”

  The judge chuckled. “I think I can get two more for you for the Dallas game.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “George, if you see Mr. Reynolds would you hand him this for me? The mailman left it in our office by mistake.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Kafken.” They were at the lobby floor. “All you folks have a fine lunch now, hear?” the elevator operator said. “Anything wrong, sir?” he asked the sobbing George Mills.

  “Allergies,” Mills said, and blew his grief and envy into his handkerchief.

  He called Claunch directly. He didn’t beat around the bush. He asked if the lawyers had passed on his message.

  “What message was that?”

  Mills told him.

  “Oh, that message.” The old man laughed.

  He was just wondering, Mills said, if Mr. Claunch was pressed for good, loyal help at the compound till he could find a suitable replacement for Grant.

  “Someone to play with the trains?”

  “To take over his duties,” Mills said softly.

  “Well,” he said, “my sister normally hires the staff.”

  It was just that he’d gotten along so well with Mrs. Glazer, Mills said, had been so close to her that last month, had grown so fond of her and respected her so much. He said he felt he knew the family almost as well as he knew the daughter.

  He tried to say the rest of it lightly as he could. He realized, he said, that it wasn’t usually the place of the employee to furnish the employer with “character references,” but his feelings about Mrs. Glazer were so strong that he’d be happy to testify to them.

  “You mean swear an affidavit?”

  “If that’s what’s required.”

  “Uh huh,” Claunch said. “I already got seven hundred seventy thousand dollars in tax-deductible affidavits lying around the house signed by a psychiatrist. I don’t think I need another one. Everyone knows what Judy was. Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Mills?”

  Look, George Mills, he knew no one owed him anything, that he’d been paid well for his services, but his back was acting up, he was getting on, feeling his age. He didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to horse furniture around. Would Claunch help him?

  “You want me to move furniture?”

  “I want you to get me a job as an elevator operator in one of your buildings.”

  “Why?”

  “I think it might be interesting work. You get to know all those people. They give you tickets to the games. You get to exchange the time of day with them. There’s probably pretty fair money in it. Tips, gifts at Christmas. I never thought about it before. It’s not the loftiest goal in the world, but I think it’s something I’d enjoy doing.”

  Claunch considered for a moment. “No,” he said, “I don’t think so. I don’t want to help you. Tell you what though,” he added amiably, “hold on to the job you got. Because if you lose it you won’t be collecting any unemployment insurance. Not in this state you won’t. You’re still a few years away from Social Security, am I right?”

  “Yes,” George Mills said.

  “That’s good,” Claunch said. “Because I’m making a note. I’m having you jerked off the Social Security rolls.”

  “Can you do that?” George Mills asked. “Why?”

  “Sure I can do it. As to why, I don’t know. You’re a guy gets a kick out of other men’s power. Maybe I’m doing you a favor by showing you mine. Now don’t bother me again. Stop calling my lawyers. There’s unsolved capital crimes. You bother me or my people I’ll see to it you get convicted of some of them. Nice to hear from you.”

  Laglichio said he was just the man he wanted to see. He was starting a new service he said. Federal law required that trucks that hauled food be thoroughly scrubbed down before a new load could be placed in them.

  “It’s this nuisance, make-work, government-on-our-backs sort of thing, but shit, kid, the job’s yours if you want it. I’d kind of like to see you in the crew.”

  “The crew,” George Mills said.

  “The bucket brigade in the trailer,” Laglichio said.

  “And the pay?”

  “Every bit as good as you make right now.”

  “I see,” George Mills said.

  “Money isn’t everything. There are other advantages,” Laglichio said.

  “Yes?”

  “The niggers would see your white ass and think you’re foreman. I wouldn’t tell them otherwise, George,” Laglichio said. “Look,” he said, “it’s up to you what you do with your life.”

  Messenger phoned. “It was this roll of fast color film they do in Japan,” he said. “It was this roll of super fast film he brought back with him. It’s not on the market here in the States. It retails for maybe three or four dollars,” he said, something manic in the edge of his voice. “Talk about your mess of pottage, hey Mills? The horror, the horror, huh?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well you were wrong,” Messenger said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well it wasn’t any gold goddamn lighter, it wasn’t any pen-and-pencil set. He didn’t touch the place settings. He never stole the silver.”

  “I don’t——”

  “It was film,” he said. “It wasn’t any damn souvenir. It didn’t have any damn royal crest on it. That was just your idea. It was this roll of fast film with an ASA rating of several thousand. On a cloudy day you take sharp color pictures of the dark side of the moon or something.”

  “He stole the chancellor’s film?”

  “No,” Messenger said. “That was your idea too. It was Claunch, Sr.’s film. He was passing it around. He saw Sam pocket it.”

  “That’s why he was shouting!” Mills said, everything clear to him. “The son of a bitch set him up!”

  “No,” Messenger said, “that’s your idea too. What is he, a mastermind? How could he know Sam would slip the roll of film into his pocket? You’re one of these conspiracy suckers, Mills. Things happen, that’s all. This was just simple, honest, innocent rich man’s show and tell. And Sam, Sam was so mad at how they’d been treating him he pulled this dumb kid’s trick. It wasn’t even theft. It was vandalism.”

  “He was caught red-handed. They were shouting. They made him resign.”

  “Yeah, well,” Messenger said, “they worked it out.”

  “The trust,” George Mills said.

  “The works,” Messenger said gleefully. “The car is back.”

  “It’s Harve,” he said when he phoned again.

  “What is it?” Mills asked. “Has something happened to your son?”

  “Who is it?” Louise asked. “Is it Cornell?”

  Mills nodded. “It’s his kid,” he told her.

  “Oh my God,” Louise said, “what happened?”

  “No, no,” Messenger said. “Tell her it’s all right.”

  “What is it, George?” Louise asked.

  “I don’t know,” George Mills said. “He says it’s all right.”

  Messenger was laughing and talking at once. Mills could barely understand him.

  “But he says he’ll be all right?” Louise said.

  Mills handed his wife the telephone. “You talk to him. I can’t carry on two conversations at once.”

  “Cornell, it’s Lulu,” she said. “George tells me Harve’s going to be all right. That’s the important thing. Listen,” she said, “kids that age have incredible powers of recovery. I saw it all the time in the lunchroom. They’d bang their heads open on the slippery floors, get into fights. A few days later they were completely—What? Oh,” she said. “—Oh.—Oh.”

  “What?” George Mills said. “What?”

  Louise looked at him crossly and shook her head. She put her finger to her lips. “What? What’s that, Cornell? Oh,” she said smiling, and began to nod. George Mills watched her nod and smile into the telephone. Messenger might have been courting her. She looked seductive, almost coy. “T
hat’s wonderful,” she said at last. “I certainly will.” She replaced the phone.

  “What?” George Mills said. “What?”

  “It was the alphabet,” she said.

  “The alphabet,” Mills repeated. “The kid’s learned the alphabet.”

  “That’s just it,” she said, “he never did.”

  “That’s what’s so wonderful?”

  “Well yes,” she said, “in a way. I mean they didn’t know he hadn’t learned it. He sang that song when he was a little kid.”

  “What song?”

  “You know,” she said. Louise started to sing. “ ‘ABCDEFG, HIJKLMNOP.’ You know,” she said.

  “Oh yeah,” George Mills said.

  “I mean Cornell says that was practically his favorite song when he was a kid, so naturally they assumed …They didn’t know he didn’t understand the connection between the sounds and the letters. Now they think that when they taught it to the kids in preschool that must have been the month he had strep throat. And that when they reviewed it in kindergarten that was when he had his tonsils out.” Mills stared at her. “They just caught it,” she said. “After all those years. Can you imagine? They just caught it.”

  “Was he high?” Mills asked.

  “Cornell? No. I can tell.”

  “You can?”

  “A woman knows,” his wife said.

  “I see.”

  “He’s been sight reading,” Louise said. “All these years. He’s been sight reading. Do you know how hard that is? Cornell says it’s as if we were set down in Japan or Russia or anywhere else they have those peculiar alphabets, and could read only the words we’d had some experience with. Stop signs or the word for ‘bakery’ if we see cakes in the window.”

  George Mills nodded.