When his problems with Peter Dreyfus started, Leo pretended not to see them; it wasn’t until things had gotten well out of hand that he realized he had to face the situation head-on. Leo’s reluctance to act wasn’t only because he dreaded confrontation; it was also because his relationship with Peter was rooted in Rosa, and he didn’t want to cause any disruptions. When Rosa’s husband died, she and Leo grew closer, and he was often thrown together with Peter, both in and outside the office. For a long time, they were cordial and professional, if distant. But about two years ago, something shifted. Peter had started to call Leo at night, fairly late, and talk about random topics, like his home renovations. At first, Leo indulged him. Although Peter’s ramblings were odd, Leo had a deep well of sympathy for other people’s feelings, and loneliness wafted off Peter like crusted mothballs. Also? The attention felt good. Nor was Peter unattractive, with that silky silver hair and trim build. Was he gay? Curious? Who cared? It was nice to be someone else’s crush for a change. But then Peter’s behavior shifted again—this time, in a threatening way. During meetings, he’d sit next to Leo and “accidentally” bump his leg under the table, or he’d follow Leo into the elevator and position himself way too close. One day he walked into Leo’s office and tossed a picture of two naked men that he’d ripped out of some dirty magazine on his desk.
Leo snapped. “What the hell, Peter. You can’t do this anymore!”
Peter raked his fingers through his hair. “Can’t do what?” Although he appeared cool and calm, his hands were trembling.
Seeing this frightened Leo. He moved toward the door, but Peter lunged forward and tried to kiss him. “Get the fuck off me!” Leo shouted. He imagined Rosa, how this would devastate her. “Stop it, I’m serious.” Peter was so close that Leo could make out the veins in his face. The old man smelled like aftershave, bleach, and locker-room sweat.
“Why should I stop?” Eyes blazing, Peter smacked Leo’s chest, hard. “Why should I stop? There’s nothing going on here.” He sounded menacing, unhinged.
Leo grabbed the phone. “I’m calling Manny!” His heart was pounding. “I’m reporting you to security.” But once Leo started to dial, Peter wheeled around and walked out.
From then on, Leo’s early mornings were a misery. Every day, as he rode up alone in the elevator, he’d brace himself, hoping Peter would be late. But as soon as Leo stepped into reception, he’d hear the old man strolling through the halls, hands in his pockets, jangling his keys like the crowned king of the manor. Peter’s presence on the otherwise empty floor had unnerved Leo. He liked to barge into Leo’s office without knocking, or stand silently at his door, tracking Leo with his eyes like a haunted Mona Lisa.
As a consequence, Leo felt jumpy all the time; he also felt ashamed and responsible, as if he’d led the old man on. Though Dr. Saul assured him this wasn’t true, the situation felt untenable, and Leo started sending out his résumé. At the same time, Dr. Saul was helping him become an Authentic Person and live an Authentic Life by dialing down the hyperbole, cutting through his false chatter, and being honest about who he was. Leo started working harder in therapy. He talked about Peter, but spent equal time focused on his loneliness, and the difficulties he faced as a middle-aged corporate man with no family of his own. “Look around,” Dr. Saul suggested. “Lonely people are everywhere.” (Often, when Leo was at work, he’d want to ask, Who here is as lonely as I am? Can I please get a show of hands? Lonely losers, represent.) It took months, but as Leo’s shame waned, he began to feel stronger and more in control. Although he knew he couldn’t tell Rosa about Peter’s behavior, since she adored Peter but would be forced to get involved, in the end the issue became academic. While Leo was spending his days and nights constructing an Authentic Self, Peter was engineering his own self-destruction. Eventually, inevitably, the old man was found out.
“So that’s what happened,” Rob concluded. “No one’s spoken to Peter since December.”
“Wow. Stealing, huh? You never really know your coworkers, right?” Leo wished he could tell Rob the truth, how awful it was, how scared he’d felt. But Rob wasn’t a real friend, and to pretend otherwise didn’t adhere to the tenets of Authentic Living.
A moment later, Rosa swept into the conference room with Katie trailing behind. “Sorry we’re late! Katherine wouldn’t let me leave my office until I signed off on the budgets.”
“It’s okay,” Rob and Leo said simultaneously, neither man looking at the other.
Rosa eyed Rob’s BlackBerry. “What are you working on?” Her voice was sharp.
“The usual,” Rob said, dropping the device. It clattered when it hit the table. “Leo and I were brainstorming ideas for recruiting a new Peter.”
This seemed to aggravate her. “Rob, Rob, Rob. Peter’s been gone for months. Why are you dragging your heels?” Her voice rose higher until she was practically shouting. “How many times do I have to remind you to take this assignment seriously?”
Rob’s face reddened. “I’ve brought in several candidates. You didn’t like any of them.” He glanced at the door, as if desperate to escape. Leo noticed that Katie was doing the same thing.
“Which means you need to work harder to find higher-quality people!” She stopped, slowed herself down. “Rob.” She straightened her suit jacket, started again. “Rob, I apologize for my tone. In addition to a new Peter, Rutherford gave me the go-ahead to hire a second payroll clerk, so we have to fill that spot, too. If we don’t enter all that data, we’ll fall behind.”
Though Rosa had never said so explicitly, Leo gleaned that Rob was in the shit, workwise. He didn’t know how far, but it must be pretty damn deep for her to go after him this way in front of his coworkers. “Rosa!” he jumped in. “Rob just said we’re brainstorming. He’ll find whatever candidates you need.”
“When?” She looked at Rob. “Kenny can’t process all those checks by himself.”
“Friday morning,” Rob retorted. “Leo and I have a working dinner Thursday night.”
“Fine,” Rosa said pointedly. “I’m holding you both to it.”
Across the table, Leo stared at his computer. In his peripheral vision, he saw Rob staring, again, at the door; this time looking wounded and fearful. Leo’s own face, he hoped, was devoid of expression. So what if it was only a working dinner? He and Rob had plans.
11
The following Tuesday, Leo stood on the sidewalk, looking up. It was chilly out, and he was anxious to go inside, but wasn’t sure he was at the right building. Confused, he checked the street again. Yesterday was President’s Day, but Rosa had left him a voice mail saying she’d be at an offsite meeting today, and would he mind joining her? Also, please bring her laptop. She sounded rushed, and her words were garbled, so when he scribbled down the address—“100 East Seventy-Seventh, Room 1504”—he must’ve gotten it wrong. This was Lenox Hill Hospital.
Leo headed inside. Was Lenox Hill a client? He didn’t think so. Ellery’s health-care unit serviced medical manufacturers, not hospitals, although maybe this was a new direction. But as he got off the elevator and made his way through an actual ward, he didn’t see any conference rooms or small offices. What kind of meeting could Rosa possibly be having here?
When he stepped, tentatively, into Room 1504—“Hello? Rosa?”—he was taken aback. There was his boss, hooked up to an IV drip and an EEG monitor. Or EKG? He wasn’t sure. But the woman dozing in that bed was definitely Rosa.
He stepped closer. “Rosa?” Should he wake her? “Rosa? It’s Leo.” Her eyes fluttered open. She looked disoriented, frightened. “Rosa? It’s Leo, from work.”
Her eyes snapped into focus. “For God’s sake, Leo. I know who you are. I’m not—” She struggled to sit up, smooth her blanket. “This isn’t how it looks.”
“What happened? Are you sick?”
“Do I look sick?”
Leo looked at her closely. Rosa’s mouth drooped, and her right cheek was sunken, as if the scaffolding underneath had col
lapsed. “You’re in a hospital.” Leo kept his eyes on her right arm, which was curled in her lap like a pampered pet, waiting to see if she’d lift it. She didn’t. Couldn’t? “What’s going on?” He waved at the machines. Heart attack? Stroke?
She motioned to him: Lean closer. “If I tell you, you can’t repeat it. Please, Leo.” Please had a slight hiss at the end, and Leo came out Eo, as if her tongue couldn’t form the L.
“Don’t be ridiculous; who would I tell?” Flustered, Leo busied himself with finding a chair. There was an unseemly aspect to being in this room while Rosa lay in bed, wearing a hospital gown. He felt compelled to look away—not for his own sake but for hers. Years ago, Rosa had told him about a Sony executive who’d stepped out of a meeting to take a call. When he returned, his face was stony—clearly, the news was bad—but he rejoined the group and the discussion went on. Later, she learned it was the man’s wife on the phone; their son had been killed in a head-on collision. “He barely flinched,” Rosa recalled. “Just sat down and kept talking.” Though her intention was to share a negative example of Sony’s culture, Leo could hear awe in her voice: sure, the guy’s behavior was grotesque, but there was something to be said for his professionalism and focus, regardless of the circumstances.
“I promise you, Rosa,” Leo told her, meaning this. “I won’t tell a soul.”
“I had a brain . . . a brain . . . thing.” Rosa cleared her throat. “A minor incident.”
“A stroke?” He could hear it now: slurring. Inshident. An inshident, L-L-L-L-L-eo.
“Minor stroke”—minor shtroke—“but I’m fine.” She chuckled. “Thank God it didn’t happen at work. I would’ve just died!” Jusht died!
“Rosa, please; don’t say that. So what happened?” He looked around as if to find answers. “Did you know it was a stroke?”
“I was in the supermarket”—shupermarket—“of all places, feeling sick”—shick—“like I might throw up . . .” Rosa licked her lips. “Suddenly I lost my words. I knew an apple was an apple but it came out ‘tree.’ ‘Tree?’ the girl behind the counter asked, like I was demented. ‘What kind of tree?’ I got scared, so I jumped in a cab and came here. Trust me, Leo”—trusht me, L-L-L-Leo—“you can’t be too careful, not with your brain.”
“Oh my God! Rosa, that sounds petrifying.” Leo’s heart was beating faster. “But it was smart to come to the hospital—”
“I knew what to do.” She smiled weakly. “Had a TIA.” Sunlight streaming through the window washed her face of color and highlighted the age spots on her skin. “Few years ago.”
“You had a stroke before?” Leo wasn’t sure if he was asking the right questions, and still not sure if he should be here at all.
“Not stroke—TIA is an indicator.” Not a schtroke. “A brain distur . . . bance.”
But Leo wasn’t listening; he was searching his memory for evidence. When was this? Two years ago? Three? “Recently?” He thought he recalled a hitch in her step, moments of confusion, memory gaps. Or was he imagining this? “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”
“Why would I?” This appeared to aggravate Rosa, as if she could tell he was scrutinizing her. “You’re on my staff. It’s my business!” Bushinesh.
“I’m not invading your privacy.” He felt stung. “I’m concerned.” How could she call him her staff? Maybe he wasn’t part of her family, but he was certainly more than just her employee. The word was an insult, given how many off-hours they spent together, especially after Howard died. Back then, Leo was at her house almost every day. “I didn’t realize you were having all these health problems.”
“I’m not have . . . probs . . . leave . . .’morrow.” She tapped his bag. “You . . . laptop?” Suddenly, her speech was incomprehensible. All that slurring and stammering, those dropped consonants and mushy vowels.
“You’ve been here since Friday?” He looked around. “Where’s your family?”
“Rochester. Everyone’s busy . . . work, school, whatever . . . Marcy will be here ’night.” She waved her left hand; her right still rested awkwardly in her lap. “Head count, please.” She continued to wave until he took out the computer and booted it up.
A nurse walked in. “Doing okay, Miss Rosa?” Stocky, with curly hair and dark moles, she wore cranberry-colored scrubs and white sneakers that squeaked when she walked.
Leo stood up. “I should go.” He put Rosa’s computer on the bed, along with a sheath of files from his bag. “I don’t want to be in the way.”
“You’re not.” Rosa pointed to the chair. Her voice deepened, as if they were back in the office and she wanted something NOW. “Sit down, Leo.” Shit down, L-l-leo.
Leo sat.
“This your son, Miss Rosa?” asked the curly nurse.
“Nephew.” She said this looking straight at Leo, as if daring him to contradict her.
“Well, Mr. Nephew . . .” The curly nurse shone a light in Rosa’s eyes, then wrapped a blood pressure cuff around her upper arm and started to pump. “You probably know Miss Rosa’s not my easiest patient.” She eyed the computer. “Miss Rosa, this yours?”
“Not mine, no, Mr. Nephew’s.” Rosa pointed to Curly’s scrubs. “I like that purple color.”
Blood pressure checked, Curly studied the monitors and made notes in her chart. “You need the restroom? You’ve been in the bed all morning.”
Rosa shook her head. “When can I go home?”
The nurse turned to Leo. “Falling is common after a stroke, so if she does need to urinate or move her bowels, she has to use the walker. As far as her discharge date, she can discuss it with her doctor. I have no say in that decision, but he already told her not before Friday and most likely after the weekend. Miss Rosa should not do any work,” she added, glancing at the laptop.
“I’m right here,” Rosa squawked, but Curly was looking at Leo.
“Sure,” was the most he could muster. He was unable to take his eyes off Rosa’s right arm, which still hadn’t moved.
Rosa didn’t speak again until the nurse left the room. “Leo, I wouldn’t ask unless”—unlesh—“I had to. Leo, listen”—L-L-Leo, lishen—“I need your help.”
OF COURSE HE would help her. Leo had never betrayed Rosa’s confidence, not once in twelve years; why would he start now? She had already told Katie she was home with the flu, so that was the story. (Check.) She didn’t want anyone to find out about her stroke, her TIA, or the hospital—no matter what. (Fine, check.) She’d like for him to review her revised 2010 budget with Rutherford (check), and for Lucy to attend her executive committee meeting on Thursday. (Check.) “Unless I’m back,” Rosa added. “Then I’ll go myself.”
“The nurse said you’ll be here through the weekend.” Leo adjusted the laptop on the bed to offer a better view of the screen. He was reluctant to let her work, but she was adamant.
“Oh, please, I’ll be out in two days.”
“If you leave against medical advice, Cigna won’t cover you if something happens. I know you know this.”
“One, the nurse is a dope. ‘Mish Rosa, Mish Rosa.’ Like I’m a goddamn child. Two, they’re just covering their asses. Liability, Leo: I walk out and drop dead, they get sued. Shued. Third, I’m ninety-nine-point-nine percent recovered.”
While it was true Rosa had an unsteady gait, also true she was slurring, if Leo didn’t look too closely, she seemed very much herself. She wasn’t drooling or shuffling like stroke victims on TV; maybe Rosa was as healthy as she claimed. Still, there was a lot at stake. “When people hear ‘stroke,’ they see a brain-dead old lady,” she said, as if reading his mind. “It’s the perfect excuse to get rid of me—and once they get rid of me, Leo, they’ll get rid of you, too.”
LEO STAYED THE rest of the day. He worked on his monthly benefits brief, negotiated with the 401(k) vendor on the phone, and e-mailed Rutherford to let him know he was taking over the budgeting process. He acted surprised when Katie told him Rosa was out sick (“How funny! I am too!”), wa
rned Lucy about a flu going around, and never let on that Rosa was lying beside him, listening to all of this. At lunchtime he ran to the deli and brought back two turkey clubs and chicken soup. Rosa only ate the soup. (She had trouble swallowing.) When she left for physical therapy, the curly nurse chastised him for not letting her rest, so when she got back, he shut down the computer and they watched a Lifetime movie called Hunger Point while Rosa dozed. An hour later, a new nurse took Rosa’s vitals, and she didn’t care how Rosa occupied her time, so they went through the Raleigh town hall deck, conferencing in Lucy, who said she’d be happy to meet with the CEO and executive committee while Rosa recovered from the flu. As the afternoon wore on, Rosa became sluggish. Her slurring got so bad Leo couldn’t understand her. An orderly came to take her for tests, and now Leo was packing up and preparing to go home.
A female doctor, a cool blonde wearing a crisp white coat over a navy cashmere sweater and slim black pants, stepped into the room. “Hi,” she said, glancing around. “Where’s Rosa?”
“CT scan, I believe.” Shouldering his bag, Leo took out his MetroCard.
“I’m Dr. Brady. Her neurologist.”
“I’m Leo Smalls.” He extended his hand. “Nephew.”
“Nice to meet you, Leo; I’m glad you’re here.” She had a firm grip and a kind smile. All Rosa had told him about Dr. Brady was that she had “professional hair,” which he saw was pulled into a sleek chignon. “I’m trying to reach Rosa’s sister, but she hasn’t returned my calls.”
“Marcy? Rosa told me she was stopping by tonight.”
“Rosa said the same thing last night and the night before.” Dr. Brady flipped through a chart. “But according to the staff, none of the rest of your family has visited.”
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