She is proofing ad layouts when the phone rings, startling her. Hilda's not supposed to put any calls through until she's done.
“What?” she answers distractedly, still reading.
“You don't have an appointment, do you?” Hilda asks in a hushed tone.
“No.”
“That's what I thought. Someone's here, though. A Mr. Hawkins? He says he's got an appointment—” His voice in the background. “Nine thirty, he says.”
“No, he—” she starts to say, then tells Hilda to send him in. The nerve, thinking he can just barge in here like this. Hands folded to keep them from shaking, she stares at the opening door.
“Sorry I'm late,” he says, unbuttoning his suit coat and settling into the chair across from her desk like a celebrity about to be interviewed. Almost condescending, as he straightens his tie, smiles.
“Late for what?”
“I hate to keep anyone waiting.”
“I wasn't.”
“Yes you were.”
“We don't have an appointment.”
“I know.”
“I don't even want you here.”
“I know,” he says with a note of surprise. “But some things are unavoidable, aren't they?”
“What do you mean?” She struggles not to lose her temper. He enjoys this, catching her off guard, toying with her.
“Well.” He thinks a moment. “Death. Isn't that the most obvious one?”
“And taxes.” Said with a nod and sweat on her chest as she stares at him.
He draws back, blinking a few times, and she remembers both his dismissive contempt and her eagerness, once, for his approval. “So trite of you, Nora. I'm surprised.”
“Why? What did you expect?”
“Oh. I don't know. That teenage girl? The one I used to know. Whatever happened to her?”
“A few weeks. That's all that was.”
“Longer than that. I've spent twenty-six years with her. That's a long time. Long and lonesome.” He rubs his eyes, then peers out with a sudden thought. “He died. I told you that, right? Took him a while, but like I said, unavoidable.” He grins. “You were trying to protect me. But nobody'd believe me. And you weren't there! You could've told them. The guy was a pervert. A drunken pervert, trying to molest a young girl. I did pretty well, though. Held my own, but then, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what do they do but push the widow in, in this goddamn rickety wheelchair, you should've seen it. ‘My Phil's gone,’” he cries in quivering falsetto. “‘My poor Phillie. Because of him,’ she says, pointing at me. ‘And now there's no one to take care of me.’”
She can hardly breathe. He fills the room, depleting the air, his studied elegance, the drape of his suit, the fine silk shirt, the tilt of his smooth head, all calculated. Waiting.
“So off I went. In chains.” In agonizing detail, he describes his trip to the state prison, the shackles rubbing his wrists and ankles raw, the terror, and his constant faith that she would return and free him from the nightmarish injustice. “All those years, day after day, I kept thinking, she'll come. She's too decent, too good a person not to.”
“Well, I didn't know, did I?”
“You knew.”
“No. Not that he died.” She can hardly get the words out.
He chuckles. “But now you do. So. It's not too late.”
“Not too late for what?”
“I told you before.” He picks up the pictures of Chloe and Drew, studying them in the hinged sterling frame. “A chance. That's all I want.”
Her mind races. Within minutes, she could get her hands on fifteen thousand dollars, money her mother left her.
“A chance to do what?” she asks carefully. He might take less.
He sets the pictures down, facing him. “It's like, you know, when you cut your fingernails and you flush the pieces down the toilet, I think about that. I like that feeling. Parts of me, like, floating into streams and rivers, the ocean. Feeding something. Fish maybe, then people. Like, something organic. Life. The ongoing process. You know what I mean? Some kind of cycle.”
His intensity makes her shiver.
“Regeneration!” he says suddenly. “That's what I mean!”
“If it's money you want—,” she begins, then jumps as he pounds the desk.
“You don't get it, do you, goddamnit! It's way past that now. Way, way past. I want a life, that's what I want.” His voice softens. “What you have.”
“But how can I do that? I don't understand.”
“Be my friend,” he whispers, straining over the desk. “Just be my friend.”
“And then what?” She can't breathe.
“Well. I don't know, do I?” He twiddles his thumbs and looks around. “A job! That's a pretty good start. Place like this, must be something I can do here.”
“No. I can't do that. But money, that would help, right?”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“I can give you money.”
“What do you mean, give me money?” he sneers.
“A loan. That's what I meant.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“To help you get on your feet.”
“Get on my feet!” he roars, his arm sweeping clear her desk, galleys, papers, books, her marble pen set, the children's pictures, the antique glass paperweight that was her mother's, radiating wobbly light as it rolls across the floor. “Who the hell do you think you are?” he rages. Standing now, he reaches across the desk as her phone rings.
Nora grabs it before he can.
“What's going on in there?” Hilda asks. “That man, are you all right?”
“Yes.” She fixes him with her stare, daring him to take another step. “Something fell. By mistake. Mr. Hawkins … he'll be out in a minute.”
With that, Eddie sits back down. He covers his eyes.
“You don't sound right,” Hilda says.
“I'm fine. We're almost done.”
“I can call Ken. He just went by.” Hilda's shadow darkens the strip of light beneath the door.
“No need. Really, Hilda. Everything's fine.” She hangs up but holds on to the phone. The last person on earth she wants in here is Ken, and have the shameful, sordid story revealed, especially now, flushed into the mess her life has become. And the thought of Chloe and Drew hearing any of this sickens her. Imagine, their mother involved in an assault, or maybe worse, no matter how long ago or how young she was. They have enough to deal with, as it is.
“Why are you doing this to me?” he whispers, eyes still shaded. “It's wrong. It's so wrong.” His shoulders narrow as his chest rises, falls, and she remembers exactly this, the sudden fury, his utter desperation, and its powerful effect on a seventeen-year-old.
“I think you better go now,” she says, steeling herself for his next outburst.
“I hate getting upset. You have no idea. The way it makes me feel,” he gasps, peering at her in such a contortion of rage and despair it might seem comical if she weren't so scared. “My head's pounding. I can hardly see. I can't think straight.”
“I'll call someone. They'll bring you downstairs.” Hand trembling, she picks up the phone.
And with that, he opens the door and is gone.
Hilda rushes in, shocked by the mess on the floor. “What happened?”
“Short fuse. No big deal.” The papers she's picking up tremble in her hands. Hilda asks who he was. Just some guy, Nora says. He wanted a job. She can tell that Hilda is biting her tongue.
They work together in silence, getting everything back on the desk.
“There was something really wrong with him,” Hilda finally says.
“Yeah, no kidding.”
“No, I mean it. Just talking to me, he was way too intense. On the edge.”
“Like a few people around here. Maybe I should hire him. See what happens.”
“No. I mean disturbed. Like, psychotic. I could tell.”
“Thanks for letting him in then.” Trying to make
light of it, her brittle laughter thins into shrillness.
“I never will again, believe me.”
Dr. Martelli listens thoughtfully in his oxblood red leather chair as she describes her shock upon learning of the affair. Or the relationship, as Ken keeps calling it. In this, their second session, Dr. Martelli seems determined to let them set their own pace tonight. If Ken wants to dissect his prickly relationship with his brother as he did in their last meeting, well, that's just fine. One thing is certain, Nora has no intention of delving into her own angst-ridden adolescence. Whenever she tries to steer the discussion back to their marriage, Ken will veer off course, and once again she'll be wondering why she's even here. She doesn't know which surprises her more, his utter self-involvement or her blindness to it. Bad enough she has so little patience with this whole process and less hope that it can help, but now her focus and confidence have been completely undermined by Eddie Hawkins. She can't think straight. More than a distraction, he's a growing threat. Every time he comes Hilda says she's not in her office. Last week he told Hilda that he and Nora have been working on a very important deal and now time is running out. Each visit leaves Nora even more confused about his motives. And now frightened. Tuesday he angrily accused Hilda of lying, asked her what she was so afraid of Best not to think about him. Not here, anyway. But it's like trying to close a door on smoke; some always seeps in.
“I always trusted Ken. I did,” she is telling the pleasant-faced therapist. He has a kind smile, a melancholy weariness she finds touching. She feels sorry for him, almost apologetic for going on like this about herself How does he stand it? she wonders. Imagine sitting here eight, ten hours a day enduring this spew of human weakness. For that's what it is, what it comes down to in the end, doesn't it? Frailty. Weakness, all this complaining, on and on, this airing out of dirty linen. Strong people don't ask for help; they solve their own problems, she was raised that way. Amazing, how much Ken seems to enjoy this. So typical, always involving others, asking for help his sincerest expression of friendship. He is happiest in a crowd, friends, total strangers, it doesn't matter. He enjoys the mix, the scrum of bringing new people together. Being a good friend matters every bit as much as being admired by his friends. And yet there have been more than a few times through the years when a seemingly innocuous comment or joke has ended a friendship. And once breached, for Ken, there's no return.
When they were first married, his unflagging enthusiasm seemed shallow and immature. There always had to be someone else tagging along, no matter where they went or what they did. Even on their rare dinners out alone Ken would manage, one way or another, to chat up someone at length, the busboy the couple at the next table. It used to hurt her feelings, but over time she came to understand his incessant approval seeking as part of his charm. His very boyish charm. Hard to be upset with someone who truly cares and, in return, wants only the same.
“I don't know, maybe I didn't want to know. I keep asking myself that now. I wonder. Maybe I was afraid. You know, if I put two and two together enough times, then maybe I'd have to do something.” She takes a deep breath and grinds her heel into the rug with an inner groan. What the hell is she talking about? Just talking, that's all. Stating the obvious. Why? To do her part. To make it more than just Ken's endless entanglement of guilt and regret. He doesn't seem to know what he's trying to say. He's just admitted he's not even sure what he wants anymore. With that, she interrupts to clarify her intentions here: to heal and put their life back together. He glances at Dr. Martelli. One thing seems obvious: Ken's desire for therapy has far more to do with himself than with her. “Well, anyway,” she says with a searching sigh. “I guess this is what we have to do, isn't it? Work this all out so we can move on.” Neither man speaks. They study her. Intently. As if expecting the real truth to come spilling out. Entrails. Her secrets. What? Eddie Hawkins? A chill passes through her. That was something else. A strange new problem. One has nothing to do with the other. With this. “Well? Is anyone going to say anything? Or are we just going to sit here looking at one another?” She smiles, hard though to make it seem like banter when her voice is so tinny with annoyance.
“What about it, Ken?” the doctor asks, as if coaxing him. “Anything you want to add here?”
“I don't know, it's hard.” He shrugs.
Nora stares at him. Hard? she almost screams. Try being me, Ken. And then see how goddamn hard it is. Instead, she coolly asks, “So, what do you think, Doctor? Are we heading in the right direction here? Ken and I, are we making any headway?”
The doctor shifts in his creaky chair, waits a moment, then speaks with a certain chagrined reluctance. As if he knows more than can be said. Far, far more. As if in this warm, cluttered office there is an unseen presence. “I don't know that headway's quite the right word. There's a kind of energy here,” he says, countersawing his hands between the two of them, “but it's contained, I think. Held back, perhaps. Does that make any sense?” Eyebrows raised, he looks from one to the other.
She grips the chair arms to keep from jumping up and leaving. She resents being talked down to, being made to feel childish and insignificant.
Ken speaks up, with sudden relish. “It's funny. I keep thinking there's some one thing, if only I can put my finger on it. You know, to figure this all out. It's like there's Nora, but then there's everything before that. You know what I mean, like … like I never got past certain things. Like, what I was saying about my brother last time. Him living in the same house. The same business, all the same people, it's not the way you do things nowadays. People don't get stuck in a place, in a job, in time. Not anymore.”
Strangely fascinating, this eager baring of his heart. Where's he going with this? Stuck in a marriage? Stuck in immaturity? It's the most he's ever admitted.
“That's such a … a relic, such a throwback. On the one hand, I look at my brother and I say, Jesus, what kind of life is that? And then I think, well, wait a minute, I'm doing the same thing, right? Only maybe I'm an even sicker son of a bitch than he is. I mean, what the hell're we doing? What're we afraid of?
“Like when I first met Nora. She was working at the paper, and she just seemed so different from everyone else. Refreshing, you know what I mean? No bullshit, the real deal, it was like I could tell her anything and not have to worry about a hidden agenda. She was always upfront with me. About everything. Especially about what an asshole I could be.”
Everyone laughs. His self-effacing humor. Reminded why she loves him, Nora pats his leg, smiling.
“Even my mom and dad,” he continues, “they saw it right away, too. Like some kind of energy had come into the family. New blood. Renewal, you know what I mean? Like … like, raising the bar. Not only smart as hell, but she made you think twice before you said something, because she'd damn well take you up on it. She had these … these deep values. And she did not suffer fools lightly. Which meant my whole family. They were scared of her. It was hard. I mean, after a century of bullshit, they've got someone like Nora sitting at Christmas dinner telling the emperor he's naked as a jaybird.”
“What're you saying, Ken?” Shocked, she can't remember ever offending his parents, especially not his father. “Your dad was like a second father to me. And he knew that. I told him that. Many times.”
“I know. But that's not my point. He didn't know how to take you. He and my mother, they were from a whole different species, they—”
“What on earth do your parents have to do with you and Robin? I'm sorry, but I don't get it.”
“See? Just cut to the chase,” Ken informs Dr. Martelli with a rueful sigh. “Once again.”
Nora taps her fingers on the chair arm, chews the inside of her mouth to shreds.
“It might help here, Ken, if you can give us some sense of where you're headed, pull it together a little more. Not just your disappointment, but your family's, the whole dynamic after that summer,” Dr. Martelli says.
That summer? So, this is a prearranged scrip
t, she realizes. Only problem is, as usual, Ken is all over the place, off-message, getting ahead of himself, forgetting the doctor's coaching, missing the prompts.
Ken is describing the summer after he graduated from college. He naturally expected to come home and work for the Chronicle as Oliver had done after graduating. But his father had other ideas for his younger, less motivated son. He wanted to take him out of his element. “I figured I'd throw him to the lions, then use what was left,” he said once of Ken's job in a Chicago paper's business office that he'd arranged through a friend. Ken would later describe the job as mind-numbing, a stint that made easily palatable Oliver's becoming publisher of the Chronicle. A master stroke on Mr. Hammond's part, Nora has always thought.
“Anyway Robin and I'd been going together all that time, ever since junior high school, really. So, naturally, I'm thinking she's part of the package, too. The future, Franklin, FairWinds, the Chronicle. I'd call and she'd say how nice Bob was, taking her to a club or a movie, stuff like that, you know, places she wouldn't want to go alone. And I'm thinking, jeez, what a good buddy, taking care of Robin till I get back. Then I come home and the two of them're in deep, and I'm trying to pretend not to care: like, oh, well, what the hell, what're you gonna do. I mean, my two best friends. We grew up together. But I'll tell ya, it took me a long time to get over it.” His voice hoarsens. “A real long time.”
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