Phone Calls Late at Night

Phone Calls
Late At Night
by
Kim Bellard
Copyright © Kim Bellard 2001

Phone Calls Late at Night
All Rights Reserved
2
Chapter 1
The ringing of the payphone across the corridor startled me.
It was early evening, and I was sitting by myself in the Charlotte airport. At least, I think
it was Charlotte. It could have been Tampa or Nashville or Des Moines, or lots of other
cities of that certain size. Nothing against any of those airports, but I knew I wasn't at
O'Hare or Hartsfield or LAX. Most airports have become like malls; you lose track, and
you can't tell where you are. They all seem alike. Same shops, same carpet in the
hallways, same fast food places. Travel has become so homogenized that, once in the
airport, travel itself becomes an illusion and you might as well be using some sort of
science fiction teleporter to arrive and depart everywhere from the same terminal.
All that I knew was that I was tired, I was waiting for a long delayed plane in a mostly
deserted stretch of the terminal, and I didn't want to spend the night where I was.
I had spent most of my time at this airport -- as in most airports -- in the airline's club
room, working the phones and catching up on my emails. It's quieter there, and you can
get a snack and something to drink without waiting in line. The furniture is plush and
comfortable, and the floor is not some sort of cheap vinyl worn to a dazed shine by the
repeated cycle of thousands of feet alternating with buzzing floor polishers. The class of
people is more homogenous too, fellow travelers like myself who no longer saw flying as
an adventure, but simply as a way of commuting. Perhaps that is why I usually ended up
spending at least some of my waits in airports in the terminals after all: I liked to watch
the people who did still see flying as an event, whose destinations beckoned welcome
vacations or the comforts of returning home. For us club room people, the frequent fliers
with platinum or beyond status, the next flight was just a bus to work.
I used to feel like each trip was an adventure, and that I was living the most exotic life
possible -- literally part of the jet set. I felt glamorous and part of an elite. On a good
day I might feel traces of that even now, but those traces were now just pale imitations of
3
the excitement I saw on the faces of these more plebian fliers. The lucky ones, anyway;
on most faces I just saw worry and annoyance. They were just transferring the sources of
those from their everyday lives to flying. One way or another, they'd find reasons to be
upset. Still, the shining faces of those fortunate few made me long for that thrill that they
had not yet lost. To them, the gates were like magic: step through, and go on to another
world.
To me, the gate was just a door to a runway to another damn plane, on its way to another
damn meeting in another damn city.
But don't feel sorry for me, because I didn't feel sorry for myself. It was my life, and I
loved it. I might envy that thrill of the infrequent trip that I saw on these passengers'
faces, but I have to admit to a certain amount of scorn about them too. They got too
upset by delays and mishaps, they didn't know how to pack properly, and they made way
too much noise. They wore shorts, cut-offs, and flip-flops on planes, while I was
properly dressed in a suit and tie. I'm not proud of my attitude towards them, but that's
the way it is. I don't hate them and I wouldn't take away their privilege to fly even if I
could, but, honestly, common sense should tell them those oversized, overstuffed bags
they carried on weren't going to fit in those overheads. They were just going to delay
serious travelers like myself while they tried.
Anyway, that phone was ringing. I was a couple gates away from my gate, where other
passengers from my flight-to-be waited. The flight at this gate had long departed, with
none scheduled until the next morning, so I pretty much had it to myself. The airport
generally had wound down, from the early morning burst of energy and the little peaks
and valleys of activities during the day. People had come and gone all day, and now, for
the most part, were just gone. The airport was tired, wanting all these guests leave so it
could start to revitalize itself for the next day. The remaining passengers -- like me --
wanted to get out of here, too.
4
I had been on my cell phone making a few more calls, so had situated myself far enough
away to get some relative quiet while still able to watch the gate. The normal flurry of
flights had long departed; ours was one of the few remaining for the evening. I'd been
reading some reports when I'd heard that phone, and looked up from the papers at the
ringing phone wondering who was calling.
We've all seen payphones ringing by themselves. It seems kind of ludicrous, don't you
think? I mean, it's one thing when you see someone standing anxiously by it, perhaps a
lover waiting for that return call. Sometimes a solitary ringing phone makes me think of
drug deals, with lowlife dealers loitering by so they can transact their illicit business.
Only here there were no drug dealers, and definitely no lovers, standing by for this phone.
The bank of phones stood idly, waiting for another plane to deposit anxious travelers who
would rush to them and make them useful again. In this case, they should be asleep for
the night, as there would be no more incoming flights until morning. Anyway, only the
one phone was ringing, sounding off persistently on its own. The rest of the phones sat
there patiently. They should put flashing lights or something on them to indicate when
one of them was ringing. They all looked alike from a distance, silent and as identical as
a row of clones. Only now one of them had broken its silence and was pleading for
someone to pick it up, like a squalling baby calling out for attention. I triangulated its
position from the sound, identifying it as the third from the end. It projected its ringing
without visibly moving, like a ventriloquist's dummy.
It made me sad somehow. It was, most likely, just a wrong number. Someone was on
the other end of that phone, expecting a specific person to pick up that receiver and
welcome them. Or, failing that, waiting for an answering machine to kick in, so they
could deposit their message of greeting or instructions, or even of love. They were
probably confused, perhaps worried, about why they weren't getting through.
I looked around. No one else was within earshot, or, if they were, no one cared. It was
just another noise in a noisy terminal -- not as loud as at its peak, but filled with all the
human sounds that airports generate. The phone was just going to go on ringing.
5
I started to read my papers again, but they failed to hold my attention. I can focus with
the best of them when I need to, but for some reason tonight I didn't have my usual
sharpness. Perhaps if I had been working on a deadline of some sort, for a meeting the
next day or an after dinner speech tonight, then I wouldn't have even heard the ringing
phone. I certainly would not have looked up a second time. Instead, though, these were
just reports telling me things I already knew or could have guessed at. I'd been working
all day and would be working on the plane and once I arrived at my next destination. A
small break -- a distraction, if you will -- didn't seem unreasonable.
I took another look at the gate to see if anyone was watching. I know I'd have thought it
odd if someone else suddenly got up and crossed the floor to pick up an already ringing
payphone. It obviously wasn't for me. I didn't want anyone to imagine that I was a drug
dealer. Fortunately, no one was paying attention to my end of the terminal. They were
too engrossed in their own worlds, reading or resting, as they nervously hoped for
deliverance from the wait. All right. I got up and crossed those few feet of the corridor
to the phone.
"Hello," I answered cautiously, picking the phone up quickly.
"Help me," the woman's voice said simply.
Chapter 2
"Excuse me?" I said stupidly, not sure I'd heard correctly.
"Save me," she pleaded with quiet desperation. I stared at the phone as if she were
hidden inside, then took a quick look down towards the gate. No one was paying any
attention. The world was unaware that some unknown woman was pleading with me for
some unnamed help.
6
"Save you from what?" I asked. "Help you how?" Both seemed logical questions.
"Save me from this," her voice said commandingly. It was odd, but I had this brief but
powerful flash of insight. I could almost see the flourish of her arm sweeping around her
to indicate the environment from which she needed saving. But that intuitive eye could
not make out anything further -- not the room she might be in, not any details about her.
All I had was her voice.
It was a nice voice, I judged, the voice of a good woman. It's funny how we make some
decisions. Had I judged her crazy or insincere, I might have immediately hung up and
all that follows might never have happened. But I didn't. I didn't hang up, tempted
though I was. Maybe it was because right from the start I could imagine that gesture,
could feel the implied flourish. It made me connected to her in some way that I didn't
understand and hadn't asked for, but there it was.
"I don't understand," I told her. I could sense her nodding, that intuition again
pretending to know truths that I could not have known.
"No, I don't suppose you could," she answered wistfully. Then, adding softly, "I'm not
sure I do myself."
"I think perhaps you have a wrong number," I offered. "This is a payphone --"
"-- in the Charlotte airport," she interrupted. "Yes, I know."
That stumped me. "Were you expecting someone to be here?" I asked. Now the problem
was becoming clearer. "There's no one here. Whoever you were trying to reach must
have had to step away." I didn't want to have to tell her that no one had been by these
phones for some time. Whomever she was calling had long since departed, or had never
shown up. Perhaps she was right to be sad.
7
"No, I wasn't expecting anyone," she said quietly. "No one in particular, anyway." A
long pause, then she added with a thoughtful tone, "still, you never know."
I tried to bring the conversation back to things more practical. "You said something
about needing help. What kind of help do you need? Maybe you should call 911."
She laughed, amused at the concept, but with more bitterness than humor. "No, I think
911 wouldn't help."
"Friends, then." I suggested, wanting to get on some solid ground on which I could
honorably walk away. She didn't say anything.
"Don't you have some friends who could help you?" I persisted.
"Evidently not," she responded with resignation. I had this horrible feeling that I was
talking to a suicidal person, someone depressed enough about her life to do something
she couldn't take back. I didn't want that responsibility. I stared balefully at the receiver
as if it were the cause of all this.
"Listen, there's nothing I can do for you," I told her. "You need to talk to someone."
"I am talking to someone," she pointed out, as if it were she who were sane and I was the
one not quite connected to reality.
"No, I mean someone who can help you. Someone there, someone trained to deal with
these kinds of things."
I looked down the corridor at the gate. A few people were now glancing up at me.
Perhaps the incongruity of me talking on the phone by myself here had struck them, or
perhaps something in my posture had tipped them off that I wasn't just telling my wife
8
when I'd be home. Most likely they were bored and just looking for a temporary
distraction from their own waiting.
"I don't know who is ever trained for these kinds of things," she observed. "I'm not even
sure what these kinds of things are." Something about her voice kept my attention. I still
had no mental picture of her, but her voice was soothing -- yes, soothing -- despite being
fraught with her own turmoil. It's like those pilots calmly reporting that their plane is
barreling towards a fatal crash. If you didn't understand the words you'd think all was
well and you would be comforted somehow just listening to them. She wasn't too young
-- this was no teenager going through a high school breakup -- nor very old. Yet she was
old enough to have weathered many storms, and to know that the current troubled seas
were unlikely to be the last rough sailing she had ahead of her. I didn't like the
conversation I was having, or the circumstances under which it was occurring, but there
was something in that voice that made me like the woman who used it.
"I've got to go now," I said unconvincingly, although the gate looked no more active than
before. The eyes at the gate that wandered towards me had gone back to their own
worlds, waiting. I now longed to get in my cocoon as well. Those dull reports at my seat
now beckoned like an island of normalcy. Just gracefully get off the phone, and I could
go back to that familiar world.
"What's your name?" she asked suddenly. "I like to know who I'm talking to."
I didn't really want to tell her my name. Names have power, you know. Primitive
peoples know this better than we do. To know something's name is to have a piece of it.
It was a childish, superstitious reaction, and I mentally shook my head at the absurdity of
it. What was she going to do? Cast a voodoo spell on me via the phone line? Steal my
credit card number?
"My friends call me 'Zeke' or 'Z,'" I told her somewhat reluctantly.
9
"I didn't ask you what you were called, as the White Knight might have said to Alice,"
she corrected me patiently. "I asked you what your name was."
I didn't quite follow her semantic distinction, but knew I'd been gently rebuked for
needlessly withholding information. What was the harm? I didn't commonly use my
given name, for reasons that will become clear, but this was a stranger I didn't know,
would never meet, and there seemed no good reason not to tell her. I took a deep breath.
"Zeb. Zebulon," I told her. With that, I felt, oddly enough, like I had crossed some river.
I didn't give out that particular piece of information too often, and never casually, but
something in her voice lured me to do so.
"Zebulon," she repeated, rolling the name through her mouth as if she was tasting fine
wine. "Zebulon. I like it. You don't run into too many Zebulons these days."
"Tell me about it." I'd suffered through elementary school and junior high with that,
before graduating to the safer nicknames.
"Don't you want to know my name?" she asked. In another context, another
conversation, I'd have thought it coquettish. In this odd exchange, though, it seemed to
have more import. It was a test of sorts. She didn't believe I really wanted to know her
name, and, you know, she was right. She'd be giving me something of hers, and I'd have
to bear some responsibility for that gift. I didn't want to. Still, this was the voice of a
woman of character, and that character had started this conversation asking me to save
her. It wasn't in me to refuse her this.
"Sure," I said, with more warmth that I'd shown thus far. "I would like to know your
name."
I again had an intuition about her. She was sitting there -- yes, sitting, not standing, I
felt certain somehow -- holding her receiver slightly away from her head, deciding what
10
to do. This time it was her with the superstition about giving me that little power over
her. I began to think that she wasn't going to tell me.
"Iris," she said at long last. Women have taken their clothes off for me without revealing
themselves as openly as Iris seemed to by sharing her name with me. "My name is Iris."
Chapter 3
That was pretty much it for the conversation. It was as if our sharing of names had
exhausted either her goals for the call, or her strength. She told me she had to go, but
politely added that she'd talk to me soon. It was the kind of innocent remark people make
when they are hanging up, so I didn't put any stock in it. We were never going to talk
again. I hung up the phone slowly and returned to my seat.
The incident bothered me. I didn't know what Iris's problem was, or why she was calling
airport payphones to deal with it. First impressions are dangerous, especially ones that
are solely auditory over imperfect telephone lines, but she seemed like a person I might
have liked had we met under more normal circumstances.
It was a story I wanted to tell someone -- it just wasn't the kind of thing that happened
every day. It might make a good dinner story or funny bar story. But I didn't really have
anyone available that was a good candidate for listening. There was no wife or girlfriend
I could call later and tell them about this interesting episode in my daily journey. If I'd
been travelling with someone, or even if someone else had noticed the ringing phone
before I'd answered it, then I could share it. We might have exchanged amused
expressions as I stood to answer the phone, and then it would have made sense to fill
them in afterwards. But none of that was true. It was just me.
Even more, though, already I was shying away from anything that might be construed as
making fun of Iris. She didn't deserve to be a bar story.
11
My plane boarded about an hour later. As usual, I'd upgraded to first class, so I boarded
early to avoid the hurly-burly of the mob getting on. One flight attendant took my carry-
on, while a second hung my suit jacket and fetched me a drink. First class does have its
advantages. I opened my briefcase and starting pulling papers out to work on, noting the
presence of an attractive businesswoman sitting across from me in the aisle seat one row
up. She was in her mid-thirties, I judged, with nice legs peeking out from her expensive
suit. Her profile had classic lines, and I suspected that she worked seriously at keeping
the lines of her body lean and hard, just as she clearly paid someone good money to keep
her hair that honey shade of blonde. She was no doubt a no-nonsense, tough
businesswoman. All in all, a nice package; fair game. Perhaps I would find some excuse
to make conversation with her later in the flight, as people are wont to do up here. First
class has many advantages.
The plane was not one of those big planes where the first class section is to your left, the
coach to your right, and never the twain shall meet. No, this was one of the ruthlessly
efficient shuttle planes that had reluctantly carved out a few seats that were slightly larger
and slightly nicer, and proclaimed them first class. The coach passengers had to pass
through our section on their way towards their own, more cramped seats. It was like
having to pass through a nice restaurant on your way to McDonalds. I usually tried to
avoid watching them or meeting their eyes, but on this flight I gradually became aware
that there seemed to be a gap in the flow of people coming by. I reluctantly looked up.
The cause for the delay was an elderly woman who was blocking the aisle. I wondered
why they hadn't boarded her early, to avoid the crowd and to give her some extra
assistance. Instead, here she stood, looking somewhat frightened and definitely
overwhelmed. She was short and frail, and looked even smaller standing there in the
aisle with the much taller male travelers standing impatiently behind her. I glanced back
into the coach section. The throng of people sorting themselves out, lugging bags into
the overheads and getting ready to sit down, looked like a New York subway at rush
hour, and sounded worse. People were talking, babies were crying; it was a picture of
12
confusion. Everyone was crabby from the delay. I didn't like to sit in coach under the
best of circumstances, and I wasn't an old lady stuck with a bag she could barely hold up.
I thought I could imagine how she might feel. I then made my next mistake; I looked up
and made eye contact.
"Pretty crowded back there," I commented neutrally. She nodded warily. It didn't look
like she was quite ready to proceed. A pause, and a silence that needed filling. "They
should have boarded you early."
"My other plane was late," she explained, still not moving forward. The people behind
her looked annoyed, and shuffled their bags on their shoulders as they stood in place
restlessly. "I didn't want to miss this connection. I'm on my way to see my
granddaughter."
We both dutifully looked back in the coach section.
"Do you know where 24E is?" she asked nervously.
That put her not just in coach, but fairly far back and in the middle seat. Hardly ideal. I
suspected the people around her seat had already settled in, and that her bag would have a
hard time finding a home for the journey. She seemed so ill equipped to deal with the
situation. I mentally sighed. I'd failed in helping Iris -- whatever help she'd been seeking
-- but here was someone I could help.
"24E, you say," I exclaimed with feigned enthusiasm. "That's my lucky number. I just
played it in the lottery today." The old woman just smiled politely. I had no idea if
lotteries used alphanumeric combinations, and just hoped she wasn't an aficionado either.
I started stacking my papers and reached for my briefcase.
"You know," I started, as I put the papers back in the briefcase, "you'd be doing me a big
favor if you switched seats with me."
13
"Come on, lady, move it!" This came from a man behind her in the queue. I made
purposeful eye contact and silenced him, at least for the moment.
"Oh, I couldn't do that!" she protested. "That's too much trouble."
I stood up and offered my seat. "No, really. No trouble at all. It might make the lottery
gods happy, so you really would be doing me a favor." She eyed me skeptically for a
moment, but after another glance at the hellhole ahead of her, I saw her weaken. I
stepped out of the seat, and she sat.
The flight attendant moved in to take her bag, and with a quick smile told me that they'd
hang on to my jacket and bag until we arrived.
If there was any justice, 24E would have been between two Playboy Playmate twins, but
it was not to be. On the one side was a severely overweight businessman, and on the
other was a young mother holding an obviously upset baby. I shrugged and settled in.
Fortunately, I have no trouble sleeping on planes, and so at least caught up on some sleep
for the next hour. I safely avoided any conversation with my seatmates.
I spoke too soon about the lack of justice. The flight attendants beamed at me and made
a show of returning my goods to me, commenting on how nice I'd been. Then inside the
terminal I found the attractive businesswoman waiting for me. She wanted to
compliment me on my chivalry, and gave me her card. She suggested dinner the next
time I got to Philadelphia, and I promised I would call. We strolled through the terminal
together and I found myself looking forward to that next visit.
The night was spent in yet another hotel room. It was a very nice hotel, and I got a very
nice room. The front desk staff recognized me from my many prior visits, and whisked
me through the check-in process. I ordered a quick dinner from room service, turned on
the TV, and worked another couple hours on my laptop and the phone. It was about
14
midnight when I gave up for the night. I lay in the bed and idly flipped through the
channels, searching in vain for something that might catch my attention. I was beat but
not quite ready to sleep. I tried to think of any voice mails I might yet deposit for
anyone, but couldn't plausibly think of any. I considered calling a friend somewhere, but
it was pretty late. There was no current girlfriend or would-be girlfriend to whom such a
late night call would be welcome.
I don't usually think twice about hotel rooms. I stay in nice hotels and generally have
luxurious surroundings. There's cable -- not great, but enough -- and pay-per-view
movies, a mini-bar, lots of towels and usually a thick bathrobe. Maid service, exercise
rooms, laundry/dry cleaning, sometimes even pools or saunas -- all without leaving the
building. What's not to like?
Well, there is the silence. I don't mind being alone. Indeed, I spend much of my time
alone -- travelling, staying in these distant hotels, even a good deal of my rare non-
working hours at home. I'm good at it; I'm used to it. It's all part of the job.
But I don't like the quiet. I'm one of those people who would work better in a noisy
kindergarten than in a monk's cell. Noise doesn't bother me. Quiet does. Hotels are
different when you use them for business. On vacations people are too excited about
their holiday to pay much attention, aside from the novelty of sleeping in a strange bed.
They pass right through these rooms without being affected by them.
For those of us habitually on the road, though, these rooms become our life. The weight
of all the previous inhabitants, with all of their hopes and despairs, triumphs and failures,
solidify into something almost tangible. It cloaks the room like an invisible mist, and
manifests itself as a silence so real you can almost feel it. If you do not guard against it,
it can trap you, invade your soul and infect you with all those other people, with all those
desires not to be here. It can make you crazy.
15
They call us road warriors, and there is truth to that. We have to battle against all the
events that try to prevent us from reaching our many destinations, and we combat the
constant fatigue -- the result of long days, unpredictable schedules, and too little sleep in
unfamiliar beds. Most of travelling is waiting, you know. You wait in the airports, you
wait in these rooms, you wait outside people's offices. The planes and trains and cars are
waiting too, but at least they allow the illusion of doing something, of making progress of
some sort. If you want to get philosophical about it, I suppose you could say most of life
is waiting, but philosophers don't usually spend their days checking airport monitors for
delayed flights or end their days sitting by themselves in an impersonal hotel room.
My toughest struggles happen in these late night endings to my busy day, when there is
no one left to talk to, nothing left to do, and I'm left with that mantle of accumulated
debris of other people's lives. I learned early on in my travels to fight back against the
quiet. So when I come in to these solitary hotel rooms, the first thing I do is turn on the
TV, and the last thing I do before getting ready to sleep is put the TV on sleep mode so
there is some noise to fall asleep to. If I stay in a suite, as I often do, I sometimes turn on
the TVs in both rooms so that when I change rooms I don't go in to a room of silence.
It's not that I like television so much. I don't really watch particular shows. I follow
television the way I follow sports, or movies, or good books. They are just elements of
popular culture that might come in handy in bonding with customers or coworkers. I'm
like a sociologist studying a foreign culture. They are interesting to me just because they
are interested in them. Generally, I don't really care, but even I can't entirely fake it. For
example, I've never been able to pretend any interest in ballet or the opera. There's only
so far I can go in what I'll try to keep up on.
The logical question is what my own interests are. I guess I'd have to say that it is my
job. That sounds shallow, doesn't it? Just another foolish workaholic who either will
repent and discover other interests, or will die the day after he retires. Maybe. That's in
the future. Tonight I'm in this room alone, and my job is what is going to get me up in
the morning and keep me going.
16
The sounds of the television mask the fact that once it goes off, there will be no one to
talk to and no one to listen to. I always hope I'm asleep before the quiet sets in and I
realize that there is no one out there who cares for me, no one out there wondering how
my day was, if my plane was on time, how my hotel is, or when I'm coming home.
My feelings about travelling have changed over the years. At first, when I was just
starting out and when I didn't travel anywhere near as much as I do now, the travelling
part itself was a bother. I packed too much. I worried too much about missing planes,
about having them be late or cancelled. I was mostly flying coach in those days, so there
was always a struggle for overhead space, and the seats were almost always too crowded.
Simply getting to and from was an ordeal.
On the other hand, once I got to where I was going it was great. It was exciting meeting
new people all the time. The nice hotels and fancy restaurants were a revelation to me, a
peek at a lifestyle I'd previously only seen on TV or in movies. My company picked up
the tab, encouraged me to entertain liberally, and so I did. I was young, single, and
foolhardy, and I explored the nightlife of every city I went to vigorously. Sleep could
wait for the weekend or the plane. Life on the road was split between the constant
travails of getting places and the luxurious life I had once there.
Over time things changed. It happened gradually, so that I didn't really notice it at the
time, and only realized what had happened long after the fact. I grew accustomed to the
travel. I learned to make back-up plans, and accepted that sometimes connections just
don't work. There's always another plane and another option, so there's no point getting
worried about it. I passed into the upgrade status of first class, where air travel was much
more civilized. The travelling itself became a non-event, like the weather -- sometimes
good, sometimes bad, but nothing I could really control or that I should unduly worry
about.
17
My life at my destinations, on the other hand, soon lost some of its appeal. I grew jaded
with even the best of hotels, didn't get thrilled even in the most expensive restaurants.
Going out clubbing, or picking up strange women in bars, soon grew wearisome. I
began to prefer to go to my room and get some work done. Sleeping alone, or watching
TV alone, became preferable to laying next to some woman whose name I might not
remember in the morning.
I guess life balances out like that. The bad becomes bearable, and the good becomes
routine. Equilibrium is reached, and, if in doing so some highs are lost, some lows are
also avoided. You get used to things.
But I never got used to the quiet.
I kept thinking of the old woman on the plane. It was a nice thing to have done, if I do
say so myself, and I kind of wanted to tell someone about it. There was Iris and that
whole strange story. I'd had a fairly satisfying set of meetings in the day. All in all, a
good day. I wished I had someone to tell it all to. I had lots of friends, as many as
anyone I know, but sitting by myself late at night, in a hotel room miles from home -- I
had no one to call, and no one from whom I could expect a call.
It was the oddest thing in the world, but I wished Iris would call.
Chapter 4
I was doing a swing of regional banks that week; six cities in five days, with almost over
ten separate meetings. I'd left Sunday night and didn't return to Chicago until Friday
night, getting in around seven. I'd been working or travelling practically non-stop all
week, but I had one more task.
18
"Hi, Margaret," I said to Margaret Barnes, CEO of TDK, Inc., the company I work for.
She was standing in the terminal with Elliot Zu, our CFO. They'd been talking to a
potential acquisition target, and it worked out that their flight back was due in close to
mine. Margaret, efficient as ever, had scheduled us to ride back downtown so we could
catch up. She lived in a condo high up in the John Hancock building, while I had a
brownstone just south of Lincoln Park.
Margaret reminded me of women you'd see in movies playing a woman judge or maybe
even a President. Although I'd never really watched the show enough to know how the
fictional character lived up to my expectations, the person she actually reminded me most
of was that woman starship captain in the Voyager 'Star Trek' series. Margaret had that
air of command that such a captain would have -- not just of being in charge, but of being
comfortable being in charge. She had the brains and the will to get things done, yet the
common sense and empathy to make her subordinates go above and beyond for her.
O'Hare was busy, as always, and the hustle and bustle were familiar sounds to me. It's
silly, but something about O'Hare always gives me a small sense of pleasure. It's big, it's
noisy, it's almost always too crowded and a pain to get in and out of -- but it's my airport.
You have to live in Chicago to appreciate it. "Hey, Elliot," I added belatedly, trying to
match my more enthusiastic tone for Margaret. I don't think either one of us was fooled.
We chatted while we walked to our cars, where the drivers waited patiently. Elliot lived
out in Barrington, and he was envious that I'd be riding with Margaret. He'd just spent
two days with her but he begrudged me those few minutes, wondering what I'd say about
him behind his back. I'd have to add it to the list of things Elliot was envious about when
it came to my relationship with Margaret.
Elliot was quite brilliant in his own way. Margaret had spotted him several years before
she got the TDK job, and waited patiently for the right time to recruit him. If Margaret
had a natural air of command, Zu was her tank. His stocky build reinforced his tendency
to bulldoze ahead. She pointed, and he went and knocked down any obstacles, running
19
over or destroying anything in his path. This was very useful when TDK was acquiring
companies left and right -- not always under the friendliest of circumstances -- but his
style was wearing thin. People were scared of him, fearing that he might do actual
physical harm to them. I wasn't sure that they were wrong.
"See ya, Elliot," I taunted politely to his back as we split off at the limo area. Margaret
gave me an amused glance. I think she enjoyed the little war Elliot and I had going.
"So, tell me how the week was," Margaret commanded as the car pulled away. I quickly
briefed her on my meetings, and she filled me in on the acquisition talks. Then we got to
the fun stuff -- trading gossip, rumors, and other facts or almost-facts that might alert us
to things we needed to know. See, we were both good with the numbers -- you had to be
in our jobs -- but people like Elliot could eat our lunch in the math Olympics any day.
Margaret understood that the numbers were the end measure, but that the people made
the numbers. They made your products, they sold your products, and they bought your
products. More than any other executive I'd known, she balanced the people part with the
hard analytics. She wasn't a soft and fuzzy kind of people person, but she understood the
dynamics of human interactions and paid attention. She'd latched onto me early on
because she valued my many contacts and sources, and over time she'd learned to trust
my judgement as well. So perhaps the most important conversations we had were these
unstructured chats bringing each other up-to-date on gossip. We didn't see it as gossip, of
course; it was all data, and data can be turned into useful information in the right hands.
We both had pretty good such hands, and between the two of us we covered a pretty
broad range. It was kind of a race to be the first to find something out.
Margaret and I had first crossed paths more than ten years ago. I'd been a hot shot
research analyst at one of the big houses in New York, a rising star who was attracting
increasing attention from the investment community. I was young, smart, and bold.
Margaret was all that and more. In her mid-thirties then, she was already head of
marketing for one of the big lines at a well-known consumer products company. She
20
sought me out at a conference, and we established a relationship, beginning the pattern of

trading information for mutually beneficial purposes.
Not quite three years later she suggested -- out of the blue -- that I leave my booming
research career and go into sales. It sounded crazy, but she kept nudging me, turning it
into almost a macho thing. I, foolishly enough, began to consider it, and she followed up
her challenge by arranging for an interview with a friend of hers. One thing led to
another, and next thing I knew I had left New York for a job doing private placement
loans in Atlanta. Much to my surprise, I enjoyed it. I wasn't surprised that I did well, as I
expected to do well in everything, but I was surprised that it was fun. I liked staring
customers in the eye, listening to the problems, and figuring out what in my bag of tricks
could help them.
I didn't expect the sales job to be a career, and it wasn't. After less than two years
Margaret reached out again. She had just been named CEO of TDK, which at that time
was a struggling manufacturing company. The company had just fallen behind, selling
1950's products using 1930's approaches. They knew they needed to do something
radical, and Margaret was a choice far enough out of left field to qualify. No
manufacturing experience, no CEO experience anyplace, and a woman to boot. She was
impressive, but the move did nothing to thrill the investment community at first. They
saw it as yet another in a long string of TDK mistakes. Margaret knew better. She had
big plans, which she immediately started putting into place.
See, TDK makes widgets. Oh, I could tell you the more technical names, but to the
average person they'd still be widgets. No one is going to go down to the corner store, or
even to Sears or the Home Depot, and buy our products. But, whether you know it or
not, almost everything you do buy either has a widget in it, used a widget in being made,
or needed a widget in some part of the process of getting to you. It wasn't like that when
Margaret had come here, but Margaret had seen how to turn TDK into a twenty-first
century company.
21
She hired me to do "investor relations," and gave me carte blanche. I wasn't going to sit
around and wait for people to call for an annual report. I saw my job as selling the
company, and made it my business to know our company and our competitors better than
anyone else. Since we were not the kind of company that piqued the interest of
individual investors, I focused on places with other people's money -- mutual funds,
banks, insurance companies, retirement funds. I had to convince them that this hitherto
stodgy company, whose stock had languished for decades, was a smart buy.
Through divestitures, acquisitions, and refocusing, Margaret had made the transition.
Business was booming, and TDK was now a Fortune 500 company with eyes on Fortune
100 within the next five years. As her car sped down the Kennedy Expressway towards
downtown, we talked about her most recent acquisition target, and I told her about some
of the off-the-record reactions to such a move that I'd gotten from some of the people
whom I'd talked to in the last week. We wrapped up the need-to-know data, and there
was a slight pause in the conversation.
"What do you think about Vista?" Margaret asked, watching me carefully.
Vista was one of our second tier divisions, perhaps fifth or sixth in terms of revenue.
Unfortunately, it was not performing well -- not up to Margaret's exacting standards,
anyway. Its earnings were flat and its product line was not transitioning quickly enough.
I stalled by looking out the window.
I didn't need the time to think; my team had identified Vista's problems fifteen months
ago. They were pouring too much of their earnings into Project Alpha, a new product
idea that their CEO had touted as the reason for TDK to acquire them. It was supposed to
be the best thing since sliced bread, either leapfrogging the next generation of technology
or even creating entirely new markets. I didn't really understand the technology, but I'd
heard the spiel often enough -- hell, I'd had to give the spiel on occasion -- to know that it
could be big. We'd been watching Project Alpha for awhile and waiting for the payoff,
22
but my sources indicated it was still months or even years away. I just didn't want to
appear too eager to reply by answering too soon.
Anyway, the view was pleasurable, one I always tried to take in as I came home. I love
the point in the drive in from O'Hare where you first see the tall buildings of downtown.
You're driving along, through the gritty neighborhoods of Chicago, then -- bang -- there
are those giants, rising next to the lake. Chicago is so flat that it makes the towering
buildings stand out like trees of an oasis in a desert.
Enough stalling. "They're not hitting their targets, and it will be awhile before they do," I
told her bluntly. She nodded.
"What do you think of Neil Kincaid?" Neil was Vista's CEO.
I thought about Neil quickly. I'd met him once or twice, talked to him on the phone a few
times, and saw him give several presentations. I didn't know him well, but that never
stopped me from forming my opinions. "Neil is a bright guy," I remarked with casual
nonchalance, and Margaret again nodded, more thoughtfully. "Cal Tech, right? I
understand he actually was an engineer before he came back to Vista, after his father had
screwed it up."
"Neil's brainy, all right," Margaret said.
"He's too brainy, perhaps. He's obsessed with this Project Alpha of his, and I wonder if
the lure is the business side or the fun of the technology. But is he a good businessman,
that's the question."
Margaret looked out the window, either caught in by some sight or perhaps remembering
something. "He's a better businessman than you realize," she finally said, turning back to
face me. "But maybe he belongs at a drawing board more than at a board meeting."
23
I didn't quite know what to think of her statement, and filed it away for future reference.
Evidently there were things about Vista I didn't know. What I did know now was that
Neil was out. He didn't know it yet, but Margaret already had her doubts, and I'd
condemned him with the faint praise that reconfirmed her opinions of him. Intelligent
but not a good businessman. I based this on the slightest of impressions. That's how
things happen in this world; post some poor numbers, make a single bad impression, and
you're out. When you are younger you think that the business world is rational, and hard
work is all that matters. The numbers do count for a lot, but so do casual impressions,
good connections, and freakish luck. I might be helping dig Neil's grave, but I was pretty
sure that Elliot had his shovel out for me as well. It’s a tough world.
"I'd like you to spend some time out there. Talk to Neil, see what's going on with their
business."
I nodded and noted it in my electronic organizer. What with that, my cell phone, my
laptop, I sometimes felt like a walking electronics store. The airport security checkpoints
shuddered to see me and my brethren come, depositing our supply like Wild West
gunfighters checking their weapons at the bar's door. Same thing; different fights. We
were quiet for a couple seconds.
"Where's Roger?" I asked out of curiosity. Roger was Margaret's husband, a business
consultant who traveled even more than I did. He worked out of an office in Palo Alto,
where they kept a second residence. I'd met Roger a few times over the years, and
always wondered how they balanced that time together. "Lots of long distance bills,"
Margaret had once joked in response to a casual inquiry I'd made once. I fleetingly
thought of Iris.
Margaret thought for a second. "Singapore, I think," she finally said. "He's there through
the weekend, then on to Bangkok. Back in the States late next week." She didn't seem
bothered by it.
24
The car turned on to North Avenue. Most people would have turned the conversation to
comparing plans for the weekend, or other social gossip. Not Margaret. I knew better
than to expect it. I'd been to Margaret's house for a few functions. She lived less than a
mile from me, and we often did these little commutes together. But I no more expected
her to suggest we grab a bite to eat or something than I expected the driver to break into
song. She was approachable and personable, but she drew definite lines.
"How's Billup doing?" Margaret asked. One of the perks that Margaret had allowed me,
and which Elliot had never accepted, was a rotating cadre of three MBA hard chargers to
help me. I only took high performance newcomers, only kept them for six or twelve
months, and worked them like dogs while they were with me. They poked their noses
into every facet of our business, and as much into our competitors as they could. Then
they went on to other jobs in the company or elsewhere, gaining from my connections
and providing me with an ongoing network. It was a difference between Elliot and me.
He constantly fought for a bigger budget and more staff, wanting to prove his worth by
building an empire. I didn't want an empire. I'd rather have a shadow government, a
hidden network of people who were loyal to me -- or if not loyal, at least sympathetic to
my interests. Members of my little teams had already begun to rise both in and outside of
TDK, and were proving to be a good investment of my time.
Matt Billup was one of Margaret's referrals, the son of a CEO buddy of hers. It wasn't
uncommon to get such requests, but after talking to Billup the first time I'd been
unenthused. He understood business, and had wonderful connections, but I doubted his
analytical skills were up to snuff. Margaret had dismissed this objection, telling me that
his father wanted me to "teach him to think." I'd protested. "I'm not running a business
school here," I'd said. "You're not?" Margaret had smoothly responded. "That's why I
approve your budget for these guys every year."
So I had taken Matt in, and taught him as best I could. "He's doing all right," I replied to
Margaret. "I'm getting some mileage from him. My real star is this new kid, Jason
Rivers. He reminds me of a young me."
25
Margaret smiled tolerantly. "I'll have to meet him sometime," she said. "So, when is
your next free-for-all?"
The "free-for-all" that Margaret asked about was our regular session where they
presented me with what they thought where the best facts or angles they'd found.
Margaret sat in on the sessions periodically, and enjoyed the free-flowing discussions of
what was hot in the business world. It was like Harvard Business Review meets Jerry
Springer.
"Tomorrow," I confessed. She raised an eyebrow. "I've been out all week," I said
defensively, "and next week won't be any better. They don't mind coming in on
Saturday."
Margaret smiled. There was as much approval as amusement in her smile. I might be a
fanatical taskmaster to my staff, but I was her fanatic. "I'll pass," she said, but somehow I
knew that she'd be working as well.
Chapter 5
Her driver dropped me off at my house. I got settled -- turning on the television in the
kitchen and the CD player in my bedroom, of course -- and wandered around the house.
It was good to be back. I liked to walk through it as if I was reacquainting myself with it
after years away.
The house was one of my few major splurges. I bought it a few years back when I
couldn't really afford it. The so-called Gold Coast in Chicago is definitely not the
cheapest neighborhood, but I had a hard time imagining living anywhere else. My street
was quiet and lined with trees, just south of Lincoln Park and a couple blocks in from the
lake. I was within comfortable walking distance to grocery stores, restaurants, movies,
26
Second City, the Oak Street Beach, and the incomparable Michigan Avenue. I could
catch the El to almost anywhere in the city. Where else in the world would you have so
many great choices? There are lots of great neighborhoods in Chicago, but there's always
a trade-off. Further north or south, you lose the downtown. Further west, you lose the
lake.
I loved the old houses in this neighborhood, close together and yet each one distinct.
Mine, like most of my neighbors' houses, was older but well maintained. Its narrowness
was partially offset by the three stories and a basement, giving me more space than I
knew what to do with. The previous owners had been an upscale young couple who had
poured their hearts into renovating and decorating it before getting pregnant and moving
out to the suburbs to raise the family. They'd redone all the wood, so the hardwood floors
and the built-in bookcases shone, and had installed subtle lighting that made it warm and
cozy even in the depths of those long cold Chicago winters.
My favorite room was the study. The finished basement, with the pool table and big
screen television, was nice, and a decorator had ensured that the living room was an
elegant showplace. The former owners had combined two bedrooms on the second floor
into a big master bedroom -- unusual for this era of house -- complete with a big
bathroom and a Jacuzzi. There was a gourmet kitchen that I rarely used but loved to
show off. It never failed to impress girlfriends or wives of friends, until they took a look
inside my cabinets and saw the lack of food. It wasn't that I didn't like to cook; I just
rarely had time. Not much point in keeping a lot of food in the house when I was gone
most days.
The trouble was, all of those rooms were other people's rooms, either the more ambitious
previous owners' or my decorator's. The study, on the other hand, was mine. It was,
paradoxically, one of the few rooms with no TV, but it did have my desk with the PC,
fax, and whatnot. I had bookshelves full of the books I most admired, and a stuffed
recliner that I sometimes fell asleep in. From its perch on the third story, I could look out
the window over the trees lining the street; in the winter when the trees were bare I could
27
just about make out the lake. For noise, I had a CD player that held fifty CDs that almost
always was playing when I was home. Aside from the time I spent in bed asleep, I spent
more time there than anywhere in the house. I'd probably eaten more meals up here than
in the kitchen and dining room combined. It was my haven.
Speaking of food, I was getting hungry. I debated ordering Chinese, going to the grocery
store, or just going out. It was a nice May night out, and I felt restless. I opted for going
out.
I walked up Clark Street to one of my haunts, an eclectic restaurant just south of

Fullerton. The bar was in full swing with the Lincoln Park yuppie crowd, for the most
part young singles on the prowl. I immediately felt old and out of place. They were only
a few years younger than I was, but they all were connected somehow. Even if they
weren't together, they fit together. Young and attractive, every last one of them, they
were done with a long week of work and were ready to party hard. They'd either hooked
up with friends, lovers, or conquests, or were expecting to by the end of the evening.
A few years ago that might have been me. Tonight I just wanted something to eat. I
spotted a few other people my age or older, claiming their right to be out on a Friday
night as well. There were a few older men -- mostly in their forties but including one
ambitious guy who was sixty if he was a day -- sporting twentysomething beauties at
their table. They looked foolish to me, as they tried to keep their babes mesmerized
enough to ignore the obvious age differences. Maybe that accounted for their gold
jewelry; it kept the women diverted from the wrinkles and the grey.
The tables were small and set too close together, offset by elegant place settings. I
quickly scanned the room for anyone I recognized, failing to find a familiar face, and the
hostess got me a window table. I had ribs, a specialty of the place, and happily chewed
the meat off the ribs of some poor animal. The meat was tender, almost falling off the
bone, but it was the sauce that made them special. I had a beer to wash them down, and
don't mind admitting I licked my fingers to get every last drop. Fancy settings or not, all
28
the people at the surrounding tables with ribs were doing so as well. It's accepted, and
even expected. The waitress smiled at me and brought me the bill.
It was rare for me to eat alone in Chicago. It was rare to eat alone in a nice restaurant like
this anywhere. It was inefficient. I tried to either use meal time to hobnob with a useful
contact, or as a time to travel. When here in town I might connect with friends or dates,
or simply order in and enjoy being home for a rare change. It wasn't that odd to be alone,
but it felt odd tonight. I felt as though I was in another city. Here I was in this crowd of
people who knew each other, hung out here, and belonged here. I didn't, not tonight. I
might as well be in Kansas City or Memphis or anyplace that might feature good ribs. It
wasn't so much that I expected to run into acquaintances anywhere I went. Part of the
appeal of a big city like Chicago was that you did always see new people. It was more
this feeling that I was in their town tonight, not mine -- a feeling I usually only got on the
road. Yeah, I might know it pretty well, but not like the rest of the crowd.
I paid the bill and left a big tip, getting a quick but warm smile from my waitress. She
probably was glad to turn over the single to a larger, heavier-drinking party.
After dinner I walked slowly through the park in the twilight. My thoughts were of the
week I'd finished, reflecting on the progress I'd made and the next steps that had come out
of the various meetings and conversations I had. I'd been too many places and talked to
too many people, and needed to regroup. Road warrior? Tonight I felt more like a rat on
a treadmill. The rat just keeps running and running, but never really gets anywhere. My
life was not so different. Blindfold me and deposit me somewhere, and most times I
might be hard pressed to tell the difference. The next day was going to be a repeat of the
last. Up at dawn, get my exercise, talk my talk, head off to some other city and some
other bed, so I could start the same thing all over again. Maybe being a road warrior isn't
all that glamorous after all.
I left some voice mails and fell asleep to Letterman.
29
The next morning I was up at six, sleeping in a little. I took a run through Lincoln Park,
going up the cinder path, by the lagoon and Diversey Harbor, then through the underpass
by Belmont so I could return on the bike path along the lake. There weren't a lot of
joggers out that early on the weekend; enough to make it moderately sociable, but not so
many that it was like running in packs. I loved to run by the lake. The lake seemed so
huge and so unpredictable -- calm at times, fierce and deadly at others. And off in the
distance was the unmistakable skyline of the Drake and the Lake Shore Drive buildings,
with the Hancock Building looming over them. It gave me something to reckon the
distance with.
I was a wrestler in high school and college. Say "wrestle" and people nowadays think of
WWF, which is unfortunate. There's a great amateur sport that never gets much
attention. I loved it because discipline and practice paid off. I ran cross-country in the
fall, did track in the fall, and worked out during the summer, all pointing towards getting
me in better shape for my wrestling season. Other competitors might have been faster or
stronger than I was, but no one was in better shape and no one had worked on their
technique more than I had. My secret advantage, though, was that I had great balance.
It's almost impossible to trip me or throw me off balance, and it gave me that little edge.
I'd wait for that tiny opening when my opponent was trying too hard to move me, and in
doing so overextended himself just slightly. Then I'd make a move and take him down,
perhaps even pin him. I won more than my fair share, if I do say so myself.
In another place and time I might have been a gymnast, using that balance to throw
myself in the air with reckless abandon. I'd have done well, but gymnasts didn't go over
too well where I grew up. Football and baseball were the sports of choice, and wrestling
was just barely acceptable. I don't know that I'd have chosen gymnastics over wrestling
even had it been a real choice; I have to admit that I liked the one-on-one winning. Me
against him, with no judges giving arbitrary scores. Sure, there was a referee awarding
the points, but it's like a knockout in boxing -- pin your man and there's no mistake about
who won.
30
There's no money in that kind of wrestling, of course, not that I was good enough to earn
a living at it even if there had been. But it installed in me an inviolate rule about using
my body every day. No matter how late I'd been up the night before, no matter how early
I had to get up in the morning, no matter how tired or hung over I might be -- every day
started off with thirty to sixty minutes of hard exercise. It might be a run, like today. It
might be working the weights, taking a swim, or even just a vigorous walk on the pre-
dawn streets of a city I didn't know well. But every day I did something.
The travelling made doing that a challenge, of course. More than once on a long trip I
reminded myself of the extra weight that my workout gear caused me to lug. I figured
the exercise gave me yet another advantage over whomever I was meeting with; I was
tougher, more alert, more focused. So I kept doing it.
My staff was ready to go when I got to the office at eight that morning. TDK's offices
were out by the airport, so I had to drive the Kennedy to get there. Fortunately, there
wasn't much traffic at that time of day, at least on the weekend. I actually had some time
in Chicago in the next week and could have scheduled this meeting during the workweek,
but the weekend meeting was a little test of how committed the staff was.
I eyed them as I came into the conference room. Kathleen and Matt had a stack of
folders in front of them, and were animatedly discussing something. My guess was that
one of them -- and I immediately suspected Matt -- hadn't finished something quite right,
and they were trying to see if it would pass my test. That was like blood in the water for
me; I'd merciless grill them on everything as a consequence. Jason was just leaning back
in his chair, watching them with some slight amusement. The table in front of him was
bare except for a thin folder, in marked contrast to the duo's reams of paper. He didn't
seem too worried. "Let's go," I said, sitting down at the head of the table.
Kathleen McConnell was the most senior of the three, nearing thirteen months with me
and due to rotate out in less than a month. Kathleen was tall and rangy, with long, very
blonde hair that completed the classic California girl look. She played volleyball in
31
college, and I'm told still inspired both fear and lust at the volleyball games at the Oak
Street beach. I kept intending to go down to watch, but hadn't ever made it. Maybe when
she no longer worked for me.
Kathleen's favorite partner in crime was Matt. Matt had been on the team about nine
months. He loved deals and talking about deals, but most of all he lusted after Kathleen.
He'd grown up in Connecticut and I think that blondeness just fascinated him. I don't
think he figured to marry her or anything, but he certainly wanted to know her better, to
get a taste of the California dreaming thing. She was kind of amused by the whole thing,
playing him just enough to keep him intrigued but not enough to encourage him to do
anything about it. The two of them often did projects together. She was very detailed
and strongly mathematically oriented, while Matt made up for his analytical deficiencies
with his network of contacts and a very sophisticated knowledge of financing.
Jason Rivers, though, was my favorite. He'd only been in the department for less than six
months, but in many ways he was the most advanced. He was a poor -- well, solid
middle class -- kid like me who had worked his way up, and he was hungry for success.
He was quiet and didn't really get involved in any lunches or bantering that the other two
liked to do. He'd just do his own thing, researching, talking to people outside the
department, or just sitting there thinking. His dark good looks and smoldering intensity
had a certain charm, I observed from a distance.
One thing he didn't lack for was confidence. He had no hesitation about stopping in my
office and just plopping himself down, while the others were more tentative about
usurping my time. Jason always cut to the chase in conversations, and somehow people
just told him things. His bluntness shouldn't have worked, but I had more than one fairly
senior executive remark to me that they'd found themselves divulging things they hadn't
planned on, mostly because he just asked the right question at the right time. He knew
exactly what to ask and what to offer in return. I don't know if he liked me or even if I
really liked him, but I knew he was a comer. I'd keep my eye on him once he left my
department.
32
We went at it, first giving me the background on each of the companies I was meeting
with next week, then getting to the fun stuff. Great analysis of financials and
performance was expected. In the more free-form part they tried to come up with new
angles in the industry. They got a "C" for simply confirming things I'd suspected. They
got a "B" for telling me things I didn't know -- interesting trends or developments that
would affect our stock price or someone else's.
They only got an "A" for finding things no one had yet realized. Their predecessors had
received an A for the initial Vista analysis.
Not surprisingly, there weren't many "B's," and even fewer "A's." The kids I hired were
not used to coming out so low on the curve, but I was teaching them that they were in the
big leagues now. And, believe me, the look on their faces when I did award an "A" was
rivaled only by a new parent's face.
Kathleen and Matt doggedly presented their cases. They'd come in from day one, like
most of new recruits, determined to prove they could work longer and harder than anyone
else. They liked not just to keep busy, but also to show me how busy they were. I had
lots of updates, emails, voice mails, and other evidence of activity from them. At these
sessions, they tried to impress me with quantity, not realizing that they often ended up
just seeming like squirrels scurrying around for little nuts. They had about ten reports
they wanted to show me today, and I found fault with almost all of them. They were all
fine from a classic B-school standpoint, and if they had been working for an Andersen or
a McKinsey those reports could have been resold to gullible clients for quite a lot of
money. I was not such an easy test. They breathed a sigh of relief when I turned to
Jason. He'd been quiet during their deluge of information.
Unlike Matt and Kathleen, Jason was a big game hunter. Even when he first came in, he
never confused quality with quantity. I rarely heard from him unless he had something
truly solid to report. He had no fears about being shown up in these sessions by Kathleen
33
and Matt's endless reports. He might shoot down a few of their ideas, or effortlessly drop
a hotel on top of their square that suddenly made the property very valuable. The other
two would look up with amazement and envy when he threw out these little gems,
wondering how all their hard work had failed to turn up the insights he always seem to
have.
Jason seemed to regard them with tolerance, a big brother watching out for younger, less
capable siblings, even though he, in fact, was the rookie in the bunch. It was an
interesting dynamic. I'd had hotshots like Jason before, but even I had to admit that he
was something special.
The most noticeable thing about Jason was his stillness. He didn't waste time or motion,
but he was always aware of what was going on around him. You could just see the
wheels turning in that head of his. He was like a cat waiting for the kill, and he was
content to let days go by without eating, confident that he'd catch a proper meal if he was
patient.
"Heard anything about Collins and Nova?" Jason asked casually. Collins Industries and
Nova, Inc. were TDK's two main competitors. Nova and Collins historically had always
hated each other, while regarding TDK as the also-ran it used to be. Since Margaret had
come along and reshaped TDK, vaulting it way past both and sending their stock
tumbling, TDK had become their mutual source of enmity.
"No," I replied slowing, searching my mental database for any relevant gossip and
coming up short. I shrugged. "Just the usual."
"Jack Collins went on a fishing trip to Montana last week," Jason said. Jack was the
CEO of Collins Industries, but still, it wasn't much. Big deal; he'd gone fishing. I lifted
an eyebrow. "Lots of people go fishing in Montana," I pointed out. I could see Kathleen
and Matt give each other a quick glance of relief, thinking that for once he'd come up dry.
I wasn't so sure.
34
"My dad has a lodge in Montana," Matt added helpfully. Jason and I looked at him
briefly with equally dubious expressions.
"Funny thing," Jason said, his expression never changing. "Fred Lundson was in
Montana last week."
Lundson was the number two, and heir apparent, at Nova. "Are you telling me they were
there together?" I challenged.
Jason shook his head. "Nope. Lundson was staying with someone else."
I waited him out. Kathleen and Matt were impatient, thinking the session was over and
wishing Jason would wrap up his vacation stories.
"Yes?' I finally prodded, knowing there was more.
"His banker, from Goldman."
Jason told the rest of the story. Collins and Lundson took great pains to fly in on separate
flights, to different cities at different times. They'd stayed seventy odd miles apart. But
Jason had discovered that each had a select team of advisors with them, and that there
were ongoing visits to a neutral lodge owned by a big speculator.
"They're brokering a merger," Kathleen gasped, finally grasping it.
"So it would seem," Jason acknowledged without any trace of smugness. "Maybe they
all just decided to go fly fishing at the same time, but I'm guessing they spent more time
around a table than they did in any river."
35
I wondered how he'd uncovered the trips to Montana, since they'd all taken great pains to
keep their plans unobtrusive. I knew better than to ask, but Jason knew it was good
detective work. It was a hell of a lot of work, and he'd had to know what to look for.
This was big news, and Margaret would want to know. Definitely "A" material.
I dismissed them all by noon, then stayed in the office for a few more hours catching up
on the unavoidable office bullshit. Jason departed right away, while Kathleen and Matt
stayed on a couple hours trying to earn back some brownie points. They didn't come into
my office, but occasionally made some noise so I'd know they were still there.
Despite email and voice mail, the age of the paperless office has never quite arrived. I
have to go through the accumulated debris of everyday office life in an accelerated
period, which actually helps. Pitch this, send that to someone else, file the other in some
file I'd never look at. But the in-bin was empty and my desk clear by the time I left. I
liked things neat and organized, and my office was never cluttered, no matter how busy I
got.
Dinner that night was with some friends of mine. Bill was a trader on the Broad of
Trade, while Sue was a tough litigator at one of the big LaSalle Street firms. They lived
in a gentrified neighborhood off Halsted. Their house was not dissimilar to mine; the
biggest distinction was not in the house per se, but rather behind the house. Their house
had a fifteen by fifteen square plot of ground behind the house, surrounded by a high
wooden fence. To the unsuspecting eye of a passerby, walking in the alley behind the
houses, it would be just another backyard, a break from the close-in houses. Side by side
there were scant feet between them, so these tiny spaces in the back were all the distance
one could buy in these neighborhoods.
Once inside that fence, though, a whole new world awaited. You see, Bill and Sue,
despite their cutthroat professions and tough business demeanors, had turned into
gardeners. They treasured their plot of ground, and spent seemingly most of their free
36
time cultivating every last inch. They worked that garden like they worked their jobs,
and it showed. Picture an English estate, whose grounds had been painstakingly worked
for centuries, cultivated to an inch. Somehow they had taken that image and shrunk it
down to fit their compact space, so that each blade of grass, each flower petal, was
purposeful and fit with all of the others. I had never been with a newcomer to the scene
whose first reaction to seeing their patch of heaven was not to stop and gasp. I gasped
myself that first time, and their work was not as far along as it was now. The overall
effect was magical, I have to admit, but I could not understand the drive.
Once they started gardening, I knew kids would not be far off, and, sure enough, a couple
months ago they had announced with much eagerness that Sue was pregnant. I figured it
was only a matter of time before our friendship cooled, as they became more wrapped up
in child things and they moved to the suburbs. Having kids is like joining a cult. You
stop contact with people who do not share your zeal, and all you can talk about is the
focus of that cult, in this case your child or children in general. These little creatures
thoughtlessly take over their parents' lives, then equally carelessly discard them once
their own lives assume more shape and they acquire friends of their own. Parenting is
legalized heartbreak, yet I have learned better than to try to warn friends against it. I was
once almost a member of that cult myself, but managed to escape before the lure took.
As Bill and Sue were wont to do, they'd invited a fourth person, an attractive new lawyer
in Sue's firm. She was short and petite, but had a nice face and a slender body, with
shapely legs in particular. Her dark hair was short, a boyish cut that didn't look at all
boyish on her. She smiled a lot, and was about as awkward at being set up as I was.
Both of us were old pros at this, though, smiling politely and not letting our discomfort
show. Like most married couples -- at least younger ones -- Bill and Sue thought
everyone should be married or at least part of a couple. I sometimes wondered if that was
because they wanted everyone to have the kind of happiness they had, or if they were
afraid single people were having more fun and so were determined to stomp that out.
Whatever; it got me set up on lots of these soft dates.
37
We had a very civilized dinner, Bill grilling some steaks on the patio. He cooked them a
little more than I'd prefer; when I wanted steaks, I'd go to Eli's or Morton's, not Bill's.
But he enjoyed it and it allowed us to enjoy the pleasant May weather. After that long
winter, Chicagoians took every advantage they could of spring weather.
Bill and Sue's new candidate for my affection was cute and smart, but didn't exactly light
my fire. It's tough to get set up. If the person is deficient from some critical standpoint --
looks, intelligence, background, whatever -- then you have to wonder why your friends
thought they'd be a good match. I think Bill and Sue were pretty much batting zero in
their dates for me, yet still they persisted.
This one -- Kathy, or maybe it was Cindy or Candy-- was actually a decent match. She'd
gone to law school at Yale, worked in D.C. for a Senator, then got recruited here to
handle foreign trade issues. We compared notes on D.C., and made simple conversation.
Bill and Sue exchanged pleased glances. I could see them thinking to each other: "this is
going very well."
Still, Kathy was kind of a K-car. Yes, they are serviceable, and if you work hard enough
you could actually work out the distinguishing factors between the various models. You
just have to question if it is worth the effort. After all the years I'd dated, I was wearying
of it.
After polite coffee and dessert, I offered Kathy a ride home, as she had taken a cab up.
Anticipating such a possibility, I'd driven to their house, rescuing my car from the
parking garage a couple blocks from my house. One disadvantage of living on Gold
Coast was parking. People lived in apartments in most cities for what I paid to house my
car inside from the harsh Chicago weather. Bill and Sue seemed inordinately thrilled by
my courtesy, and Kathy didn't seem to mind either. She lived in an apartment on the near
West Side, which a few years ago had been slums. Now it gleamed with shiny high-rises
and the accompanying touches of civilization -- restaurants, dry cleaners, convenience
38
stores. Kathy invited me up to see the view from her apartment. I weighed it briefly, but
declined, citing fatigue. I promised I'd call her sometime. Maybe I even would.
Her offer came with too many potentially unwanted complications. First date or not,
there was a chance we'd end up in bed together. I'd not had a steady girlfriend in some
time, nothing of note anyway. The lifestyle isn't too conducive to relationships. Best
case scenario is that the woman says she understands, and has an equally demanding job,
but even then at some point there's pressure for more time. Roger and Margaret aside, a
choice has to be made: the job or the relationship.
Now, simply going out with women is another thing. Even as little time as I spent in
town, I met plenty of eligible women here, either through friends like tonight or just out
and about. You also meet a lot of women travelling. Granted, most of the time women
are pretty wary of a guy on the road -- with good reason, I'd have to admit -- but
eventually the law of averages helps you out. The rules on the road are different than on
home turf. No one is looking for true love. Maybe they're looking for a pleasant
diversion, company for dinner or whatnot, even a quick roll in the sack more often than
you'd think. Those first class businesswomen can be fearsome in bed, I'll tell you.
Unlock that icy demeanor, take off that strictly tailored suit, and there's a woman proving
to herself that she hasn't lost her feminine wiles.
At home, of course, it usually goes slower. You promise to call, you sometimes do, and
you go out a couple times to see where it goes. Maybe you go to bed, go out a few more
times, meet each others' friends. Then gravity takes over and it self-destructs. So be it.
Over the years my "dating" had steadily dwindled. First to go were the long term
relationships, then the serious dating, and for the past couple years even the one night
flings had become scare. I still noticed attractive women, but I had become too aware of
the next stages even before they occurred, and it usually didn't seem worth it. I might
still go through the motions, like dinner with Kathy tonight, but usually balked at
carrying it any further.
39
Kathy seemed like a nice girl. She didn't spell her name "Kathi" or Caythy" or any other
odd variant, as I increasingly saw and didn't understand. I tucked her number away and
thought about when I might call her. Ten years ago I would have taken her up on her
offer to come up with no questions, doubt, or guilt. Five years ago I still thought I was
going to settle down, if I could just meet the "right" woman. I might have gone up with
her, hoping this would be the time, even though deep down I knew it was unlikely and I
was wasting both of our time.
Tonight -- older, wiser, and much wearier -- I went home alone. The pleasure of a good
book, the TV, or my cozy study beckoned more dearly than the temporary solace Kathy
might offer for the night, or at least for an hour or so. I wished I'd met her a couple
weeks ago. I still might not have gone up tonight, but maybe I could go home from an
evening like tonight and call her up. She'd be surprised to hear from me, but pleased
nonetheless. We could chat, about nothing in particular, just happy to have someone to
talk to before going to bed. I could ask her out for brunch or bagels the next day. Maybe
catch a ball game or a movie, just spend some innocent time together. But it wasn't two
weeks later and I didn't have another Kathy to call. I turned on the TV.
I fell asleep to an old movie, and worked most of the day Sunday.
Chapter 6
I was flying to New York; I think it was from Atlanta on that trip. It was a couple weeks
after my dinner at Bill and Sue's. The plane was only pleasantly crowded, and I actually
was scheduled to get into town not too late. I called a friend of mine at one of the
investment houses and quickly cadged an invite to their box for the Knick's game. I
figured I could hob-knob with some good contacts, drop some good plugs for TDK, and
get in some male bonding. The flight attendant must have overheard me on the phone.
Once I got off, she stopped by and sat on the arm of my seat.
40
"You're going to the Knick's game?" she asked, impressed. "You can just call someone
up at the last minute and get tickets?"
"Corporate box," I corrected her. "No big deal."
Her eyes grew wide. "I'd love to go to a Knick's game sometime. You're so lucky."
I thought for a moment about what was happening. She was in her mid-twenties, and
very attractive. Blonde, vivacious, and if she hadn't had breast implants, then God had
been very generous with her. The blonde wasn't real, but she had a good hair stylist. It
was long and straight, as if she belonged on a California beach. We introduced
ourselves; her name was Kelli. Of course. I'm pretty sure she was talking to me longer
than the flight attendant manual suggests.
"I could probably get you in as well, if you'd like," I casually offered, anticipating the
pleased look in her eyes. She purred her approval, touched my forearm affectionately,
and moved off to the front. Mission accomplished, I suppose. That's OK; we'd use each
other.
I didn't want to call my friend back right away, so didn't immediately return to the phone.
Instead, I went back to my laptop and started to work. Next thing I knew Kelli was back,
looking concerned, but concerned like a little kid up to some mischief.
"My partner says I can't go without a chaperon," she said naughtily. "I don't suppose…"
I held up a hand. I saw her friend standing up at the front of the cabin, watching us
neutrally. She was tall and lithe, with a wholesome look. Her dark hair was pinned up
close to her head. Not quite as promising as Kelli, but she'd do. "I'll see what I can do."
41
My friend had no problem with me bringing two attractive stewardesses to the party,
although I made him promise not to call them "stewardesses" in their presence. The rest
of the flight went quickly, and I got extra special attention from Kelli. I did notice the
ring on her friend's left ring finger when she passed by. I was pretty sure it was a
wedding ring. A small fact Kelli had neglected to mention; maybe she was serious about
the chaperon thing. No matter.
I was staying at the Four Seasons, while they were in one of the Times Square hotels.
Both of their eyebrows raised significantly when I admitted this fact, which I kind of
enjoyed, snob that I can be about these kinds of things. Their hotel was fine, but -- not
the Four Seasons. We arranged that I'd meet them in their lobby at seven, and each went
our own way after the flight landed. I checked in, made some phone calls, and swam
upstream on my emails before leaving to pick them up.
Kelli had changed to a fetching outfit -- tight slacks and a scoop neck blouse that didn't
try to hide some cleavage. The blouse also left an inch or two of her midriff exposed,
more when she stretched or leaned over -- as she seemed to do a lot of. I spotted two
small tattoos, and suspected one could have a nice treasure hunt searching for more. Her
face was made up, with bright red lips and a smooth sheen to her skin. She'd done
something to her hair, added curls or something to spice things up. Her eyes were bright
and eager. This was a girl who was ready to party. You see a lot of women like this in
New York or LA -- visitors eager to prove they had what it takes to party in the big city.
It doesn't matter if they come from Chicago or Philadelphia or any other big city; New
York and LA were in leagues of their own. They took these women, ate them up, and
spit them out. If they were lucky, they'd at least be wiser for the experience. If they
weren't lucky, well, then they shouldn't have been there in the first place.
She formally introduced me to Tracy. It turns out that she did have a smile, and a nice
one at that. She used it sparingly, perhaps so as not to wear it out. She also wore slacks,
but her outfit was more subdued than Kelli. Just slacks, a light sweater, and sensible
shoes. She had let her hair down, pulled into a ponytail hanging behind her. It was
42
longer than I would have guessed from how it appeared when pined up. She was also
taller than I had remembered, with broad shoulders and long limbs that made me
immediately suspect she was a swimmer in her past. Actually, now that I was taking a
closer look I realized that it wasn't so much that she was tall as it was that she carried
herself with an almost regal posture. Kelli flaunted her body, virtually thrusting it
forward to get attention. Tracy just carried her body naturally, used to it and not really
caring if anyone noticed. She was comfortable in it, and all of a sudden I was realizing
what a nice package she was. Still, there was that ring…
"Ladies," I said gallantly, gesturing to the door. Kelli took my arm with a laugh, and
Tracy more reluctantly followed suit. Kelli leaned in close, letting me feel the solid
weight of that well-rounded breast with a mischievous look. Tracy kept a more discreet
distance. I caught a few admiring eyes from the men in the lobby for my attractive
bookends. We caught a cab to Madison Square Garden.
There were eight or ten people in the box with us, mostly young traders and a few
research analysts. I knew several of them and made introductions. There were, not
surprisingly, more males than females, so I got a few thanks for evening out the odds.
I mingled during the first half and through halftime, paying occasional attention to the
game at hand but more to the company I was keeping. I traded gossip and rumors,
listened to boastful stories, and added a few not-entirely-untrue ones of my own. Kelli
persistently kept appearing at my side, but I noticed that the gaps between appearances
grew longer as the evening went on. She was making new friends, the laughter growing
louder as the game went on.
I didn't pay much attention to Tracy. I checked on her periodically, making sure she was
introduced around and wasn't stuck in a corner by herself, but she was evidently quite
socially capable and I soon stopped worrying about her.
43
About midway through the third quarter I got tired of hob-knobbing. Madison Square
Garden is a great place to watch a basketball game, but it's mostly great because the fans
are so into it. Being at the game is more about being part of the fierce crowd than about
appreciating any fine points of the game. The fans were passionate, very vocal, and
uniquely New York. You might find tougher fans in Philly, more glamorous ones in LA,
and certainly more raucous ones at any number of college venues, but, hey, this literally
was the Big Apple. I took a break from the live action and sat at the bar to watch the
game on the television. The Pacers were beating the Knicks, which was fine with me.
The fans weren't as pleased. The replays and commentary was better on TV, even if the
immediacy of watching the game directly was lost. Tracy came over and sat by me.
"Having fun?" I inquired.
"Oh, yes," she said with a warm smile, "I'm having a great time." She looked around at
the room. Kelli had congregated to the traders, and they were vocally indicating their
enjoyment of the evening, if not the basketball game itself. We were off by ourselves.
"You?"
I studied her. She was smarter than I had first given her credit for; there was real
intelligence behind those eyes. I changed the subject and pointed out a great play. Tracy
knew a fair amount about the game, it seemed. Not a fanatic, but enough to hold her
own. We both could appreciate the talent without being burdened by the need to pretend
to know everything about the game or the players.
"If I'd known you were so into this, I'd have tried to get seats on the floor," I offered
teasingly. She looked at me with mock appreciation. "Next time," she said, as though
that were a real option.
The game changed near the beginning of the fourth quarter. Tracy and I were still sitting
at the bar when Al Nicholson came in. Al was the head of trading for the firm. He was a
big deal; I had hoped to see him when I arranged to sit in the box, but I didn't expect to.
44
The firm's employees greeted him with deference -- to the extent that the Wall Street
breed shows deference to its own, anyway.
Al and I knew each other slightly. I'd been working him for a couple years, trying to
persuade him to share our beliefs about TDK. I must have impressed him at least a little:
he'd tried to convince me on a couple occasions to join the firm's research staff, but it had
never gone far enough to get serious. He came over to me. "Z," he said cheerfully. I
saw Tracy raise her eyebrow just slightly at the nickname. I'd introduced myself to her as
Zeke. Al and I shook hands manfully, and he sat down next to me. I introduced Tracy.
The three of us watched the game. Al very subtly parried my equally subtle attempts to
turn the conversation to business, and I knew enough to let it pass. We confined our
comments to basketball, and Tracy contributed just enough to make her presence seem
normal.
The Pacers won, to my small pleasure. Everyone gathered up their things.
"We're going clubbing," Kelli announced exuberantly, grabbing my arm and tugging on it
playfully. Watching her bounce with excitement made my heart beat faster, but I
remembered my morning meetings. "Coming?" She seemed to mean it sincerely, but I
could see the traders she was with wouldn't mind my leaving her with them, if not exactly
to their safekeeping.
"Think I'll pass," I replied regretfully. "Early morning meeting. I'm not as young as I
once was."
Kelli gave me a look, suggesting I didn't know what I was missing. I knew full well what
I was passing up, but the traders were better suited to her than I was. "What about you,
Tracy?" Kelli said it almost as a challenge.
45
Tracy shook her head, amused. "Pass. I think I'll walk back to the hotel and go to bed."
Kelli didn't seem surprised. She gave us each a quick kiss and got ready to leave with her
troupe, who gave me grateful looks -- and one a quick thumbs up -- as they left with their
beautiful new friend.
It's not that far from the Garden to her hotel, and there would be people out on the streets.
Tracy could walk it safely on her own, and she seemed fully prepared to do so. Still, it
was New York and I had brought her. "I'll walk you."
She looked at me with those eyes. They were green, and very pretty. Either women
actually do get more attractive as the hour gets later or I'd been neglectful. Now they
were lively with amusement. "I'll be fine. I'm a big girl."
Most nights I would have left it go at that. I was letting Kelli go off into a far more
dangerous situation, after all. I'm no chauvinist, but sometimes it just doesn't pay to push
these things. I could catch a cab and get back to my hotel sooner, get some work done
before turning in. My conscience wouldn't keep quiet. "No, really. I could use the walk
too."
Tracy got her coat, but Al motioned me over before we got out the door. "I was talking
to Elliot a couple days ago," he told me, watching for my reaction. "He says two dollars
per share for the second quarter."
There it was. Now I knew why Al had sat next to me. Elliot had messed up. We had a
very organized strategy about when we tell what results to whom, and we had not
planned for this. Earnings of two dollars per share was aggressive. Too aggressive. It
would be a noticeable improvement from last year, and tough to hit. "I don't know about
that," I hedged.
"My guys think he might be right," he said, still waiting for my reaction. "I'd have to buy
with that kind of earnings."
46
I had to decide how to play this, and I had to decide now. Me versus Elliot. "My guys
don't," I told him flatly. As diplomatically as I could, I told Al that I thought two dollars
was a tad high. I implied I'd seen some more recent numbers than Elliot had when he'd
talked to Al a couple days ago. I gave him a more realistic number. "Second quarter will
be good, and third quarter and fourth quarter will better," I promised. Al studied me, then
laughed. We shook and he left.
Tracy had watched the whole affair silently. We started walking out, through the
crowded halls. The departing crowd was grumbling about the loss, but in part they
expected it by now, and had their complaints ready.
"What was that all about, with Al?" Tracy asked. She hadn't missed much.
I explained who Elliot was, and why I'd told Al what I had.
"So, you get to decide what earnings to release, instead of the Chief Financial Officer?"
Her tone was serious, but I somehow thought she was teasing me.
"Elliot knows the rules. We do it my way for a reason. I don't want the stock to jump up,
then take a dive when the numbers don't come out where he promised. I'd lose a year of
progress because Elliot wants to show off."
She nodded. "And if he's right?"
I gave her a look. "Doesn't matter. One, because I am right. I have better sources than
Elliot does. Second, even if I'm not right, I'll convince Margaret that my number is better
for us than his." Tracy didn't reply, but looked faintly impressed. So I liked to think.
I was scanning the crowds as usual as we walked, always on the lookout for people I
might know. It's an old habit. Sometimes it bothers people I'm with, like a date in a busy
47
restaurant, but, hey, I know a lot of people, and part of my job was to say hello to them. I
didn't see anyone I knew, but I did notice something unusual. We were passing a men's
room on the second level when a small boy came tearing out, a young man following hot
on his heels. The boy was wearing a Pacers' jersey, and took off down the hall at full
speed. The guy stopped just outside the entrance, evidently deciding there was not much
point in pursuit.
Tracy had noticed too. She smiled. "Looks like he was into some trouble."
"Maybe," I conceded, but the wheels were turning in my head.
The boy hadn't had that look of mischief that boys that age would have if they had pulled
a prank. In fact, the man in pursuit -- barely out of boyhood himself -- had an expression
that came closer to qualifying. The boy looked terrified. We'd passed the men's room,
and I took a quick glance over my shoulder. The guy was still there, standing outside the
doorway like a bouncer, with his muscular arms folded over his chest.
Something was up. Probably the guy's friends were scoring some drugs and they'd
chased the kid off. Maybe there were beating up some other guys, who had gone to a
rival high school or had said an offending word. It didn't take much to start trouble at
that age. I have a general preference to stay out of public restrooms, and that preference
becomes a rule when I know there are hotheaded toughs in them. I didn't break stride.
The thought drifted into my head from nowhere. It was, curiously enough, in Iris's voice:
What if there had been two boys?
"Could you wait here a second?" I asked Tracy politely as I stopped. "I'd like to go to the
men's room before we go."
Chapter 7
48
I studied the guy at the door as I approached him. I had the advantage, as he was loosely
watching the crowd while I could focus on him. He might be a security guard, but he
wasn't wearing a uniform or any kind of ID. More importantly, he didn't have the look of
someone doing a job. He looked like someone up to something. I was more convinced
than ever that something was happening in the men's room. They'd sent out their most
intimidating guy to block entry in the door, and it was working. I could see a few other
would-be patrons turn away after one look at his roadblock. The thing is, I'm not easily
intimidated. People from Chicago hate it when New Yorkers think they can push us
around.
It was a fool's errand to want to intrude, but that little voice in the back of my head was
still with me. The guard put his arm out in a cautioning manner as I approached. "It's
closed," he told me curtly. It was just routine for him; he didn't expect me to protest. It
hadn't occurred to him, or to his friends inside, that someone might force the issue.
"I don't think so," I said firmly, brushing his arm away and not slowing down. I didn't
want to give any sign of indecision or doubt.
This was the moment of truth. The risk was there; was he going to make something of it?
If so, it was better that trouble happened out here, where there were lots of people around,
than inside. He gave me a cold look, and I did my best to not show any hesitation. In the
end, he didn't know how to respond. He wasn't prepared for a loud altercation out in the
very public hallway. I went inside unimpeded.
Things didn't get better. I'd successfully gone from the frying pan into the fire. There
was, in fact, a second boy, and he was also wearing a Pacers jersey. This was evidently
the problem. Five or six young men had him surrounded in a loose semi-circle around
the urinals, trapping him while they taunted him. New York fans do not take lightly to
visitors wearing rival team's jerseys, especially with a team like the Pacers and even more
49
right after a loss. They had just been pushing him, but now were threatening to pick him
up and dunk him in a toilet or urinal, and the boy was becoming hysterical.
The bullies were college aged, but I doubted they were in college. They seemed to me
like blue-collar kids from Jersey or Queens, in town for the night to strut their stuff
before retiring to their suburban lairs. They probably weren't really bad kids, but they
liked to make trouble. They were all bigger than me, and barely glanced my way as I
walked in. I was just another middle-aged guy, practically invisible to them. One thing I
don't like about getting older is that young people all seem bigger, even the girls. I feel
like when I'm eighty I'll be a dwarf by comparison. I didn't want to be in this situation
both outnumbered and outsized, but I never did like bullies. I bet these guys had picked
on helpless little kids in school too.
We weren't in school. "Game's over, guys," I announced myself. "Let the kid go." I
inserted myself through their perimeter and put my hand on the boy's shoulder. The one
closest to him held the other shoulder, and seemed like the instigator. He had dirty
blonde hair and several earrings, and was the tallest of the bunch. I didn't like his haircut
either -- something out of Mad Max. I think it may have spelled something. He didn't
look like a basketball fan; I suspected he'd come down thinking there was a Rangers'
game.
"What are you, a Pacers' fan too?" he sneered, giving me a nasty look. He spat it out like
a mortal insult.
"It's a free country."
We stared at each other. His friends glared at me. I tried not to let their looming
presence worry me, but it did. You don't really want to get in a fight with six young hot
heads, especially in the men's room of a sports arena in New York City. I'd have a hard
time explaining black eyes and bruises at my meeting the next morning -- assuming I
50
could still walk. The other kids weren't quite as menacing as their friend, but they might
be spurred to take risks just to keep up.
"Maybe we should dunk him," one of the outer men suggested ominously. "Nah,"
another one interjected, "let's just kick the shit out of him."
They were just kibitzing, waiting while this one made up his mind about exactly how far
they wanted to go tonight. I think he knew bullying a kid was one thing, but picking on
someone like me was another level. He could get in real trouble, but that was also part of
the appeal of the idea to him. "Give me one reason while we shouldn't?" he challenged
me.
"Easy: Marvin Hamel."
That threw them. "Who the fuck is Marvin Camel?"
"Look," I clarified. "It's Marvin Hamel, with an "H," and he is the meanest son-of-a-
bitch lawyer you'll ever meet. He takes great pleasure in going after people who give me
trouble, and squeezing every penny out of them." That silenced them, if only for a
moment. They knew about lawyers.
"Yeah, like we have any money," one of them muttered in a feeble attempt to retort.
"Or like you could even find us," another added.
I had to stop them from gaining courage. "You don't get it. Marvin is like the
Terminator. He won't stop until he gets what he wants. He'll find you -- I don't know
how, but he always does -- and before you know it, no more cars, no more parents'
houses, no more parents' money. I'll bet that would make your fathers happy."
51
I figured the reference to their fathers was good. They might not get along with their
fathers, and their fathers probably expected them to get into some trouble, but they still
were likely to fear their father's ire at the prospect of being sued. Now, in truth, Marvin
was actually my lawyer. He'd recently made out my will, which was looking like a better
and better idea. As far as I knew, though, he'd never sued anyone. On the other hand, I
didn't think complete honesty was required in this situation.
We eyed each other, and that was enough. The next thing we all knew, a couple of cops
were in the room with us. "Break it up, guys," they ordered. With the officers was the
boy's father, and the two of them joyfully reunited, along with the younger son who had
fled for help. I expected it would be a few more years before the father decided his boys
were old enough to go to the men's room alone in a place like this.
The toughs took a few seconds to start dispersing, wanting to save face and make it seem
like it was their idea to leave. The cops watching impassively, perhaps remembering
times from there own youth when they'd been run off. Mad Max -- no, Mad Max was the
good guy, right? -- gave me the silent stare bit, which I matched with a face as
expressionless as possible. Finally it was his time to move past me. Somehow I doubted
he was going to leave so easily.
I was right. As he came by me, his elbow swung out to clip me in the head. I pulled
back, letting his arm miss me by centimeters. His momentum carried him past me
slightly off balance, and I used this to kick one of his legs out from under him. It was all
very fast -- my old wrestling skills coming in handy. As he stumbled, I grabbed the back
of his coat and, in the guise of catching him from stumbling, pushed his head into the
wall. He barely avoided going headfirst into the urinal. He rebounded quickly and stood
for a second, debating coming after me, when one of the cops dispassionately urged him
along.
The cops watched all this. I think the younger one pretty much missed both the putative
blow to my head and my part in the kid's contact with the wall. The older one -- the one
52
who had told the kid to move it -- caught the whole thing, but his face never changed
expression. This suggested to me that he'd dished out some not-quite-by-the-book
punishment in his time. The youth grumbled and walked out with his friends, muttering
unkind comments about me, my mother, my haircut, the Pacers -- you name it. At least
they weren't still mad at the boy.
I rejoined Tracy in the hall. "What was that all about?" she inquired with concern. I gave
her the abbreviated version, and she exclaimed that she hadn't even realized there might
be trouble until the police had hurried down the hall with the father. I shrugged and said
it was no big deal, and she let it go, giving me a curious eye.
We got outside and started to walk the mile or so to her hotel. The streets immediately
around the Garden were crowded with the post-game exodus, but the crowd quickly
thinned out to a more manageable density a couple of blocks up from Thirty Fourth
Street. We chatted casually, comparing notes on travel schedules and which of us logged
more airtime. I won, as her schedule allowed her to dictate how often and which routes
she was on. I was at the mercy of the market, which never stopped. She nodded
sympathetically, neither unduly impressed nor overly concerned.
I inquired after her life. She lived outside Denver, but arranged her schedule to fly on as
many different routes as possible. "I figure, why be in this business if you don't get to see
as many places as possible," she said. She told me she preferred to get a day or so in
cities, rather than making sure she got home each night or flying out first thing the next
morning. It made scheduling her more complicated for the airline, but she had the
seniority to pull it off.
We walked the rest of the way in amiable silence, the streets mostly to ourselves now. I
was comfortable with the silence, and she seemed to be lost in thought herself. I liked the
way she walked. She had the natural feline grace of an athlete. I still thought she might
have been a swimmer, but she moved pretty well on land too. Did you ever notice how
cats saunter when they are walking? They have that unconscious confidence that
53
whatever they do will look good, and that, if need be, they could burst into a sprint, or
leap into the air. I didn't think Tracy was likely to do either, but I liked the way she
moved. Some women sway or strut to attract attention. Tracy just flowed, and if the only
person who was paying attention was me, well, it was other men's loss.
The streets got busy again as we got closer to Times Square. The theater crowd was
dispersing and it was fun to contrast them with the crowd we'd just left. Somehow I
doubted anyone was getting dunked in the men's room, unless it was the performers at the
Lion King theater.
The bright lights of Times Square are like no place else. It's the lights, the people, and
the whole gestalt. There's a buzz, an energy, that is in the air and revs you up. In front of
you are thousands of stories playing out, and hidden away in places you couldn't see there
were millions more. You'd look one way and see something of interest that would keep a
small town buzzing with interest for weeks, only to look the other way and see something
even odder. It's like being in a live-action video store. It's too much visual and auditory
sensation. I could see a pilgrim coming from years in seclusion eagerly visiting here and
having the overload cause his head to blow up. We marveled at being there like the
tourists we really were, world-class travelers that we were or not. I affected the jaded air
of a native, but in truth I was always kind of thrilled. As we got close to her hotel, she
surprised me anew.
"Cup of coffee?"
Chapter 8
My desire to get back to my room to do some work fought against my sense of not being
quite ready to end our time together. Work lost, which would have surprised Kelli and
which surprised me a little too. I suggested a diner I knew nearby, passing on the easy
Starbucks choice in favor of some local character.
54
This was not one of your classic greasy spoon diners, with the assortment of riff-raff
hanging out at the counter, and with food that raised more questions that you didn't really
want answered. Nor was it a great old New Jersey diner, with the hard-working Greek
family running the place with attitude and efficiency, and a huge menu to boot. No, this
was a New York diner, pretending it had some of the atmosphere of both but upscaling
them beyond recognition. The menu was so big, and so complicated, that novices could
spend days searching in vain for something that they recognized -- scrambled eggs, a
hamburger, even a simple dish of ice cream. Everything in here had to have a cute name
and gourmet ingredients. Macaroni and cheese had tofu and cheeses I'd only heard of in
glossy magazines. The place sparkled with mock chrome and retro Formica. I felt like I
was in an alternate 1950's. There probably were real diners in New York, but not in Mid-
town.
I love to go into restaurants late at night. All right, it wasn't late by New York standards,
only eleven or so, but it was a weeknight and in most places you'd have a hard time even
finding someplace open. This place was humming, comfortably busy without being
packed. It's fun to go late and find a place still sociable, but it's also fun to find an out-of-
the-way treasure that is deserted until you get there. What I hate is a place that is
dwindling down, the workers just wanting the patrons to leave and glaring at any late-
arriving newcomers. This place was hardly dwindling down. I scanned the crowd
happily, soaking in the ambiance. My hearing had to adjust to the ceaseless hum of
conversation.
Once we were seated and had ordered, I finished checking the room for people I knew;
no one in sight. I turned my attention to Tracy, keeping an eye on the door to spot any
newcomers, and found her smiling at me. She seemed amused by my split attention span,
"It's like being with Wyatt Earp," she said wryly. "You're always making sure no one is
going to shoot you in the back."
"That was Wild Bill Hickok, I think."
55
"No, he was the one who didn't watch and did get shot in the back." We both had a laugh
about that.
We ordered something to drink from a perky waitress who was undoubtedly an actress
expecting better things later in life, and acting now like she cared about our order. I'll
take artificial concern over obvious apathy any day. Once our waitress had departed
Tracy eyed me with a mischievous smile. "You sort of drew the short end of the straw."
"How so?"
Tracy was amused. "Kelli. She came with you, and she planned to go home with you. I
think she really wanted to see your hotel from the inside, if you know what I mean."
"I guess that's how a man knows he's getting old."
"How?" Tracy asked with a smile on her face, anticipating a good line.
"Your hotel room is more attractive to pretty women than you are."
"Or your car," Tracy offered generously.
"Thanks a bunch."
She patted my forearm reassuringly, and it was like a little electric shock when she
touched me. "Don't worry, Zeke, you're not that far gone yet. You have a few good
years left. Still, here you are with an old married woman. You didn't play your cards
right."
It was a funny thing to say. I didn't think she was feeling sorry for herself, just observing
what she saw. And I have to admit that at the beginning of the evening I'd have thought
56
of it the same way. But somewhere along the course of the evening I had lost the steam
to compete for Kelli. I was enjoying talking to Tracy. I liked her.
"Ah, Kelli's better suited to those young guys," I offered gallantly. "Besides, you're no
old lady."
Tracy laughed. "I'm no Kelli."
"No, you're you. I'll bet she was the pretty cheerleader in high school, with all the guys
around her."
"And me?" Now she did seem to be teasing, but with an undertone that made me think
she really wanted to know what I thought. So I chose my words carefully.
"Hmm," I stalled. "Let's see. You were the girl on student council or on the yearbook,
the girl in the foreign language and chemistry classes. You were the one who was so
smart and so nice that guys came to ask you for advice with their girlfriends, and never
noticed how beautiful you were."
She touched her hair unconsciously. "You think I'm beautiful?"
I turned my head to really look at her. She actually was beautiful. It was late in the
evening night in an exciting city that was home to neither of us, and I was with a woman
that I was enjoying being with more than I could remember in a long time. She had
lovely dark hair and those emerald eyes, a magical disappearing smile, beautiful skin, and
a nice shape. "Yes, I do."
Our coffee arrived -- mine was straight black, while she'd ordered some aromatic
cappuccino. Neither one of us was brave enough for expresso. Obviously, this was not a
date we were expecting to stay up late on. We busied ourselves getting our cups ready
57
for consumption, then drank gratefully, with those strange little rituals that only coffee
drinkers have.
Tracy surprised me again. "We've met before, you know."
I considered this. I'd just finished telling her that she was beautiful, but my analysis of
her high school experience had been apt: her beauty kind of sneaks up on you. It's not
like she was Sharon Stone or someone else instantly unforgettable. Still, I have a pretty
good memory for people. I thought I'd have remembered her. "Oh, sure…," I said
lamely.
Tracy wasn't fooled, and laughed at my inability to recall. "Cut it out. I didn't really
expect you to remember me. It was a few weeks ago, on a flight from Charlotte to
Tampa. You gave a nice old lady your seat in first class. Or is that so common that you
don't remember it?"
"You were working that flight?"
"Yes; I gave you your coat and told you what a nice thing you had done."
I still didn't remember meeting her before. I remember the occasion, but not the person.
I'd met scores of flight attendants even over the last few weeks, and she just hadn't
registered. No matter. I tried to fake it. "Oh, yes -- of course."
"Don't snow me," she chided me gently. "You still don't remember me at all. But I
remember you."
I didn't know what to make of that, so I switched topics back to her life. I tried to quiz her
again. "How long have you been married?"
58
A rueful sigh, and she seemed to have to think about her reply. "Seven years," she
admitted, choosing her words carefully.
"Any kids?"
She shook her head, with a small smile that I read as both sad and relieved. I took all this
to mean her marriage was not the best, but I was used to that. I knew more unhappy
couples than happy ones. I had to wonder if her travel schedule was a cause of, or a
reaction to, her marital situation, but it was a wonder I kept to myself. Still, I had to ask.
"Doesn't your husband mind you being gone so much?"
At this she stiffened, if only slightly. I'd hit some sort of nerve. "No," she replied curtly.
I figured it was best to leave it alone.
"What about your wife?" she countered, a standard line in these games.
"Not married."
Tracy raised an eyebrow. "An eligible catch like you? Were you ever married?"
A black cloud passed quickly over my head, possibly darkening my expression but I had
enough practice with covering my reactions that I'm sure she didn't catch it. "Once, a
long time ago for a short period of time," I admitted.
"That's it?"
I modestly allowed that, as much of a great catch as I might be, I didn't really have time
to be married. She laughed, as intended, and looked at me with that speculative look
women sometimes get when encountering eligible bachelors. Thinking of whom she
could fix me up with, no doubt. She inquired as to kids, and I quickly ran through my
59
usual responses. She might be good looking, she definitely was here, and she probably
wasn't available, but she wasn't going to get a completely honest response back. Not
here, not now, most likely not ever.
"Dozens. Hundreds. Maybe thousands," I replied deadpan.
A startled expression passed over her face before she realized I was joking. "Oh, you're
one of these guys who hates Father's Day because you never know who you're going to
get mail from?"
"Right. And when I fly into a city and see the guy holding up a placard with my name on
it at the airport, I'm never entirely sure if he's my driver or my son." We each laughed,
perhaps for different reasons.
We drank some coffee and brought up the topic of dessert. What's the point in being in a
nightspot late at night if you're not either drinking or having something sweet? I didn't
think we were going to order drinks. We agreed to split a piece of chocolate cake. Our
waitress gratefully took our order, playing out some scene in her head that probably had
nothing to do with us, but practical enough to know it would increase her tip by a couple
of dollars.
We talked a little about New York and other topics it lead to as we waited for the cake,
then devoured it once it arrived. It was rich and very chocolate, and we worked on it
from both directions until only a sliver was left. We eyed it and each other speculatively.
"You want that last piece of cake?" I inquired.
Tracy let me finish the cake, while she sipped her coffee speculatively. I sensed a
question coming.
"So, those guys in the men's room…"
60
"Yes?"
Tracy put her coffee cup down and gave me a frank look. "Do you always walk into
trouble like that?" I cocked my head, prompting her to continue. "Like a big macho
hero, looking for fights?"
I laughed. "No, my weapon to scare them off was a pit-bull lawyer. Believe me, the last
thing I wanted to do was fight those kids."
"How'd you know there was a boy in there? We saw the first one run out, but how did
you know there was a second boy?"
I couldn't really explain it. I could tell her about the various scenarios that had run
through my head before that small voice called out to me, but it didn't tell her, or me, why
it had appeared at all. I shrugged and favored her with an apologetic grin. She let it go,
at least for now.
She ran her fingers over her cup purposely, her eyes deliberately on the surface. "So,
twice I've run into you, and twice you've gone out of your way to do something nice for
someone. I'm trying to figure out if you've a mensch, or it's just coincidence."
I made a dismissive face. "I'm not that nice a guy. Ask the people I work with. I'm a
hard-ass."
Now she laughed. "And it's a nice ass!"
I think I blushed, but secretly I was pleased she'd noticed. Or, at least, claimed to have. I
wasn't sure if I liked that she thought I was such a nice guy, but I didn't mind that she
liked my ass. A few minutes later we had finished our coffee, and then we were at her
hotel.
61
"Well, thanks for walking me up," she said awkwardly, as we stood in the lobby. "It was
nice of you. I guess I should expect nice things from you, given what I've seen."
The compliment made me feel uncomfortable. It was no big deal. "Well, I was glad to. I
enjoyed talking with you." I reached out and shook hands, and turned to go back out to
those restless streets.
Her voice stopped me. "You know, Zeke, most guys would have asked to come up." It
sounded like an observation, not an invitation, and that's how I chose to take it. I
shrugged again; she had the knack for getting me to do that. "You're married," I pointed
out.
That just elicited another wry smile. "As I said, most guys…"
"I'm not that kind of guy."
That wasn't entirely true, I have to confess. I like to think it isn't true, but at times I have
done things with married women that I knew I shouldn't have. I try to keep a moral
guideline not to pursue married women or even women who are already involved,
especially when there are children in the equation. But if the woman in question is both
very attractive and takes the initiative -- well, I'm only human. Sometimes marital status
never quite comes up, in kind of a "don't ask, don't tell" approach. So, I'm no saint.
Tracy had flirted with me slightly, I thought, but nothing too obvious. I think my
response back to her was mostly because I wanted her to like me. A few minutes
previously she'd told me what a good guy I was, so making a pass at her didn't seem like
the best choice.
I apparently had given her the answer she had expected. Tracy nodded, in understanding
and -- I thought, just perhaps -- with some regret. "So you say…"
62
She turned and went towards the elevators, and I walked outside and back to my hotel. It
was not terribly late, and I felt restless. I flipped through the channels on the TV,
searching for something mindless. There was an old Jimmy Stewart movie on, when he
was still young, funny, and idealistic. Before the war, after which he turned more cynical
and serious. I felt like Jimmy after the war, although if I was honest I don't suppose I was
ever that funny or that idealistic. It doesn't seem like anyone is anymore. Maybe they
weren't then either; just in the movies.
I went over to the window and pulled the blinds open to look at the expansive, or at least
expensive, view. I get these rooms with great views, and the first thing I do is close the
blinds. Usually I want to close myself into my own little world. Tonight it felt too little.
New York is a very crowded city. People seem to live closer, eat meals closer, even sit in
movies closer, than in most places. You'd think that all that closeness would make it a
place of great human warmth and contact. I suppose there is that here somewhere.
Somehow, though, it always seemed to me to be a place of great loneliness. People went
back to their little rooms -- most of them smaller than my hotel room here -- and closed
the blinds from the rest of the world. Looking out at the lights of the city, I thought of all
the other people out there by themselves.
Once again, I wanted to call someone. I wanted to tell them about the game, about my
meeting with Al, even about the boy in the Pacers' jersey. I actually toyed with the idea
of calling Tracy. A married flight attendant whom I just met tonight, if you exclude that
initial flight. It wouldn't have been proper, or -- I feared -- welcome. Oh, I could do it,
but I wasn't going to. I tried to watch the movie and will myself to sleep.
Chapter 9
The phone woke me.
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It couldn't have been more than thirty or forty minutes after I'd fallen asleep. The
television was still on, although Jimmy Stewart seemed to have been replaced by Cary
Grant. It was dark in my room, with just a little light coming in from the living room. I
was momentarily disoriented, before I figured out where I was and what time it was. I
picked up the phone, rapidly running through my head the list of people who might be
calling so late. Margaret was at the top of the list; she didn't care what time it was if she
needed something.
”Hello?" I said tentatively.
"Hello, Zebulon."
It wasn't Margaret. "Kelli?" I offered weakly, more in hope than in expectation. Maybe
she had finished with those young guys and wanted to come visit me. A beautiful young
woman coming up to your hotel room in the middle of the night has got to be a fantasy
for most men, especially when you don't have to pay them. Not that I ever did, of course.
"Not Kelli. Guess again."
"Tracy?"
She laughed, and then I knew. I should have known from the beginning, but I suppose my
brain had refused to believe it could be true. She had called me Zebulon, and right away
that should have tipped me off. It couldn't be, but I couldn't think of anyone else who
might call me that. "Iris?" I asked in an incredulous tone.
"Of course. Who's Kelli?"
"None of your business." I was awake now. "How the hell did you find me?"
64
"Whatever do you mean, Zeb?" Her voice was cool and coy, knowing full well the
mystery.
"It's impossible. I never told you I'd be here. I didn't even tell you my last name."
"You think there's a lot of Zebulons in the world?"
"Enough," I said firmly.
There was a silence on her end. I listened for clues as to what might be happening on
her end, but this time I couldn't form any mental pictures. It was a situation that couldn't
really be happening. My eyes drifted to the images on the television screen.
"I just found you," she finally said, stating it as a simple fact that spoke for itself.
"It's not possible…"
"I found you." Her voice brooked no uncertainty.
I didn't know how to reply to that. I started to wonder what kind of nut I had on my
hands. Evidently a stalker of some sort -- goodness knows how she'd tracked me down. I
couldn't imagine how she had managed it, but here she was at the other end of the line.
It wasn't magic and it wasn't fate, because I don't believe in either, but what it was I
couldn't fathom. This time the silence was on my side.
"Did I wake you?"
I debated whether to respond. In retrospect, I suppose I should have hung up right then.
I'm called in the middle of the night by a desperate woman, whom I don't know, and who
has no right to know where I am -- but I must confess I didn't even conceive of hanging
up. Perhaps it was because she was desperate, perhaps because I wasn't quite sure this
65
was all real. Perhaps -- well, it doesn't matter. I played along, as if everything was
normal.
"I dozed off."
"Is it dark there?"
Hmm, it's after midnight in a hotel room. No, Iris, all the lights are on and I'm having a
party. Of course it's dark! Well, not quite. "The TV's on," I admitted.
"What are you watching?" Her voice was interested.
I looked at the screen and tried to figure out what it might be. I had one immediate clue.
"Umm, I think it's a Cary Grant movie."
"Which one?"
I hadn't followed it closely enough to figure out what it was. I like old movies, but I'm no
expert. "I don't know."
"Well, who is in it?" she asked, as patient as you would be with a child. So I responded
like a child. "I told you -- Cary Grant."
She laughed. Once again, as I had in the airport, I found myself drawn to her. She
might be a nut -- must be a nut -- but there was something in her laugh, in her voice, that
was warm and tender and real. "I know that, silly. Who else?"
I watched for a few seconds. "Oh, Katherine Hepburn."
"Is it 'Philadelphia Story'?"
66
I watched for a few more seconds. "No, there's plenty of rich people in it, but I don't
recognize this from 'Philadelphia Story'. Wasn't Jimmy Stewart in that? I haven't seen
him."
"So what's going on?"
It seemed strange to be comparing notes like this, but I couldn't think of any other
conversational routes, so I went with the flow. "Well, he's with Katherine and some man
in a room. They're talking, and the man is playing the piano."
"Oh." She had a pleased tone of recognition. "'Holiday.'"
"I beg your pardon?"
"It's 'Holiday.' The movie is 'Holiday,' and it's one of my favorites. Want to know what's
going on?"
I suppose it was pretty strange, sitting there in the dark talking on the phone about old
movies on TV with a woman I didn't know. At the time, though, it was more amazing to
me that she was able to guess what it was based on my brief description than it was that I
was talking to her at all. I must have been sleepier than I thought. Then again, I didn't
really know if she was right about the movie, so maybe it wasn't all that amazing. I
wasn't really all that into the movie, having come into it late and not planning to stay up
to see the rest. I may be compulsive about some things, but not this. Still, Iris seemed
keen on telling me, so I assented.
She went on to explain the plot to me. It seems that Cary was a self-made man on his
way up. He meets a rich girl and she introduces him to her family, which includes her
eccentric sister -- that's Katherine -- and her dissolute brother. Anyway, Cary's
girlfriend is very straight-laced. He just wants to make some money and go off on a long
67
holiday while he is still young enough to do things like that, while she and her father just
want him to keep working.
"So where's Katherine come in?" I asked, getting interested despite myself.
"She thinks it's grand that he is adventurous, and not just about making more money like
everyone else she knows. So she falls in love with him, while Cary begins to worry he's
fallen in love with the wrong girl -- you know, your typical romantic dilemma."
The scenes on the screen were beginning to make sense to me. I liked that Iris described
something as "grand," a term not often used but entirely fitting to something Katherine
Hepburn might, indeed, say. "So who does he end up with?"
"Katherine, of course. It's a Grant-Hepburn movie, after all. He's tempted to keep
working, but in the end decides he was right originally to want to have a holiday. The
girlfriend breaks up with him, Katherine sees her chance and moves in on him. They all
live happily ever after."
"Hey -- he just did a back-flip," I reported incredulously. I saw no signs of a stunt

double. "Cary did a back-flip!"
I could see her nodding. My mental link with her was getting stronger again. "That's
what he does in the movie to relieve tensions," she informed me. "Cary Grant was an
acrobat originally, you know."
We watched the movie in amiable silence. At least, I watched it, and she sat patiently
while I watched it. Maybe she was watching it somewhere on her own TV, I don't know,
or maybe she knew the movie well enough to picture it along with me. Perhaps she was
just waiting for me to snap out of the spell she's put me under.
68
Finally I broke the spell. "Iris, why are you calling me?" I tried to keep my voice as
patient, as non-judgmental as possible. I thought I was being very reasonable, given the
circumstances.
Iris wasn't quite done with the movie. "So, would you have gone? Could you have just
walked away from your job like that, leaving the girl you're engaged to out of principle?
"Sure," I responded automatically. I thought for a moment, then conceded. "Maybe

not."
I could sense her nodding in approval again.
"What about you?" I asked. Why I was in this conversation, I didn't know, but somehow
she'd pulled me in.
There was a pregnant pause. I began to wonder if she was going to answer when her
voice came through, small almost beyond recognition. "Why do you suppose people
don't take chances like that?"
This time I paused. The credits on the movie were starting, and I picked up the remote to
see what else was on. "I don't know. I suppose they're afraid."
"Afraid of what?" Iris asked, not missing a beat.
A pause as I thought. "Afraid of doing the wrong thing, I suppose. Afraid they'll lose
what they have."
Iris thought about it. "What are you afraid of?"
I laughed. "Afraid? Me?" I said, putting on my best macho front.
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"Do you ever think about dying?" The question floated out there effortlessly, as though it
had been sitting inside Iris just waiting, and now she had exhaled it as gracefully as a
breath of relief.
Here it was. She was suicidal after all. OK, how do I talk her down. "Iris, why are you
calling?" I asked again.
"Answer the question."
"I mean, it isn't even possible that you're calling me. You don't know who I am or where
I am." Yet there she was, unfazed by these impossibilities.
"Answer the question," she repeated relentlessly.
I had no will to resist her. I suppose I didn't really believe I was talking to her. The
television cast its blue light out onto the room, flickering randomly. The whole setting
seemed surreal to me, this distant hotel room with me in the center of my little cave and
its cone of cold blue light. "Dying?" I repeated stupidly. Not much of a comeback, but I
was feeling my way blind here.
"Yeah, dying. I mean, you fly all the time -- don't you worry about plane crashes?"
I felt more comfortable now. This didn't feel like an I'm-in-the-bathtub-with-a-razor

conversation -- not that I've been in one. "No, I don't worry about that."
"Why not?"
I shrugged, aware that she couldn't see it. How to explain? "I'm just not going to die
like that."
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There was a pause while she considered that statement, long enough for me to regret
having said it. It was true, I believed, but the reason why was not something I could
easily explain. Maybe Iris would let me off the hook. She didn't.
"How do you know?"
I sat there in the dark, late at night in that far off hotel room. I had no reason to tell her,
no reason to share any secrets with her. I must have been tired and thus vulnerable. She
knew my real name, after all. I told her the story.
It was just after college. I was staying with my friend Ed at Martha's Vineyard, and he
suggested going out sailing. It was eight in the evening, and he was not a very
experienced sailor, but we'd been drinking and it seemed like a good idea at the time. So
off we went, out into the sound. He borrowed a friend's boat, not a very big one but big
enough for us to feel like a couple of carousing pirates. It was still light out but with
clouds looming over the horizon that we should have paid more attention to. We drank
and swooped around, having fun as the wind filled our sails and propelled us along
briskly. We didn't notice the storm clouds until they were almost upon us, and then it was
too late. The rain hit us with a shock, and all of a sudden sailing wasn't fun.
The winds picked up, tossing us around effortlessly. Between the sheets of rain and the
dark clouds we could barely see ten yards. Ed yelled something at me, but I couldn't
hear him over the roar of the storm. I'd never seen anything like it, was stunned by the
fury of the storm. I didn't know shit about sailing but even I figured we should drop the
sail, as the wind was boxing us around like a heavyweight sparring with a bantamweight.
I started to make my way over to the mast when the boom swung over and hit me,
throwing me off the boat.
The last thing I saw was Ed's frightened face, standing helplessly at the wheel. Then I
was in the water trying to keep from drowning as the boat slid out of my visual horizon.
We'd been stupid but at least we'd been wearing lifejackets. The waves and the wind kept
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conspiring to dunk me, but I kept bobbing up like a buoy. It was just a question of if I
could keep from swallowing too much water during the times I was below the surface.
The world was utter darkness, and I was completed surrounded by water. It was like
being in some sadistic funhouse, with a dunk tank and buckets of water -- big buckets --
hitting me in the head every few seconds without warning. I was submersed in water up
to my neck, yet water was also hitting from above and from the sides. It was hard to tell
which direction was up and which was down, and it was pure chance when my ragged
breaths took in air instead of water. The waves lifted and fell, making me rise seemingly
hundreds of feet up in the air and back down in a matter of seconds, like a liquid jet
plane. The wind added velocity to the water's overwhelming mass, giving it a density
that was shocking. Imagine being totally wet -- no, imagine being more than totally wet,
with every particle of your being unable to think of anything other than being wet -- then
add the knowledge that it is pitch black and you're miles from anyone. That was me.
Scared? Hell, yes I was scared. I could barely distinguish the waves of terror from the
waves of waves.
The storm passed in a few minutes -- it seemed like an eternity then, but probably was no
more than fifteen or twenty minutes. When it passed at least I wasn't in immediate
danger of drowning, but the worse news was it was still too dark to make out Ed's boat,
or any landmark for that matter. No other boats, and no sign of the shoreline. At first I
figured Ed would be right back, but soon realized there was no way he could regain
enough control of the boat to come back for me. I treaded water and tried to think about
my options. There didn't seem to be any. That's when I really got worried. Before, at
the peak of the storm, I'd been too focussed on staying afloat to think about what might
happen next. My terror then had more to do with being totally at the mercy of the storm
than to any conscious thoughts of dying. Now the grim reality set in. I could be miles
away from shore. Ed might not be in any position to search for me, and no one else even
knew we were out there to mount a rescue mission. I was in deep shit. The possibilities
of dying all alone out there became very real to me, and I shivered.
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Then, for no reason that I understood then or even to this day, I became calm. I felt an
odd certainty that this was not how I was going to die. I looked around, picked out the
most promising direction, and started swimming. Within an hour a Coast Guard ship, on
its way to search for another pleasure boat, picked me up. It was a total fluke, but
somehow it didn't surprise me. Drowning just wasn't my fate.
They never found Ed or his boat.
"So you knew you weren't going to drown?" Iris asked after I'd finished my recount.
"Not like that, anyway."
"So how does this relate to not being in a plane crash?" Iris asked, after a respectful
pause.
I paused myself. This was the part of the story that was hard to believe. In fact, it was
something I'd never told it to anyone. Sitting in this solitary room tonight, though, I
somehow felt I could tell Iris and not have her laugh. Kind of like a weird, only-in-New
York, only-in-a-hotel-room kind of confessional. "I've been in terrible storms on flights,
and I just get the same sense that I'm not going to die like that. So I just don't worry
about it."
Iris considered this. Maybe she took a drink of water; I couldn't quite tell, but she did
some little distracting gesture like that. "Any other ways you're sure you won't die?"
I laughed, the tension broken somehow. "Lots. Car crash. Skiing accident. Tornado or
hurricane. I've been through those and felt the same."
"So how are you going to die?"
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I leaned back against the headboard. "It doesn't work like that. I just get the sense that
certain situations aren't ways I'll die. I can't tell how I might die, just ways that I won't."
Iris thought about it. I thought about it too. We were both quiet and the little ghosts on
the television screen bathered on in the background, the television shining onto my bed
like some weird spotlight.
"You're lucky," she said warmly. "I'm glad you didn't die." Then she was gone, just like
that, leaving me to wonder again if she had ever really been there at all.
I was beyond sleep at that point, my lonely room threatening to crush me with silence
despite the television. It wasn't a small room, but now seemed to confine me like a cage.
You see, I hadn't been entirely truthful to Iris. I don't know how I might die, but I know
how I'm afraid I will die. I'm afraid I'll die in one of these far-off hotel rooms, alone and
by myself, with no one to miss me. Eventually someone would check in with my office to
ask why I hadn't shown up for a meeting, or a maid would come to clean the room, but
either way strangers will find me and strangers will probably bury me.
I only think these thoughts late at night. At night, with the curtains drawn, hotel rooms
can seem as dark and forbidding as that night long ago on the ocean, although at least
I'm not wet. Once I turn off the lights and the television, the blackness and silence fill
that space as inexorably as the storm filled my world that night. The television helps me
not think these kinds of things, but that doesn't always work. I suppose I could stop
travelling, but it's not as though it happens all the time. Besides, if I die alone in my
house there won't be a maid coming in the next day to find me. So hotel rooms are
better.
At least Iris cares, I thought as I drifted off to a fitful sleep.
Chapter 10
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I must have fallen asleep shortly after that. I remember bits and pieces from the movie,
and I think I even saw Cary and Katherine end up together in some other movie, but there
was no coherence to the scenes I remembered. They could just have been montages
from other movies. Late night television watching has that danger.
In the morning I woke early, as always. It took me a couple of minutes to lace where I
was. Hotel rooms all look the same in the dark, you know. They sound different, of
course, with varying degrees of thickness of walls and external noise, but that utter
blackness is universal. Going to sleep with the light from the television is one way to
mask it, but if you wake before it is light out you're going to be faced with an anonymous
darkness that is hard to distinguish. I kind of like those few moments before I remember
where I'd laid my head the night before. Sometimes on planes if I nap just a little too
long I wake equally disoriented, and have to piece clues to my destination from the
geography below or from landing announcements from the pilot or crew. I guess I spend
so much of my life on a schedule, living out my itinerary and trying so hard to stay on top
of things, that these little moments of uncertainty allow me the freedom to think I could
be anywhere in the world. Then I figure it out, as I always do.
This morning I was in New York. I remembered the Knicks game, my coffee with
Tracy…and my unexpected call from Iris.
It must have been a dream, of course. I wondered why I'd be dreaming about Iris calling
me in a hotel room. She'd gotten under my skin somehow, that was for sure. There were
the couple times I'd been alone and kind of wished she would call, silly though I knew
that desire to be. Then there was her voice suggesting I see if there was another kid in
that men's room. That must have been it; I'd gone to sleep wondering why I'd heard her
voice at Madison Square Garden, and so perhaps it was not so surprising that I dreamt of
her. I didn't know what all that stuff about dying was about; talk about morbid. Too bad
it wasn't a dream involving sex, or at least letting me see what she looked like.
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I went out for a run in Central Park before traffic got too busy. Central Park is one of the
great places in the country to run, after Lincoln Park in Chicago, of course, and Stanley
Park in Vancouver. Central Park has all those trees, plus the best people watching
anywhere outside Venice Beach, but you have to get a run in early to avoid the traffic.
Even on the weekends, when no cars are allowed, you have all the roller-bladers and
bicyclists to avoid. Still, I prefer Lincoln Park and Stanley Park, and I think it is because
both have those great bodies of water alongside them. There's something about the water
that I just love. You'd suppose the ocean would hold a similar appeal, but I haven't quite
found the right place on either coast. The ocean is too big, too unpredictable. In any
event, I was happy to be up and doing my run in Central Park on this clear morning in the
early morning light.
My exercise time each morning is my time to get my head straight, to think about the day
ahead and what I have to do. I'm very organized and I use that time to keep me that way.
It's about the only time all day when there is no danger of interruption by phones or
meetings or people wanting an answer about something. The only interruption I have to
worry about while I'm exercising is exhaustion, or maybe a sudden heart attack. I try to
distract myself from the fatigue by focusing on the day before and the day ahead, getting
things sorted out. Today, though, my head was hard to keep clear. I kept thinking back
to my dream.
It didn't feel like a dream. I remembered it very well, and it had the qualities of real life.
I was sitting on that hotel bed, watching that TV, feeling tired yet exceptionally awake. I
wanted -- with more longing than I could understand or even fully admit to myself -- to
believe that somehow that Iris was real and the confidences we had shared meant
something. There was no reason for those feelings, but there they were. It was kind of
embarrassing.
At the same time, it all had an air of unreality as well, starting with the impossibility of
receiving such a call in the first place. Trading confidences with a mysterious stranger
late at night while watching old movies? A stranger who tracks me from a payphone in
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Charlotte to a five star hotel in New York weeks later? I actually told her the sailing
story with Ed, and my belief I could foretell my manner of death? Pretty unlikely.
Feeling satisfied that I'd done my workout and solved my little mystery, I took my
shower and started getting dressed. I'd shaved and was putting on my shirt when I
noticed the message light on my phone was blinking away faithfully. Someone must
have called while I was out for my run or while I was in the shower. I was used to this;
my days often started out early. I dialed in for the message -- only to find it had been left
at one in the morning.
"Zeke!" Kelli's voice boomed familiarly in the message. There was loud music pounding
in the background. "Oh, well -- I thought you might still be up and wanting some
company. I guess you found someone else; I'm jealous. Maybe next time!"
I had been here at one. I'd have heard the phone if she had called while I was sleeping; I
never miss hearing a call. There was only one logical explanation for missing her call: I
must have been on the phone. I suppose she could have called the hotel and gone
straight into voice mail, but why she would go to that trouble made even less sense.
OK, if I had been on the phone when Kelli had called, that left another unbelievable
option: Iris. There was no way she could have called me, no way she could have found
me, but -- unless someone else had called and I had mentally translated them into Iris in
some Freudian slip -- she had. There it was. I went over it again and again in my head,
and kept concluding that Iris could not really have called me. It must have been a dream.
I thought of checking the TV listings to see if "Holiday" had even been on last night, but
that would have been giving the dream too much credence. Yet there was that message,
suggesting I'd been talking to someone when it had been delivered. It was a paradox.
I went through my meetings efficiently, putting the little mystery out of my head as best I
could. Every once in awhile I thought about it, but in the end it just became one of those
things in life that never get explained. You come home and something you are sure was
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in one room was now in another. You see what appears like moving lights in the sky, and
it's not an airplane. Lots of weird things, which you could spend your whole life trying
unsuccessfully to figure out. The world is just a strange place. I wasn't going to let it
bother me.
That evening I was on a plane to Milwaukee. So close to home, but not quite, and the
day after on to Minneapolis. It was three more nights, in two more hotels, before I
returned home. There were no more phone calls from, or dreams about, Iris.
Over the next couple weeks life went on pretty much as usual. The deal Margaret and
Elliot were working on was getting close to fruition, and we had to spend some time
prepping everyone for all the things that go along with acquisitions. I had to decide how
to position this with investors, the PR guys had to write all the press releases, the
operational team had to start working on transition plans, and the finance guys had to
work out how we were going to pay for it all.
Speaking of the finance guys, Elliot didn't take kindly to my conversation with Al. He
cared even less for the subsequent conversation I'd had with Margaret about it. I'd
informed Margaret of my incident with Al, of course, and I knew she'd talked to him.
She had seemed more interested in my analysis of the earnings than in Elliot's
transgression, although I knew it hadn't slipped by her. I explained the numbers and
trends I'd seen, my logic for the quarter's earnings, and my rationale for what I told Al.
"You did the right thing, Zeke," Margaret had told me calmly. "I'll talk to Elliot. It
won't happen again." So it was no wonder that Elliot showed up in my office during one
of my few times there.
Elliot rarely appeared anywhere but the executive suite. He liked people to come to him,
in his spacious office and luxurious trappings. He seemed to need that physical
reassurance to ensure he had control. Of course, he went to Margaret's office, or the
boardroom, when called upon to do so. But he almost never made his way down to
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places like my office. I figured he wanted our little confrontation away from prying ears,
out of Margaret's possible earshot. I wondered who had given him the directions to my
office.
"You motherfucker," he opened the conversation in typical Elliot fashion.
"And how are you, Elliot?" I replied coolly. "Come on in," inviting him as though he had
not already barged in and wasn't standing over me at my desk. I put my feet up on my
desk with exaggerated casualness.
"Fuck you, Clarke," he spat out. "What are you, Margaret's little tattle-tale?"
"It's my job to tell Margaret things that happened that might affect our price. Your
blundering with Nicholson fits that category, thank you very much."
Elliot put his hands on the edge of my desk, leaning forward so he could get closer in my
face. "Blundering, huh? Goddammit, I'll tell who I want what I want about how this
company is doing. That's my job."
I took my feet down and leaned in myself, so our faces were no more than a foot apart.
"No, I don't think that is your job, actually, and I'm pretty sure Margaret doesn't think so
either."
He stared malevolently at me. "Oh, yeah? What do you think my job is, you non-
productive piece of shit? You don't do anything -- you're just a parasite."
I stood up abruptly, scaring him enough that he backed away from my desk and put his
hands out in front of him defensively. I laughed. "What, you afraid I'm going to hit you,
Elliot? Don't flatter yourself. You come in to my office and start insulting me. We're
not in third grade; that's not how grown men settle things. Maybe we should go up and
see Margaret to clear things up. Wanna go?" I challenged him.
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He glowered at me with the full force of his will, and I matched him. Elliot's the kind of
guy who, if you backed down to him even once, would never let it go. Everything was a
battle of wills with him. He turned on his heels and strode out. Round one to me, but I
knew it was far from over.
Absently, I walked to my door, watching Elliot stride angrily out of my area. Matt and
Kathleen were hunched in their cubicles, pretending they hadn't seen or heard anything.
Only Jason was honest in his reaction. I saw him leaning back in his chair, his head
outside his cube watching Elliot walk away. I could see him doing that as Elliot strode
by, giving Elliot that owlish expression that was devoid of judgement. I wondered if
Elliot had even noticed him. Once Elliot was out of sight Jason slowly turned and looked
at me. I wasn't sure if he knew I was there or had just automatically checked my office
door, but he registered no surprise at my leaning against the doorway. We made eye
contact. I felt, as his boss and with him obviously overhearing a heated confrontation
with senior management, that I should say something. Maybe he thought I'd been fired,
or they were getting rid of my team, or some other news worthy of Elliot's obvious ire.
But, for once, I was without the right words.
It didn't matter. Jason wasn't looking for reassurance. He stifled what looked
suspiciously like a smirk, and I swear he winked at me before withdrawing back into his
cube again. I stood there for a few more seconds, as they resumed whatever they'd been
doing before the drama. I expected that Matt and Kathleen would spend happy hour
speculating on the implications of the blow-up. Jason would probably just file it away,
although I couldn’t entirely rule out that he'd call Elliot up and ask him point blank.
Otherwise, my life those weeks was my usual. I'd wake in the morning in a nice hotel
room in some strange city, and go exercise. If I was lucky I'd run or walk outside and at
least see some of the place I was visiting, but more often than not I was confined to the
hotel's exercise room, running or biking to nowhere with a few other equally driven
strangers.
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After that, off to long days of meetings, conferences, or the omnipresent telephone,
working my magic. I gave speeches, I answered questions, I pushed and prodded. Most
of all, what I did was collect information -- facts, impressions, rumors, anything and
everything I could get my hands on. For my real special talent was taking all this and
weaving it into a coherent story -- helping me spin TDK's story better, or seeing ways
that our story could get better. There are lots of better salesmen than me, and lots of
better analytical guys than I was, but I like to think that no one was better than I was at
putting it all together. That was what Margaret saw in me, why she'd steered my career
and then given me such influence. Elliot called that nothing, but I saw it as vital
intelligence for the company's survival.
After my day's work, off to the airport to catch a plane to another city, where I'd check
into yet another hotel, do some more work, and catch some sleep before getting up and
doing it all over again.
Each week there were unforeseen circumstances. Meetings got cancelled or superceded
by newly scheduled, more important meetings. Planes were late; connections didn't
connect. Traffic jams caused late arrivals at meetings. Hotel reservations weren't always
there. It's all those kinds of things that make infrequent travelers avoid travelling, but
which experienced ones take in stride. There's always another plane, another meeting,
and in the end things work out OK. Usually.
It doesn't sound like much of a life to someone not in it, but if I had a job where I went to
the same office every day, meeting with the same people all the time -- I think I'd go
crazy. The truly astounding ability of humans, I think, is our ability to adapt. Put some
settlers down in Montana, hit them with those brutal winters, and you know what? Some
of them will survive, cope, and end up calling it home. Most of us don't want each
other's lives, but we all seem to be comfortable in our own existence, no matter how
difficult that existence might appear to anyone else.
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The other astounding thing, now that I think of it, is that people don't just cope with
whatever their surroundings are, they form communities. We are social beings, when all
is said and done. Take my life. The cast changes everyday, but on the planes, in the
airports, at the hotels, and in those meetings, I can recognize the other road warriors and
the people who support our lives. We may not know each other's names, or we may
strike up a brief relationship or even a lasting contact, but we understand each other in
ways that people with more conventional lives simply cannot. The clerk at the hotel, the
flight crew on the plane, the CEO of the company I'm meeting with -- we know each
other for who we are, and we look down on the unsuspecting home dwellers among us.
And if, in these last couple of weeks, I stopped work a little earlier at night, left a few less
voice mails late at night, or watched a bit more television in my hotel room, then maybe
it was just the absence of a good crisis. It wouldn't have been fatigue, and definitely not
boredom. So I kept telling myself, anyway.
Chapter 11
Wednesday I headed to Vista. Vista was in a southern suburb of Dayton. I had a choice
of flying in to Dayton or into Cincinnati, and I opted for the latter. Dayton was closer,
but harder to get a connection to or from. I flew into the Cincinnati airport, which
paradoxically is located in Kentucky, and drove up I-75 to Vista. The drive took me
through downtown Cincinnati, which is actually surprisingly pretty, especially at the
point on the highway where you round the curve and see the downtown sitting on the
river valley below like a little jewel. After that, the view transitions to older, more
industrial neighborhoods. There were a couple of dreary factories that looked straight out
of Dickens, or maybe Lincoln Stephens. I was glad to be past them, and soon enough the
scene was a busy area of new houses and strip malls. That was followed by the expected
rural farmlands with their vast expanses of open, treeless land. Before I knew it, though,
I was in to the suburbs of Dayton.
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The visit to Vista wasn't suspicious. Part of my job was to collect information about our
company as well. Every week or so I tried to stop in at one of our locations to ferret out
what was going on outside the confines of our corporate office. I probably knew more
people outside of the corporate office than I did inside it, and spent more time in some of
those offices than I did in my own. This is how I knew things Elliot didn't, and this is
how I made sure some Wall Street analyst wasn't going to surprise me -- or Margaret --
with some crucial piece of information we had missed about our own company.
Neil greeted me when I arrived. I'd met him on a few occasions, and he had always urged
me to visit me. He was proud of Vista and liked to show it off. There was no reason to
let him know Margaret had suggested this particular visit.
He was a man not much older than I was, although I noticed he was graying more
quickly. It made him look distinguished, but it didn't hide his energy and optimism. I
had always thought of him as the stereotypical frat-brother-gone-good; he'd been brought
up in wealth and had enjoyed all of the perks and discretions, but now he wanted to prove
himself. It didn't always work, but within a few minutes of being with him, I had to
admit that something about Neil inspired confidence. If business didn't work out for him,
there was always politics.
"Good flight?" Neil inquired politely. I made a few pleasantries while I checked out his
office. It was quite large and furnished in a classic wood motif, complete with the wall
paneling made of some dark expensive wood. I'd seen offices like this in old movies. It
looked like it hadn't been changed in forty or fifty years, at least if you ignored the sleek
phone and ultramodern laptop on his credenza. I complimented him on the décor,
although it wasn't to my taste at all.
"It was my grandfather's office," he told me with obvious pride. "My dad redid it in the
sixties, but when I took over I went back to granddad's style. Makes me feel connected to
him."
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I nodded noncommittally. Then again, I thought of my own office. It was small and had
a view of a parking lot. I wasn't in it very often, and I wasn't out to impress anyone.
Usually I didn't think twice about my office's physical limitations, but I had a passing
sense of envy by the statement Neil's office made. The only thing they had in common
was that they were neat.
Neil's staff was a curious mixture. He had taken over from his father some five years
ago, and several of his senior team were holdovers from that era. Neil had been slowly
adding his own people, some of whom I was immediately impressed with. Therein lay
some of Vista's problems, that struggle between the old and the new. When Neil had
taken over, Vista had been in a deep slide, an old line manufacturing company in a
changing economy. It was like TDK itself but much worse. Once a company in the
forefront of their industry, their products had become outdated and their plants too
expensive to run. Neil had seen a way out, but knew he didn't have the capital to make
the transition. He'd come to Margaret and convinced her of his vision. Project Alpha
was part of the bet, of course, but Neil had lots of creative ideas about how to make the
basic business better. TDK poured several million dollars in, and Vista had stopped the
decline, but the payoff was coming too slowly.
The day went by quickly. I didn't learn much new, which just confirmed my concerns.
Margaret was right to be worried. Project Alpha was tough to reengineer for. The money
they'd spent was going to need to be followed by even more, with no near end in sight.
As best I could tell, they were having to invent new technology just to invent the new
technology involved. Neil had brought on some good people, but they had their hands
full fixing the business while they reinvented it as well.
Neil and I had an early dinner at his country club in Kettering. His club reminded me of
his office: elegant and ornate but fundamentally rooted in the past. I guess for country
clubs that is not considered a bad thing. The staff greeted him like a long-lost son, and
any friend of his was apparently a friend of theirs, so I got the spillover effect. We were
quickly ushered to the dining room, to a very nice table overlooking the golf course. The
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course itself looked as manicured as a plush carpet, reflecting years of tender grooming.
The dining room also looked decades old, but the effect was quite different on me. It
made me sad somehow, as though it belonged in that distant past but didn't quite know it.
I think the waiters were the originals, but they moved at surprising speed, always there
when you wanted their attention yet disappearing as soon as their services were no longer
required.
"You golf?" Neil asked over pre-dinner drinks.
"When I have time," I replied. It wasn't that often, and I wouldn't do it at all if it weren't
important for the networking. I managed to play to a handicap of about ten, and people
told me I could be pretty good if I played more, but so it goes. I could be good at lots of
things if I wanted to. Instead, I'm good at what I'm good at.
"Next time you come up we'll have to squeeze in a round."
I told him that'd be fine, but we both knew it was unlikely.
The waiter appeared just as we were ready to order. I ordered the sea bass, and Neil
asked for blackened Cajun chicken. We munched through some delicious salads, and our
plates disappeared magically. Our entrees similarly appeared with perfect timing,
brought out by a small contingent of waiters. Both of our meals had an elaborate
presentation that made actually eating them seem like destroying a work of art. Then
again, we were barbarians, so we ate away. We talked shop, both about TDK and about
some of his competitors. Neil regaled me with some funny stories about his days at Cal
Tech. I had to admit that I had had a hard time picturing Neil as the complete nerd one
imagines at places like Cal Tech or MIT, but these kinds of hi-jinks I could picture. He'd
be the ringleader, and come up with the creative ideas that the others would then
implement. Sort of like his role at Vista, when I thought about it. We didn't get around
to actually discussing Vista until coffee.
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"So, how did your day go?" Neil asked nonchalantly. "Did you find out what you
wanted to find out?"
"You have some good people."
That pleased him. "Yes, I do," he said with a small smile. Neil had walked me around to
several of my meetings, rather than letting a secretary or underling show me around. At
first I thought it might be a sign of a need for control, but I soon figured out he was doing
it because he simply liked the people and took great pride in them. They, in turn, seemed
to genuinely like and respect him. He moved among plant workers and executives,
between secretaries and engineers, with equal ease. I think some of the old-timers saw
his grandfather in him, which probably gave him some pleasure as well.
I eyed him carefully, taking a slow drink of coffee. As with the sea bass, it was quite
good, and I could see how Neil got used to this place. He looked out at the lovely golf
course. It was getting dark out, but there was still enough light to see how well
maintained it was. This was a place of wealth and history, of privilege and comfort. Neil
fit here.
"You know," he started, almost as an aside. "My grandfather started Vista from his
garage. He was a great engineer who turned out to be a pretty good businessman. Vista
was years ahead of its time."
I acknowledged that I was aware of the history. Neil continued. "He was a great guy. I
loved going into his office, and walking the plant floor with him. You could see how
much he loved the work, and how his workers liked and looked up to him. I just wanted
to be like him"
Neil paused for a few seconds. I took another small sip of my coffee, watching him
carefully. He didn't take his eyes off the course.
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"My dad, on the other hand, didn't really care for it. Oh, he took the job when granddad
stepped down, of course, but he'd have rather been travelling or playing a round here. He
didn't know enough to invest wisely in the future, and he let labor relations go to hell. I
love my dad, but he was the wrong guy in the wrong job."
He paused, and turned to look at me. It was evidently my line, and I kind of figured what
he wanted me to ask. "And what about you? Are you the right guy for the job?"
"I'm the only guy for the job. Vista is just another division to Margaret, but it's my baby,
my life, my history. I am going to make it successful again."
I nodded slowly, not necessarily agreeing but acknowledging I'd heard him.
"Let's cut the bullshit, OK, Zeke? I know Margaret is worried." Neil had his game face
on.
I hated to ruin his meal, but I decided that, if he wanted me to be blunt, I'd be blunt. "The
numbers worry me, Neil. And when they worry me, the street gets worried. When the
street gets worried, Margaret isn't happy."
This time he nodded in acknowledgement. "I can understand that. That's why I wanted
you to spend some time here, to see that we can make it happen. Margaret just needs to
be a little patient."
I couldn't just let that pass. "She's been patient. It's not a patient world."
His eyes were sad. "Some things you just have to wait for."
It was both a plea and an observation, but I wasn't going to let him off that easy. "Project
Alpha is way behind schedule, and eating up too much of your resources. It was
supposed to be a new project, and it's consuming your attention -- and your earnings."
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Neil sipped his coffee, cool as a cucumber. "So -- you want me to shut off Project
Alpha?"
I cocked my head and gave him my best sincere look. "I want you to help keep TDK's
share price up. To do that, I need more earnings and more growth. I don't really care
whether that's Project Alpha or Project Zebra. Just produce."
"They say you've got Margaret's ear."
I nodded slowly, admitting this power. Access is power in politics, be it corporate

politics or elected politics. "Margaret listens to me."
"Then tell her I need more time. It's a big bet, but it's a big payoff."
"Big bets usually carry big downsides too."
"This won't," he asserted. "The things we've had to develop for the project are already
having payoffs in the rest of our business. We could stop now and the investment TDK
has made will still pay off."
"So stop now."
He shook his head, just once but decisively. "I came to Vista to rebuild it, to make it lead
the industry again. Tinkering with what we've got may make money, but it won't take us
far enough."
I almost reminded him that TDK wasn't there to let him fulfill his personal goals, but I
knew there was no point in it. There wasn't much to say after that. We finished our
coffee, walked to the parking lot, shook hands, and got in our cars. I drove back to
Cincinnati, thinking about Neil. I'd misjudged him, apparently. He wasn't a lightweight
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frat boy, and he was very driven. But I had severe doubts about what he was driving for.
It didn't really matter. Margaret would have to boot him, especially once I filled her in on
the day's visit.
I was staying at The Cincinnatian. When I pulled up I noticed some well-dressed people
walking on the streets. Cincinnati is not the liveliest city downtown at night, so I asked
the desk clerk about it when I was checking in. He was a well-dressed man, probably
only thirty or so but already adapting the air of someone much older and distinguished.
Must be the surroundings. I recognized him from previous visits over the years, and
addressed him by name. He seemed pleased.
"They're probably coming from the Aronoff, a couple of blocks away."
"That's the local theater?" I asked.
"One of them," he said with a slight air of local pride. "It's pretty nice. They have the
Broadway series. I think 'Rent' is in town."
It's funny how all these cities try to create the experience of Broadway, trooping to see
road companies of popular old shows. The patrons could congratulate themselves for
being cultured and for having gotten the New York shows at local prices. They didn't
understand that part of what made New York New York was the concentration, and that
if they really wanted to mimic the spirit of the place they'd go to more edgy regional
theater instead. The Broadway Series was safer.
The clerk and I made aimless conversation about nightlife, conventioneers, and late night
trips. His job was to make people like me comfortable, like a squire taking care of
traveling knights. He'd been there since college, starting out working as a bus boy in the
hotel's fine restaurant and ending up with no desire to leave. His major had been in
business, and he'd always intended to go into the business world, not into hotel
management. Instead, he was a clerk at a four star hotel. He liked the night shift, he said,
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mostly because the night crowd was more interesting. He didn't say, but I suspected, that
he liked mingling with late arriving hardcore travelers, like me.
"Ever want to do this yourself?" I'd asked him once, several visits ago. He'd looked at
me as if I'd suggested him flying to the moon. No, he liked the life to rub off on him, but
he could not imagine him being in it.
I did some work up in the room, but have to admit that I got engrossed with an episode of
"Law & Order." I even turned off my PC without having cleared all of my emails. I'd
do it in the morning, before my meetings started. I'd worked enough.
Chapter 12
"Law & Order" was just ending when the phone rang. I thought it might be Neil with
some additional insights he wanted to share. Or perhaps it was Margaret, asking for
what I'd picked up in my visit. Possibly one of my staff with something they wanted me to
know before tomorrow's meetings. I was wrong on all counts.
"Hi, Zebulon." The voice sounded chipper, as if happy to get me.
This time I was not asleep. I had been wide-awake when the phone rang, and I was quite
sure this was not a dream. "Iris?" To say I was incredulous would be an
understatement.
"Who else are you expecting?"
I was dumbfounded. Our previous conversation, which had passed from my conscious
memory, now came flooding back to me in a rush. It had been comfortable to have
pictured that as a dream, but here she was again, sounding just as I'd recalled. It didn't
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make sense. "Well, I wasn't expecting you, for one. How the hell did you know where to
find me?"
"It doesn't really matter."
"It does to me. I don't like someone I don't know stalking me, calling me in hotels that
she has no business knowing I'm in. It's creepy."
Iris laughed, not to make light of my comments, but sympathetic somehow. "Yes, I can
understand that. You don't need to worry about me, Zeb. I'm not a stalker, and I mean
you no harm."
"And knowing where I'm staying?"
"It's not magic. It's not that hard to find things like that out, you know."
I paused, trying to figure out why I was in this conversation. What would you do if you
saw the Abominable Snowman or a UFO, or anything else that you'd thought non-
existent? What would you do if your dead grandmother called you on the phone one
day? I could not have been more taken aback in those situations than I was in this one.
I'm quick but I just didn't know how to make sense of her presence on the phone. She
waited me out. "So who are you?" I finally asked. If she wasn't going to tell me directly
how she found me, perhaps she would tell me something of who she was, and I could
figure out the rest.
She sighed almost inaudibly, which just made it all the more heart-rendering. "Oh, I'm
just a person in need of someone to talk to me." A long pause, as if she were gathering
up her courage, then softly, "will you talk to me, Zebulon?"
I had the sense that if I said no, she would hang up and I'd never hear from her again.
That would have been the safest thing to do, the thing that most people might have done.
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Then again, there was the mystery of why she was calling, and how she kept finding me.
I don't like loose ends. And, when I got right down to it, I didn't mind talking to her. Her
voice was warm and inviting. It's not like she was keeping me from working, or from
getting to sleep. I was alone in this hotel room. So she might be a nut, but I didn't have
anything better to do. I'd give her some rope before I cut her off. I guess I'm an old
softie.
"So who are you?"
"No, you first. Tell me something about you that I don't know. Tell me something that
has happened in your life recently that struck you."
I'm a better bargainer than this. She wanted something and I had something to give her.
I just didn't know quite what to bargain for. I started to tell her about my day at Vista.
She interrupted me. "No, not business. I don't care about your business. Tell me
something in your life, something not about work. Tell me something about your life that
you regret."
That was easy. "Why?"
"You can tell a lot about someone by what they regret."
I wasn't so sure I wanted her to be able to tell a lot about me, but anyway she'd picked
the wrong question. "There's nothing in my life I regret."
"You've led a perfect life, no mistakes?" Iris's voice was teasing, slightly mocking but
with a lilting tone that took the accusation out of it.
"No, of course not," I admitted. "I've made lots of mistakes. I just don't waste time
regretting them."
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"Interesting."
"You see," I said, feeling the need to explain. "People should just put things behind
them. If it's something they can fix, then fix it. If it's not, learn from it and move on."
"But don't look back," Iris concluded.
"Exactly."
Iris thought for a minute. "I think that's sad, not having regrets. I have more regrets
than I know what to do with."
This from a woman who was sitting alone somewhere calling strangers on the phone. I
felt superior somehow, justified in my position on this one. It occurred to me, although
just for a second, that I was also sitting alone in a room talking to a stranger on the
phone, but quickly pushed it out of my head. She had called me, after all.
Margaret continued, perking up. "OK then. Not a regret. Tell me about something
unusual that happened to you recently."
"Unusual how?"
"You decide."
She had made it pretty clear that she didn't want to hear about business gossip or
anything related to my job, and that posed a problem. When you came right down to it,
there wasn't much in my life but work. Maybe I didn't have anything to give her after all.
I searched desperately for a story, an event, an anecdote that might capture her fancy.
She waited me out, sitting patiently on her side of the phone. I had the impression she'd
be perfectly content to sit there for hours, as long as I didn't hang up.
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"Well," I finally said, upon much reflection, "there was this basketball game I went to a
couple of weeks ago..."
I told her the story of the young Pacers fan, the hostile home crowd, and ended up
talking about the whole evening. I even told her about walking Tracy home.
"So," she said in a teasing voice after taking all this in, "a gallant gentleman -- rescuing
small boys, walking fair maidens home. I'll bet you hold open doors and offer your seat
to elderly women too."
I smiled at this, and had to confess the story about the woman on the plane. She was
touched and sighed warmly. To top it off I added, "and I answer phone calls from
strange women."
"Very strange women."
"Yeah, tell me about that. Literally -- it's your turn to tell me something about yourself."
Iris seemed to have been caught unprepared, although she had to have known it was
coming. Maybe she had planned to just quickly end the conversation as she had the last
time, but I had traded and now she felt obligated. So I hoped. I could almost hear the
wheels turning in her head as she tried to think of what to tell me.
"You travel a lot, right?"
I admitted that I did.
"The sound or sight of planes must take you away, make you think of faraway places.
For me it was trains. I grew up in a small town, where we didn't see many planes but
there were always trains. I'd go to sleep at night and listen to the sound of those train
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whistles. Heading off to going to places I could only dream about. They were my link to
the outside world.
"I started hanging out in bars as soon as I could get away with it, and I found this little
bar where the railroad crews hung out. They were a hard partying bunch, and that's
what I was looking for then. The wilder the better. I was good looking and ready for
action, and I had my eye on this guy. He was maybe twenty-two or so, and a real
sweetie. I had lots of competition for him. But he had this friend who had a thing for me.
His friend was older -- thirty or so -- and harder than my dream date."
"Harder?"
She must have blushed. "I mean not as nice, I suppose. My guy was sweet and kind of
innocent, and his friend was neither. But he paid attention to me, and that's how I ended
up in the back of his car with my legs up in the air. I lost my virginity like that, and what
I didn't know was that I lost my life too."
"Excuse me?" That sounded rather dramatic.
Iris made a noise that was meant to sound as a laugh, but came out more as a gasp.
"You know, those terrible things they tell you in sex education classes about what can
happen if you aren't careful -- I wished I'd listened. Long story short, I got pregnant, and
he had to marry me."
"So it wasn't wedded bliss?"
"No, not much bliss. Three kids now. He comes home when he wants, between trips on
the road or trips on the bar. If I'm lucky, he won't come home, or will come home too
drunk to bother me."
"And if you aren't lucky?"
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"Oh, then he'll hit me or fuck me, or both. And I use that vulgar word not to be vulgar,
but just to be accurate."
I let that settle in. "Why don't you leave him?"
Iris snorted. "And go where?"
"A friend's house. A shelter, I don't know. Leave town."
I could imagine Iris staring at me, dry-eyed but crying all the same. She'd have learned
that cruel little trick over these years. Her voice was as dead as her hopes seemed to be.
"I live in a small town. Everyone knows everyone's business. He won't let me have any
friends, and his friends keep an eye on me when he is not around. Some of them think
they have the right to have their way with me when he isn't around."
"He lets them?" I definitely wasn't liking her husband.
"The first couple of times it happened, I told him. He beat me so bad that I learned just
to shut up. I think he knows, and doesn't mind just as long as I don't rub it in his face.
I'll never escape, never be free of him. And now he's tiring of me, and giving our
daughter looks I don't like. I just pray that it's still only looks."
I had muted the television through the course of this, and now turned it off entirely. The
stories on the screen were pale enough without the sound, and certainly paled in
comparison to the story Iris was telling me. But something was wrong. Remember, I
essentially put puzzles together for a living. The puzzles can be numbers, or they can be
people, but in the end I put it all together and make a picture that makes sense. This
story didn't make sense. Not with this woman, with her air of dignity and grace. She did
not end up living with some lout in some dinky town. Don't ask me how I knew, but I did.
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"It's a terrible story, Iris, and I'm sure it's true. But it's not true about you. That life isn't
your life."
I could tell she was taken aback. "Why do you say that?" she responded.
"Oh, just little things. I can't see you being stuck in a life like that, with a man like that."
"You don't even know me."
She had me there; that was the whole point of having her tell me something about her
life, wasn't it? But there are things you know, and things that you don't know, and, well,
I knew that this sad life wasn't hers.
"I know you well enough to know that about you."
If smiles could travel through telephone lines, hers would have lit up the hotel room I
was in. She didn't even have to say anything for me to know she was doing it. "You're
right, Zebulon." She paused, evidently thinking of how to ask her next question.
"Zebulon, tell me more about you."
"Again?" I thought I'd already been through that. "You didn't tell me anything about
yourself. Where's the trade?"
"Oh, Zebulon, you know better than that," Iris said confidently. "People always tell you
something about themselves, even when they fabricate stories."
She was right, of course. Ask any good psychiatrist -- or any good poker player -- and
they'll tell you that you learn more by people's lies than you do from their truths. "So
what else do you want to know?"
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"Well, for example -- what would you want people to say about you if you died?"
Death again. Was she morbid, or was there something about that extreme situation that
made her think she'd get more of my core personality? Either way, thinking about death
was the last thing I wanted to do sitting here in this too quiet hotel room. I flipped the
television back on, muting the sound. I was silent too long for Iris's taste.
"Zebulon?" she prodded.
"Oh, bright guy, good businessman, tough." Those sounded lame even to me, and sure
enough Iris didn't let me get away with them.
"Bright guy. Good businessman. Tough," she repeated slowly. "That's how you'd want
to be remembered?"
"I can think of worse things," I said stubbornly.
"Zebulon," she said soothingly. "Let's say, God forbid, that you died and someone had to
say something to your mother about you. Now -- what would you want them to say to
her? That you were a tough businessman?"
I took some time in answering. Part of me was annoyed that this unknown woman was
pressing me for answers to questions like that. It was too deep a conversation, one I'd
avoid under normal circumstances, which these most definitely were not. She couldn't be
calling me and I shouldn't be talking to her. But I was. The other part of me, the larger
part, actually didn't mind the situation, and kind of wanted to know how to answer this
question. What would I want my mother to hear on such an occasion? What would I
want to be true in order to have it told to her?
"I think I'd want them to tell her that I was a good man," I said slowly. "That I was kind
to people I didn't need to be kind to."
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"Like strangers on the phone?"
I smiled to myself, and I had this image of a smile on her face as well. I couldn't see the
face but I could just picture the outlines of that smile, and it was a nice smile. "Like
strangers on the phone."
"Not a bad thing for a mother to hear, I suppose," Iris judged. "I think I've kept you up
late enough for one night. Shall we talk again?"
There may have been parts of me suggesting that I not agree, but I said yes with a
curious lifting of my heart that left me anxious for the next time.
Chapter 13
The next day I had several meetings, talking to some local banks and an investment fund,
but I managed to catch a mid-afternoon flight out. I was on my way to Philadelphia, and
I had a dinner date I didn't want to be late for. Iris was on my mind off and on, but
curiously enough I thought more about the lift to my heart that doing her a kindness gave
me than about the continuing mystery of how -- or why -- she called me.
"Hey, stranger," a friendly voice greeted me when I boarded.
"Tracy!" I exclaimed. She was working first class, and took my coat and drink request.
She smiled at me in a way that warmed my heart, and that made the passenger behind me
give me an envious look. I thought perhaps that she wanted to give me a hug, but either I
was wrong or her professional training took over to prevent it. I was inexplicably glad to
see her as well. We weren't really able to chat there in the aisle, so Tracy said she'd stop
by later in the flight. I found my seat and I settled down to catch up on some work during
the flight, checking Tracy out again with a quick look. Yes, she was attractive. I also
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liked her calm yet friendly manner with the boarding passengers. She still wore that
wedding ring, just a small diamond on the thin band but big enough to be an impediment.
Tracy knelt next to me somewhere over Harrisburg. "How have you been?"
"Fine. Small world running into you, isn't it?"
"Not really, but who's counting? Are you staying in Philly or on your way to someplace
else?"
I admitted I'd be in Philadelphia for the evening, and was not entirely surprised -- nor
displeased -- when she suggested dinner. I had to demur, citing a prior engagement. She
asked about breakfast instead. I didn't actually start meetings until ten, but I had planned
to work the phones in the morning. Still, I had enjoyed Tracy's company, and breakfast
seemed not unreasonable. Skipping the obvious retort, I agreed to meet her the next
morning.
My dinner that night was not a business dinner, I have to confess. The woman from first
class a few weeks ago lived in Philadelphia, and I'd taken her up on her offer to call next
time I was going to be in town. To be completely honest, I'd scheduled this trip in hopes
of taking her up on her offer while it was still valid. She seemed like she'd be worth a
second look. Maybe it was that honey blonde hair.
Her name was Ellen Peterson. I was staying at the Four Seasons, a great hotel that is not
the Ritz but does just as well, so we met at the bar and had a couple of drinks before
heading off to dinner. Ellen had made reservations at Dillullos nearby. We had a nice
dinner, and moved on to -- well, I don't have to paint the picture here.
I walked her to her car, which she had conveniently parked near my hotel. If she hadn't
been planning on ending up late at night at my hotel, then she had planned for the
possibility. I had to give her credit for that, even though I noted that she'd prepped
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herself enough to pass at least casual inspection by someone who might be staying up for
her. We kissed goodnight and made vague statements about getting together again next
time I was in town. Maybe I would, but already the memory of our evening was turning
into some background noise that had carried me through a couple of hours in my room,
nothing more.
The next morning I took a run, up the broad Benjamin Franklin Parkway past the
museums, ending at the Art Museum and turning into Lincoln Drive. It reminded me of
running along the Charles in Boston. I liked the boathouses and running along the water,
and there were just enough other runners and people roller-blading to keep things
interesting. There were a few boats out crewing or sculling or whatever you called it.
Long thin boats with young men and women pulling hard in unison. It looked hard even
from a distance, yet it had a graceful beauty about it as their boat lifted and skimmed
along the water. I did four or five miles myself, not as graceful as the rowers, but enough
to leave me feeling refreshed in that post-exercise sense of healthy fatigue.
Tracy had told me to meet her at Reading Terminal Market at eight, and she was standing
in the door when I arrived. I was dressed for work, in a light summer suit. Tracy was
aiming for a somewhat different lifestyle, clad in jeans, flats, and a yellow blouse. She
looked casual, like she was on vacation. I didn't mind being more dressed up; for me,
wearing a suit had become so familiar that it didn't feel like being dressed up.
"Do you ever not wear a suit?" she asked, checking me out skeptically.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" The concept of casual business attire had never quite
infiltrated my world -- you can always be appropriate in the right suit, but it's easy to be
inappropriate by being too casually dressed. She laughed, and she showed me inside.
The Reading Terminal Market was a huge building, apparently once a train station or
adjunct to one. It was now filled with scores of food and other vendors, and a busy
crowd. Some were milling around shopping aimlessly, while others were on missions to
locate hard-to-find items that they didn't expect the local grocery chain to stock. It was
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loud, it was chaotic, and it was decidedly unglamorous. I liked it immediately. Tracy
walked me around, showing me the variety of gustatory options. In the end, we decided
to sit in a quaint little diner inside the Market. I ordered a pancakes and bacon, maple
syrup on the side. Tracy was more sedate, having some oatmeal and fruit. The place was
aiming to be a citified version of an Amish diner, if there are such things. I figured the
pancakes would be good.
"So, how long are you in town?" Tracy asked cheerfully.
"Just today. I have some meetings, and I'll fly out late afternoon. You?"
"I fly out at two." We both paused to get a jolt of coffee.
"I like this place," I said, indicated the whole Market. "How did you find it?"
"I told you -- I like to explore cities I fly into. If you had more time, I'd show you some
other treasures. Maybe the Barnes, definitely Fairmount Park. Lots of things. But you're
busy, I know."
"Sorry I couldn't do dinner last night."
"Let me guess," she said speculatively. "Le Bec Fin?" Le Bec Fin was Philadelphia's
most expensive restaurant. I'd been there several times, and it is wonderful, but I guess
Ellen figured starting out there seemed overly ambitious. I told Tracy about DiLullos,
and she nodded in recognition.
"Probably just as well you didn't have dinner with me. I'd have taken you to Pat's
Steaks."
"Pat's Steaks?" I asked vaguely.
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"You know -- Philly cheese steak. The real thing, late at night in South Philly. It's great
-- not these imitations they sell in the mall!"
"Sorry I missed it. Next time." I could imagine her at some grubby hole in the wall
institution like that, and thought it'd be fun experiencing it with her.
Her eyes twinkled. "I'll hold you to that." We ate some more, and I found myself
wondering about Tracy. As before, she seemed utterly comfortable in herself, and those
long lines of her legs and shoulders kept me sneaking glances. I thought about how she'd
look in a swimsuit, maybe a bikini. I reminded myself she was a married woman.
""Where are you staying?" she asked.
"The Four Seasons."
Her eyebrows lifted, impressed. "That's where you were in New York, right?" I nodded.
"You must like it."
"It's hard not to like a Four Seasons. Still, I'm more of a Ritz man myself."
Tracy laughed. "I'm not quite sure what to make of that."
"Me neither. I guess I like their slogan - 'Ladies and Gentlemen serving Ladies and
Gentlemen.'"
"Makes you feel like a gentleman?" Tracy asked with a smile.
I thought Tracy was teasing, but I wasn't quite sure. Maybe it was a subtle shot at what
she perceived as a too extravagant lifestyle. She was probably right. Still. "Hey,
whatever works. I'll take it where I can." Her smile broadened, and I liked her more.
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We chatted for awhile, comparing notes on the different food stalls we'd seen, and
stopped when our food arrived so we could plunge in. I was now fairly hungry, and
Tracy seemed to be as well. We made impressed noises at how good everything looked,
and dug in. I was right about the pancakes -- thick yet fluffy at the same time, soaked in
syrup, as I liked. It was a few minutes before I restarted the conversation.
"How's David?"
"David?" she repeated, her brow furrowing as she tried to think of what David I was
referring to. I figured she was trying to remember all the people she'd met at the Knicks
game.
"Oh, Donald -- Ken -- whatever his name is."
"What whose name is?" Now she was totally confused, as I'd expected.
"Your husband."
Her mouth dropped. "David? Donald, Ken? I never told you his name."
"Oh, that's right. What is his name?"
Her mouth curled in a slight smile. "You know, David will do. Just call him David."
"Dave?" I teased, trying to keep a straight face.
"David," she said firmly.
"How is old David?"
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She put her spoon down, having finished off the oatmeal. I cut the last of my pancake
into two more bites, and ate one of them. "David is just fine," she said in a dry tone.
"Doing David things."
Maybe bringing up David wasn't a great idea. I checked my watch as surreptitiously as I

could, which wasn't subtle enough. "Do you have to get back to work already?" she
asked.
My meeting wasn't for another hour, but I really should be back at the hotel making calls.
Still, I felt embarrassed she'd caught me checking to see if I should go already, and
thought that actually leaving on the heels of that would be tacky. "Not quite yet," I said.
"Good," she said, and grabbed the check before I could reaction. Waving off my belated
objections, she put some money down and stood up. "Let's go." Not quite certain what
she had in mind, I stood as well. We walked out of the Market and headed south.
"Where we going?"
"You'll see." We walked a couple of blocks, and I figured out from the signs where we
were going before we got there.
"You're taking me to the Liberty Bell?"
"Have you ever seen it?" I had to admit I had not. I'd seen pictures -- those history
classes hadn't been entirely wasted on me -- but never actually visited. Despite all the
times I'd been to Philadelphia, actually stopping by to visit some of the historic places
associated with the birth of our country had never really occurred to me.
The actual bell proved to be -- as these things often are -- smaller than I expected. We
walked around it reverently. "Funny how the symbol of American liberty is cracked," I
noted. "Is that symbolic or what?"
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"Or what," she replied. She pulled me out and headed me across the plaza to what even I
knew was Independence Hall. We again made a quick tour. Tracy seemed really into it
-- reading the signs and picking up pamphlets galore. She read them as seriously as a
scholar coming upon a much needed lost document, or a treasure hunter finding a
treasure. I watched her in amusement. Whether it was eating breakfast, watching
basketball, or touring historical sites -- whatever she was doing, she did it completely.
"I didn't know you were such a history buff," I said.
Tracy smiled warmly. "I'm not, not really. But it's the thing about Philadelphia. There
are houses here three and four hundred years old. The United States was born here, in
this hall, by a bunch of revolutionaries. How do you think they'd have fared today?
Think they'd be in politics?"
I considered this. "In the sixties they'd have been hippies, trying to overthrow the
Establishment. In the eighteen fifties they'd have Abolitionists, trying to right the world."
"And in this new millennium?" Tracy teased.
"Probably floating an IPO and hoping to be billionaires. You know, they weren't exactly
trying to overthrow the establishment when they started all this. They were mostly
wealthy guys from well-off families -- hell, they were the Establishment."
"And yet," Tracy said thoughtfully, "they risked everything, and wrote a out a design for
a new way of government."
"Nowadays they'd be doing polls on whether the Bill of Rights should have ten
amendments or stop after freedom of the press."
"And the right to bear arms."
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"Yeah, the NRA was probably around then too."
"People today would want to watch it on CNN, just make sure it didn't interrupt prime-
time. Did you know that only a third of the country then supported the Revolution?"
"Probably the same third that bothers to vote anymore."
"Yeah, do we know how to run a democracy or what?" Tracy said mockingly. It seemed
to bother her. It didn't bother me too much. Two out of every three people I knew were
people I didn't really want making decisions for me.
There wasn't much left to see here, and I was now getting low on time. We went outside
and stood awkwardly. "I've got to go," I said regretfully. I wasn't entirely faking it.
Tracy's enthusiasm was contagious; I liked that she was so into the history of the place.
Somehow I had a suspicion that she'd be enthusiastic about whatever she was doing. At
the basketball game, she'd really been into that too. Some people are enthusiastic because
they are just bubbly by nature. I didn't get that from her. She was anything but bubbly.
She was just interested in things around her, I thought, and that interested me.
Tracy nodded. I thought she seemed a little sad. "Thanks for coming out with me. It
was fun. Too bad we don't have longer."
I told her I'd enjoyed it too. But it was time to get to work; I'd been loitering too long.
"Yeah, a long day of work, and I'm going to be working all weekend too."
"Workaholic," she accused mockingly.
I shook my head. "Nah, not me. Just busy. Well, I guess I'll see you."
"Zeke," Tracy stopped me. "Let's do this again sometime, OK?"
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"Sure." It seemed safe enough to promise that.
"No, I mean it -- next time we're in the same city, let's take another excursion. I like
doing things with you."
I gave her a thorough look. She really meant it, and, you know, it seemed like an
attractive prospect to me too. It wasn't like with Ellen, where I had basically just looking
to get into her pants. Ellen knew it and she was looking for the same thing. This was
different. I suddenly had a strange thought.
"You didn't by any chance call me night before last, did you?"
Tracy gave me a strange look. "How would I even know where you were night before
last?"
I laughed nervously. "Sorry -- just a weird thought. Never mind. Yes, definitely: next
time we're in the same place let's do something. Maybe even cheese steaks."
"Deal."
Chapter 14
I did, in fact, have to work that weekend. The merger Margaret and Elliot had been
working on was going to be announced on Tuesday. We set up a war room with the key
people and mapped out exactly what we were going to say, when we were going to say it,
and how we were going to get the message out. Both Saturday and much of Sunday were
spent doing this.
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Margaret cornered me during one of our breaks to debrief me about my visit to Vista. I
was putting some cream cheese on a bagel that had seen better days. They'd been fresh
when we started our meeting, but somehow either they had gone stale, or I had. Margaret
never seemed to snack. I guess that's how she kept that girlish figure. "Any new
thoughts?"
I chewed on my bagel before responding, just to buy some time. "I still like Neil, and
think he may be on the right track, given unlimited time and money."
"And in the absence of those?"
"Alpha will eat them up."
Margaret nodded thoughtfully, and asked when I was going out there again. I was a little
surprised, and told her normally I probably wouldn't go back for a few more months. I
didn't think much was going to change. "Get back there in a couple weeks," she told me.
I didn't much like that, but she was the boss. "You know, Neil is going to wonder why
I'm coming back so soon. He's going to think it's kind of odd."
"Neil knows exactly why you're coming back." She left it at that and walked away. I ate
the rest of the bagel thoughtfully.
Elliot and I were polite to each other, pretending nothing was up and making it all the
more obvious that something was. There was no idle chitchat between us, no social ease
and definitely no apologies about our confrontation. Just the facts, and we studiously
avoided public disagreements about those. I wondered if we'd ever recover even to the
level of the uneasy relationship we'd had before. Ah, fuck him, I thought.
Sunday afternoon we got done about three. We were as ready as we were going to be. I
drove home, parked my car in the garage next to a spiffy Jaguar. Someday I'd have to get
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me one of those. I'd heard the horror stories about gas mileage and mechanical
unreliability, but to be able to afford one and not get one would be like turning down a
date with a supermodel. Maybe the conversation won't be stellar but who cares?
I stopped by the Treasure Island on the way home to pick up a few odds and ends. The
store was full of real grocery shoppers, with their lists and carts full of the basics, while I
breezed through without even bothering with a hand-held basket. If I can't carry all my
purchases and go to the express lane, then I just don't get something. Why buy groceries
when you can go out to eat?
I noted several attractive women pursuing their gustatory supplies with a split attention --
part on the food, and part on the attractive men also pretending to shop. Chicago,
especially my neighborhood, definitely has its share of lithesome women, long limbed
and usually blonde. I enjoyed the visual buffet, but made no effort to engage any in
flirtation. It occurred to me, tonight as on other grocery expeditions, that if I had a more
sedentary job I'd be reduced to picking up women in places like this. Picking them up
would be like marrying the girl next door, or living on a farm and only eating food you
raised yourself. You could do it, and some of it might be very tasty, but you'd miss out
on a whole world of variety in the meantime. I know what I'm talking about here. I grew
up with people who would look at you blankly if you asked them what kind of lettuce
they wanted.
Once I'd restocked my paltry kitchen supplies, I found myself restless. Usually I
entertain myself pretty well -- there's always something that needs getting done -- but
today I didn't quite know what to do with myself. Maybe I should have had some of that
healthy but plain produce in the grocery store -- not the kind you buy, but the kind you
try to pick up. A redhead, perhaps, just to make it seem more exotic than it really was.
They might have been enjoyable for at least the evening; I didn't have to have a regular
diet of them.
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It was a pretty day out. I thought about going for a walk in the park or along the lake, but
scratched that. Michigan Avenue usually cheers me up, but there was nothing I needed to
buy. I'm a great buyer, but I'm a terrible shopper, so going to stores without something
specific in mind that I needed is torture to me. There weren't any good movies playing. I
thought about calling Kathy up, but I knew I'd be wasting her time and refrained.
So, in the end, I headed to the El stop and caught a train. It's something I do occasionally
-- just get on the El and ride around. I like to observe the people on the train, wondering
what their stories are, and even more fascinating are the lives of the people living in the
apartments along the El's path. What must it be like, living so close to these trains full of
transient watchers? If it were me, I'd shut the window, board it up and try to block out
that periodic intrusion, but many of the people seemed oblivious to it. You could watch
scenes from their lives through their open windows -- sometimes surprisingly intimate
moments that I would feel guilty about catching, glimpses at a time like some old silent
movie.
Then I liked to get off in a neighborhood I didn't know and just wander around. As long
as I'd lived in Chicago and as much as I'd discovered, I knew I'd only scratched the
surface of its many neighborhoods. Where I lived was as distant to many of them as
another country. They may never even go to my part of town. Visits to the Loop or
Michigan Avenue might be a rare as trips to Los Angeles or Japan. I got off the train at a
stop I'd been meaning to check out for some time, and walked around.
Chicago is such a great town. There are lots of fun, interesting, even quaint cities, but the
U.S. really only has the three great cities, and even then LA is less a city than a region
with no center. LA and New York have a couple things in common besides sheer size.
One is that people either love them or hate them. It seems like there is no middle ground,
and both camps are about equally big. The second is that people who move to either
place pretty much do so expecting to make their fame and fortune, and know that this will
mean taking advantage of someone else. It's part of their cultures, and actually something
that both take some pride in.
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Chicago is different. There's a real city here, with real people living in unique
neighborhoods just blocks away from the city core. Trees and everything. People work
hard here, but they are less likely to swindle you out of something than to boldly just try
to take it from you. Even Chicago graft is blatant.
One thing I haven't really found is people who hate Chicago. Unlike its larger
counterparts, people don't fall into opposing camps in their feelings about it. There are
lots of people who love it and lots who like it, but few who hate it. Aside from the
winters, of course, which even most of the natives might admit to doing. I think the real
charm is that it has all the great big city aspects, but it's evidently a place where normal,
everyday people can live and do live. Visitors quickly feel that New York or LA take
some sort of special person to adapt to lives there, but in Chicago they are likely to think
-- hey, I could live here.
Thinking about everyday life, it was getting close to dinner. I found a little neighborhood
restaurant that looked interesting. It was a quaint place, with local memorabilia on the
walls, photos of the proprietor and local celebs. There was one of Michael Jordan, of
course, although at least they didn't pretend that he'd actually been there. The other
patrons looked up with interest when I came in; I was probably the only person there who
lived more than a couple of blocks away. They lost interest after awhile, and I watched
them in the mirror over the bar. The waitresses chatted up the regulars with long
familiarity, and were gracious to me as well. Their burgers turned out to be surprisingly
good, and I chewed away merrily. I thought how it would have been nice to eat here with
Tracy, but tried to shake off that thought. She was married…
I got home around eight and did some work to get ready for our busy week ahead.
Margaret had called a couple times on my cell phone during the afternoon to check on a
few things, and called around ten with some additional requests. I have to admit that
when the phone rang at night my first thought was that it was Iris calling, and I felt oddly
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disappointed when it turned out not to be. How could I be disappointed not to get a call I
had no right to expect, from someone I didn't really even know?
Monday was spent briefing key reporters on the upcoming announcement, while Tuesday
was a full media day. I took place in some of the press conferences, and fielded the
phones both Tuesday and much of Wednesday. Things went very well, if I do say so
myself. We'd covered the right bases, spun the story in the way that we wanted to, and
had anticipated the questions we got. As a result, the press was generally pretty positive,
and our stock price had a nice jump up both days.
My phone call to Neil to suggest a follow-up visit had even gone better than I expected. I
called him Monday afternoon, expecting to find him either wary or defiant at my
mandated intrusion into his world again. To my surprise, he was neither. I'd barely said
hello when he asked me when I was coming back, and seemed delighted that I was
willing to make a trip next week. I hung up the phone thinking he was either less smart
or a better actor than I'd thought. Was he not really aware that Margaret was using me to
put pressure on him, with the likely outcome that he was going to lose his job? I felt I
should warn him that he was playing a game he could not win. After all, I liked him, and
liked his operation. But my loyalty to him didn't run that deep.
It didn't occur to me until much later that his pleasure in my visit was genuine, and that it
came not from any desire to get to know me better but because he had a plan of his own,
a plan in which I played an unwittingly key part. I was just glad to have avoided a
premature confrontation.
Wednesday night I didn't have anything planned, and I just didn't feel like another dinner
alone. I broke down and called Kathy.
"Zeke," she said with pleasure. "I was beginning to think I wasn't going to hear from
you."
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"I've been busy," I explained. "How about I tell you about it over dinner?"
Dinner was Vietnamese -- her choice -- followed by a blues club on Halsted -- my choice.
That led to an invitation up to her apartment on the twenty-first floor. We admired the
view, had a drink, and talked into the night. We compared notes on Bill and Sue, on our
jobs, on Chicago. She seemed in no hurry to have me leave, and gradually worked our
way to sitting very close. I was getting tired and knew I had a busy day ahead, but in
situations like that men don't do a very good job of planning. Eventually my arm went
around her shoulders, which subsequently led to her offering her lips for a kiss, which led
to some heavy necking. We didn't actually have sex, or even fully disrobe, but I got to
know the contours of her body pretty well. I'm not sure if the failure to consummate was
some sort of rules-based behavior on her part, or if I just wasn't appropriately aggressive.
In any event, I gave her a long kiss at the doorway and left her place around four in the
morning, feeling more guilty than anything else.
I had to catch a plane to New York in a couple hours, so I did a quick workout first and
took a cold shower. I slept on the plane -- more of a long catnap than a good night's sleep
-- but I wasn't complaining. My meetings with investors there went well, and I caught a
flight that evening to San Francisco, where I was scheduled to talk to some of the big
investment firms out there. I didn't get to my hotel until reasonably late, too late to do
much. I was a little jet lagged, both from the long flight and from my lack of sleep the
night before, but I didn't find myself too sleepy.
I was at the Ritz, of course. There are lots of great hotels to choose from in San
Francisco, but this was my favorite. As with the Four Seasons in Philadelphia, it's tough
to decide between the Ritz and other favorites like the Fairmount or the Westin-St.
Francis. I wandered around the suite, aimlessly watching television. Don't get me wrong:
I wasn't lonely, but it was the kind of night that Iris had called before. I unexpectedly
found myself kind of wishing that she would call tonight too. I thought about how silly
that was, and yet I couldn't stop myself. A friendly voice late at night in a distant hotel.
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It didn't seem like so much to hope for, but it was too much to expect. So I was rather
shocked, to say the least, when the phone actually did ring.
Chapter 15
I was so surprised that I almost didn't pick it up. It had rung perhaps four times before I
had the presence of mind to pick it up. I answered cautiously. "Hello?"
"Hey there!"
I couldn't quite identify the voice, but whoever it was did seem awfully glad to get me.
Maybe it was a wrong number. "Hey there yourself," I answered rather more neutrally.
There was a pause. "You don't know who this is, do you?"
"No," I admitted. "Who are you calling?"
"I'm calling you, Z. Who else would I be calling so late?"
It wasn't Iris; the caller hadn't called me Zebulon. Now that she had spoken more, I knew
it wasn't Iris's unique voice and tone of voice, and my disappointment was palpable. I
really had been hoping it was her. Still, the voice was familiar, and it took a couple
seconds to click in. "Tracy?" I asked incredulously. Oh, great, I thought, now I have two
stalkers.
"In the flesh, on this side of the phone anyway."
"How did you…"
"I figured you'd be staying there. Where else would you say in San Francisco?"
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There were several other hotels I might gladly stay in while in San Francisco -- although
the Ritz was my favorite -- but that was sort of beside the point. "But how did you know
I'd be in San Francisco?"
"I didn't -- I'm going to be in San Francisco tomorrow, and I just took a chance that you
might be there. It was a long chance, but, hey, you never know unless you try. And here
you are."
"Here I am," I repeated slowly, thinking about the odds. It wasn't impossible, but it was
kind of implausible. Had there not been that weird thing with Iris already I might not
have been as suspicious about the whole thing. Still, I held my tongue, thinking of how
much I'd enjoyed being with her the other times.
"You see, I'm staying for the weekend and the friend who was supposed to be staying
with me now can't."
"Uh-huh," I interjected. "So…"
"So I wondered -- if you don't have anything you have to rush out of town for, why don't
you stay an extra day or so and keep me company?"
Her statement sat there, uninvited but tempting. OK, I didn't really know her that well,
and there was that wedding ring problem that stared me in the face whenever I happened
to glance at her hand. But -- I enjoyed her company, and I didn't really have any plans
for the weekend. Actually, it occurred to me, if I did go home I might be obliged to call
Kathy. Much as that evening had been pleasurable, I didn't really want that particular
relationship to deepen. Not to the point where a weekend date was expected. I was now
relived that we hadn't gone as far as sleeping together, which would have definitely
obligated me further than I really wanted to be. Staying on an extra day or two would
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give me a legitimate excuse for not seeing Kathy quite so soon. I think it was the desire
to avoid Kathy as much as any desire to see Tracy that led me to agree.
"Are you serious?" I asked. She indicated that she was quite serious. "Are you sure it is
all right with your husband?" I further inquired, just to be on the safe side. Husbands can
be funny about strange men spending weekends away with their wives.
Tracy laughed, without much humor. "Hey, buddy -- I'm just asking for a companion.
Don't get your hopes up. You let me worry about" -- she seemed to fumble slightly on
the name -- "David."
I had intended to have a dinner meeting, then catch a red-eye to Chicago. Instead, we
agreed I'd meet her at her hotel after my meeting, and spend the day checking out San
Francisco on Saturday. I'd fly back Sunday morning, while she was scheduled to work
some West Coast flights later Sunday afternoon. I didn't quite know what to make of the
whole thing, and I have to admit that part of me wondered if I would have a shot at her,
her cool dismissal of the possibility notwithstanding. Then a slight problem occurred to
me.
"Wait a minute -- I've only got suits with me. I didn't expect I'd need any casual clothes."
She laughed again, and this time there was humor in it. Her laugh cheered me by the
sound of it, with almost a texture that had warmth and palpable delight in it. "It's not like
there's no place to shop in San Francisco. Just stop by tomorrow night and we'll figure
something out."
The day was busy, and I didn't have much time to think about the weekend. Dinner was
at an expensive restaurant near the financial district. I pitched our story, why our
company was different from the other Rust Belt survivors and how they'd be missing the
boat not putting us in their portfolios. The fund managers listened politely, their thoughts
on greater wealth in the nearby Silicon Valley. They were used to the prospect of
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thousand percent returns, much like the prospectors who had come to California
originally had been. I had to pull out some of my best angles from my bag of tricks, and I
still wasn't quite sure I was making any headway. Well, these things sometimes take
time, and at least I was getting a good meal out of it.
We broke up about eight, and I dropped my stuff off at the hotel, then walked over to the
Hilton where Tracy was staying. I called up from the lobby, expecting her to ask me to
wait while she came down. She surprised me again, giving me her room number and
asking me to come up. Maybe things weren't as black and white as she had indicated.
I found Tracy waiting at the door, wearing jeans and a light sweater. She filled out both
quite admirably, and the small "V" of her sweater showed a peek of her chest, a glimpse
that made me curious to see more. Put it out of your head, Zeke; be a good boy. Tracy's
hair was braided up again, off her lovely neck. She wore a necklace around that neck,
with a small plain pendant hanging down a couple of inches on her chest. I wondered if
there was someone's photograph inside. I took a deep breath and smiled.
She invited me in. Her room was all right, but smaller and not quite as luxurious as mine
was. This is how the other half traveled, I thought, although I'd certainly seen my share
of bad hotel rooms. They came like the things in the three bears' house -- some were too
small, a few were actually too big, and some were just right. Her room was on the too
small side.
"Glad you could make it," she said, her eyes sparking in a way that warmed my heart. "I
thought you'd be later."
I looked around her room, and spotted some shopping bags on the bed. "Been shopping,
I see."
"Oh, yes. Here -- I'll show you what I bought."
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I'm not one of these guys who enjoys shopping for women's clothes or was good at
gushing over the results of a shopping spree. I hadn't figured Tracy for a shopping queen,
but you can never predict these things. It's genetic, I think, that shopping drive. I made a
polite show of interest. "Sure."
Much to my surprise, she took out a pair of men's slacks, two casual shirts, plus a belt and
some socks and underwear. This being San Francisco, even in the summer, she'd even
bought a light jacket. There was a pair of casual loafers as well -- they looked vaguely
Italian, and certainly expensive. They had a nice weave to the leather, and looked liked
they'd be at home in some posh resort. All in all, she'd done a remarkable job.
"Very nice. Shopping for David?"
She laughed. "Don't be silly. David can shop for himself."
She'd bought me clothes, I realized. She'd actually gone shopping for me. I was
surprised, to say the least. "So can I."
"Hey, want me to take them back?"
I picked up one of the shirts and fingered it. It was a good quality, and I could use the
clothes for the weekend. "I don't know what to say."
"Try 'thank you,'" she said.
"Thank you."
"You said you didn't have any casual clothes," she said. "I had some extra time this
afternoon, so I took a guess at the sizes and bought you a couple things."
"I can't let you do that. You'll have to let me pay you back."
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Tracy wouldn't have any of it. In the end we did agree to compromise -- she'd let me pick
up dinner the next day, not that I wouldn't have anyway. "Well, aren't you going to
change?" she asked, nodding her head towards my suit. It wasn't exactly something you'd
wear to a movie or a long walk.
I changed in her small bathroom, and emerged looking more relaxed. Things fit
amazingly well; Tracy had a good eye for men's sizes. She must buy her husband's
clothes, or maybe she'd grown up with several brothers. I modeled the outfit for her, and
she made approving noises. We got a chuckle out of that.
We went out to a bar in North Beach for a drink. It was a club that someone had taken
me years ago, after a conference, and I knew they had good music and an interesting
crowd. I'd once gotten lucky there, met a fascinating local woman that I spent a fun
couple of days with. I wondered what had become of her. I probably still had her phone
number someplace, but she'd probably settled down with someone more suitable by now.
The place was hopping, and the band was indeed good. They played some cool jazz,
with a vocalist, pianist, and a drummer. No pop tunes from them; not much recognizable
at all but with a nice beat that kept the crowd from talking too loudly. We got a good
table on the side, and caught up. Initially I did my usual scans of the room, both
checking out business contacts and other pretty women, but gradually I just paid attention
to Tracy. It was easy to talk to her, she looked lovely, and I had an unsettling feeling that
there was no place I'd rather be, and no one I'd rather be with. I say it was unsettling
because it was unlike me. Usually I'm mentally on to my next trip, my next meeting,
getting ready for the things ahead. I like to think that I hide that well, but I didn't fool
myself. I didn't think I could fool Tracy, but fortunately I didn't have to.
As much as I was enjoying the evening, I was badly in need of a good night's sleep, so we
didn't stay out too late. I walked her back to the hotel. She did not invite me up, but her
goodbye look was, in some way, more tender and more sensuous than a kiss might have
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been. Walking back to my hotel in the cool evening I thought I was glad we were in
different hotels. If we'd been at the same hotel there would have been goodnight logistics
that might have proved complicated. I liked the fresh air and the exercise to cool me
down a little, but around me I mostly noticed people in pairs. Given that this was San
Francisco, the pairs were more, say we say, unusual than you'd see in most other cities.
All walking alone did was increase the intensity of propositions from the streetwalkers.
Once back in my room, though, I was not so glad; the room seemed more confining than
usual, and television failed to hold my interest. I left voice mails, following up on events
of the day, and fell asleep to the muted sound of the TV.
Saturday was a good day. We did tourist things, mundane and predictable excursions that
I'd have ordinarily been too embarrassed to even try, but Tracy's enthusiasm made it fun.
It was like being with an old college friend, someone you spent lots of time with years
ago and with whom being together was like riding a bike. No matter how long it has
been, you picked up the hang of it right away. You'd seen each other at each other's best
and at their worst, and you had secrets you wouldn't tell anyone else. Perhaps there had
been a couple of nights of unexpected, alcoholic-induced passion, but that was long ago
and behind you now.
We didn't share that past together, and we had no memories or mutual friends to fuel our
conversation. It didn't seem to matter. Tracy was the least prying woman I'd ever met, at
least when it came to my personal life. We didn't compare histories, didn't trace past
relationships. She was curious about things we saw, people we ran across, and life in
general, but I guess she'd figured out that I wasn't exactly an open book about my life. In
a way, that just reinforced our connection. She didn't have to ask me anything about my
past because she already knew me in some sense. If I'd been a spiritualist I'd have
thought we'd shared some prior life together, perhaps as lovers or man and wife. But I'm
not.
The only time we delved into truly personal territory was while sitting in the Presido late
in the afternoon. We were resting and enjoying the view of the bridge and the Bay. It
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was a lovely day out and I felt curiously at peace. This was how other people spent their
Saturdays, how normal people lived. Very interesting. The grass was soft and green, the
sky was blue with clumps of white clouds, and the water was a dark blue, with white-
capped waves moving endlessly towards the shoreline. Scattered around the grounds
were various other nature lovers. There were girls sunbathing, young men playing
Frisbee, young mothers with children, even older couples perhaps remembering sunnier
days of their own.
"Interesting how those guys only lose control of Frisbees in the direction of pretty girls,"
Tracy observed drolly, as one went careening off track and landed near a beautiful blond
in a bathing suit. The blond pretended not to notice as one of the men trotted over to
retrieve the Frisbee.
"Maybe it’s the Frisbee."
"Maybe." We watched as a not-too-subtle attempt at a pickup was quashed, to the harm

of neither party. They'd both played the game before, and would play it again, perhaps
later in the afternoon. The man expertly whizzed the Frisbee back to his buddies, and
jogged back lazily as their game continued and they spied on new targets.
"Now if he had a dog…" I speculated.
"Oh, yeah -- dogs are a killer pickup tool," she agreed. "Babies too."
"And me with neither."
"I don't really think you need either. I'm probably cramping your style."
"How so?"
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"You'd probably be picking up those pretty girls normally. I interrupted your evening
with Kelli and now I'm ruining your weekend in San Francisco."
"You're not ruining my weekend," I reassured her. I looked out at the pulchritude
available on the grass out there, and thought back to the evening we'd had and the day we
were having. I thought about what I'd be doing otherwise. I'd probably be flying back, or
back in the office having caught last night's red-eye. Either way, I'd probably be working
right now if not for Tracy. Instead, I was enjoying a relaxing day with an interesting
woman, who was very good looking and who also happened to be married. The pluses of
the one offset the minus of the other. No, I was still ahead in the big scheme of things.
"So how do you pick up women?"
I gave her a disdainful look. "What makes you think I pick up women?"
"Oh, forgive me -- do they always pick you up?"
I just gave her another dirty look and didn't dignify her question with a response. "You
must get a lot of passes," I said. "Being both a stewardess --"
"-- Flight attendant."
"-- flight attendant, as I was saying, plus beautiful to boot." That brought a suppressed
smile from her.
"What is it with guys?" she asked, leaning back on her arms. She looked like a Photoplay
pinup girl from the forties -- innocent yet alluring, and intentionally so on both counts.
She had on walking shorts and a light blouse, with a sweater draped over her shoulders.
Her hair was typically pulled in a ponytail, with the ponytail pulled through the hole at
the back of her baseball hat. She had sunglasses covering her eyes. "I mean, if a woman
is friendly men just assume that means she's available."
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"True."
"On the other hand, if a guy is friendly, it doesn't mean he's available."
"Don't be so sure," I countered. "Guys are always available, friendly or not. We're easy.
They figure women are as well, only the friendly ones might be easier to seduce."
Tracy was barely able to keep from laughing. "So the wedding ring doesn't really help?"
I glanced at the ring, and was immediately sorry. Had she not been wearing that ring, I
might have had a much different end to the evening that night in New York, or even last
night. "Sometimes it helps," I finally said quietly, and looked away to other views. Out
of the corner of my eye I saw Tracy sit up straighter, and possibly give me a concerned
look. We sat in silence for awhile, and that was OK. Had she not been wearing that ring,
I might not be enjoying this peaceful afternoon in this idyllic setting either, and it was no
longer clear to me that this was a bad trade-off.
Tracy's attention was drawn to some children playing on the swings nearby. I thought I
could hear her biological clock ticking loudly. "Like kids, do you?" I asked. She
nodded wistfully. "I'm surprised you don't have any."
Tracy looked away from the children and back out to the water. Her gaze was far away
and her expression was too sad. "Me too," she said quietly. She took a deep breath and
pretended she was fine. She took off her sunglasses. "So, Zeke Clarke, ever been in
love?"
"Sure -- lots of times."
Tracy laughed. "So where are all those women?"
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I put my arms back and leaned against them, watching the people in the park.
"Everywhere," I said with a tired tone. The weight of them suddenly felt overwhelming.
I didn't think about those pasts very often, about those memories -- good and bad -- but
occasionally they floated around me like ghosts. Nice women -- well, most of them -- but
not the right ones.
"Were they in love with you?"
I smiled lightly. "I suppose so. They thought they were at the time."
"But you don't think so."
"I think most of them were in love with the idea of me."
Tracy wrinkled her brow in a puzzled way that was very cute. "I don't understand."
I sat up straighter, and put my arms around my knees. "I was a glamorous interruption to
their lives. I'm a pretty fun date for a short while, but the work and the travel always
catch up."
Tracy nodded. "And then?" she asked solemnly.
"I'm their 'what-if,'" I said lightly.
"What if what?"
"You know," I said. "What if we'd met sooner. What if we'd had a longer weekend.
What if that work thing hadn't called him away. It's different every time, but it's always
the same."
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"'What if I wasn't married,'" Tracy added with a hint of amusement. It took me half a
second, and a quick look at her face, to distinguish that she was quoting, not asking.
"Sometimes," I admitted. "Everyone likes to have some memory like that, for the times
when they wonder about the choices they've made, the ways their lives ended up."
"And you're happy to supply the memories." It was a statement, not a question. I
couldn't find any irony or judgement in it, just an observation.
I shrugged. We watched the crowd in silence.
"So you don't believe in love?" Tracy asked after awhile. "You're happy with these
'what-if' women?"
"Sure, I believe in love. If they were the right women it would have worked out, right?"
Tracy smiled ever so slightly. "A true romantic. The right woman will fall into your lap
and you'll just know it." She turned towards me. "It doesn't work like that, does it?
Sometimes you have to work at it."
"Is that what you're doing with David?" That was a shot, more to get her off my case
than anything else. It was kind of a low blow, but she took it in stride.
"Something like that," she said quietly, and we let it go. She put her sunglasses on and
laid on her back watching the clouds for awhile, while I stayed sitting up and surveyed
the boats on the Bay. We'd had enough rest, so we got off and continued on our way.
We were a bit subdued for awhile, but gradually things turned lighter again.
We had dinner and caught a show at a comedy club before turning in for the evening. It
was pretty late, but I found myself taking my time as we walked back to her hotel,
wishing the evening wasn't ready to end already.
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"Did you ever tell someone something that wasn't true and you wished you could take it
back?" Tracy asked as we strolled along. She said it in a casual tone of voice but it
seemed to me with something more than casual curiosity. I immediately thought to some
not-quite-truths I'd told her, and wondered how she might have known about them.
Perhaps it was typical male-female roles -- I hate to admit it, but women are usually right
that men are not being completely honest about something, especially early on.
"I suppose so," I replied, pretending to be interested in some store windows we were
passing. I was quickly preparing explanations for my deceptions, ones that allowed me
options to not reveal the extent of them any further than she might have figured out.
"Sometimes you just get caught up in a lie and don't know how to tell the truth later on,"
Tracy commented sadly. She seemed uneasy and thoughtful, and I was no longer so sure
she was alluding to any falsehood on my part. But we didn't get a chance to finish the
conversation, as next thing I knew we were at her hotel. She looked at me with an
expression I couldn't quite read, but translated as a combination of wistful, wanting, and
world weary. An odd combination, to be sure, one that under different circumstances,
with a different woman, would invite further code breaking. Still, Tracy didn't give me
any encouragement for anything outside the parameters she'd laid out from the start. I
suppose I could have suggested I walk her to her room, or that we have one more drink. I
suppose she might have gone along for awhile, but that path had a dead end to it and I
figured I might as well not start down it. She smiled bravely and said good night.
I went back to my hotel, ignoring the now-familiar entreaties of some streetwalkers and
admiring the pulchritude of some of the other women I happened to pass on the street. I
was a little sorry Kathy, or her local equivalent, wasn't available for me to call.
My hotel room now seemed much too big. Hotel rooms are usually just places to me,
rooms I barely think about. I'd notice if they were sub-par, of course, but I didn't really
appreciate the luxury I usually had available to me. People pay hundreds of dollars for
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rooms like this one. Actually, since I was no longer on business, I was personally paying
the several hundred dollars to be here tonight. I should enjoy it. But I could only find
fault with it. Like the house of Goldilock's bears, it was too big. It would be a good size
for two people, I thought. Tracy would enjoy it. I could picture her, sitting at the
breakfast table in one of those big robes in the morning, her hair still wet from her
morning shower. She'd be eating an orange and reading the paper. The morning
sunshine would make her glow even more than she usually did.
Married or not, I had a serious urge to risk our growing friendship by calling her up to
invite her over. I could always claim it was a lark -- maybe I'd had just a little too much
to drink. Maybe I just wanted her to see my nice hotel room. Come on, I urged myself,
you've got to have some line that made sense, some verbal slight of hand that I'd used in
the past to entice some not-quite-certain young lady to visit.
Nothing came to me.
Chapter 16
The phone rang.
My heart leapt. Tracy had given in first; I wasn't going to have to call her. We might
have to spar around a little first, make some pretenses as to why she had called and why
we should get together again tonight, but we were going to end up together after all. I
knew it in my heart, and, whether it was foolish or not to get mixed up with a married
woman, I was ready to risk it.
"Hello!" I answered eagerly, picking up the phone while still standing.
"Hello, Zebulon."
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I'd been wrong, once again. It was Iris. I was speechless.
"You weren't expecting me, were you? You were expecting someone else."
I sat down on the bed. Those many nights when I'd thought it would be nice to a get
another mysterious call from her, and now here she was, yet I was disappointed. Ironic.
"I guess so. How are you, Iris?"
"I was going to ask what you were doing in San Francisco on the weekend, but I guess I
know. Girlfriend?"
"No, not a girlfriend. Just a friend, and she's married."
"Tell me about her."
I guess I was vulnerable, or I trusted her, or something. I told her about Tracy as best I
could, in bits and pieces, from our day today to how we met to the night in New York.
"Oh, the woman from the basketball game," she exclaimed, connecting the dots.
I admitted it was unusual how friendly we'd become, and how easy it was to be with her.
"I mean, I went to Alcatraz! I rode cable cars. I sat in a park and watched the water."
"And all this for a woman you aren't just trying to get in bed." Iris was teasing me. "You
must really like this woman."
"I do." I paused, and the humor of the situation hit me. I lay back on the bed. "That's
how you can tell she's not a girlfriend. I don't like my girlfriends."
"Oh, Zebulon!" she said reproachfully. "I'm sure that's not true."
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I considered it. "I don't know. If I liked them, why would I treat them like I do?"
We let that one go, a long ball into foul territory. I turned on the television, hit mute, and
stared flipping channels. Time to turn the tables. "So, Iris, how did you find me this
time?"
It didn't faze her. "Same way I found you the other times."
"Which was…"
Iris politely ignored me. I opted for another tact.
"OK, I've given you my sob story. I still don't know anything about you. I think that's a
little unfair. Don't you think it's time you told me more about yourself, and maybe why
you call me?"
Iris considered this. "I think you know why I call you. But, all right, fair enough. I'll tell
you something."
I wondered what she thought I knew about why she called me. She was a mystery to me.
An enjoyable mystery, a mystery I was starting to look forward to, but a mystery
nonetheless. The why she called was even more murky to me than the who she was, and I
knew nothing about who she was. Maybe that was going to change.
"I have MS. You know what that is? Multiple sclerosis."
I nodded to myself. I knew what MS was, and, more to the point, I knew what it meant.
My mental picture of her -- previously just vague impressions of her sitting at the phone,
nodding her head at times -- sharpened in better focus. Her face was still in the
shadows, but there was a wheelchair and a hospital bed in the room. The room would be
much of her life, especially if her condition was very far advanced. She'd try to keep the
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room looking cheerful, not just the death-cell of a condemned patient, but that's what it
would become. "I'm sorry."
What else can you say?
"I'm not trying to get you to feel sorry for me," Iris said calmly. "That's the last thing I
want. No, it just means I have lots of time sitting alone here. The phone and my PC are
about the only things I can control these days, and people on the other end of each of
them don't know and don't care about my condition. So I email people, I call people, and
I talk to them. It keeps me occupied."
The television had on some late sports news, a couple of old movies, and some sit-coms.
How many episodes of "Gilligan's Island" were there, anyway? Still, it could be worse.
You almost never see "My Mother the Car." With Gilligan at least there was Ginger and
Mary Ann.
"So you have lots of phone friends like me?" I was both relieved, and a little
disappointed, to be honest. I wasn't as special as I thought.
"No, no one like you, Zebulon. You're special." She must be reading my mind.
"So, why did you tell me the story about your terrible husband? Why not just tell me
about the MS? I mean, if you were worried about me feeling sorry for you, why didn't
you make up a cheerier story?"
"Oh, yeah, like I'm a nineteen year old, beautiful virgin who likes older men." She was
teasing me again, and I found myself smiling anyway. "I save that for the Internet."
"I'm not that kind of guy either."
"No, you're not."
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There was a dating show on, with young, beautiful people trying to make connections
while the audience watched like the voyeurs we were. I mean, if we didn't watch, they
wouldn't keep inventing new versions of the show. The original "Dating Game" would
seem monstrously tame nowadays. I keep waiting for dating shows that just make the
people sleep together, then compare notes on the experience. Maybe they already have
that in Europe. Their television is even racier than ours is.
I thought about poor Iris -- note how she had now become "poor Iris," no longer could
be thought of without some adjective coming before it to warn the listener that something
was different about Iris, something tragic -- sitting in her room. I'd always pictured her
in some room, but before it had been just another room, a room she could stand up and
leave at any point. Now, although she might still be totally mobile, her room took on
more sinister aspects. A prison, if you will, someplace that she could not leave freely.
For a second I compared our existences. My hotel room seemed very confining. Why
was I here? It wasn't that late. I spent too many nights cooped up in these rooms, nights
when I could have been out and about. Nights I should be home, with someone I cared
about. Instead, I shut myself in these too-small rooms and worked, worked until I got too
tired. Iris's life didn't seem so bad.
Then, again, neither did mine, I thought rebelliously. I thought of flying off to some of
the cities I enjoyed -- like this one -- and I thought about poor Iris in her wheelchair or
whatever. And I thought I smelled a rat. She'd done it to me once, and this new version
of her life didn't fit quite right with the Iris I was coming to know any more than her prior
description had.
"So, Iris, there's just one thing I don't understand."
"What's that?"
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"Why are you lying to me about the MS?"
I could see her rocking back in surprise. I wished I could imagine her face as well, for I
was sure that the expression on her face would be priceless. I had to smile to myself, and
hoped she couldn't picture me doing it. For once, I wanted our little telepathic link to be
one way.
"Whatever do you mean?" she protested weakly. "Are you making fun of me?"
"Cut it out, Iris. We both know you don't have MS."
I was taking a risk, and I knew it. For Christ's sake, what if I was wrong and she really
did have MS? I couldn't know for sure. I might have just offended this very nice lady
and cut off any future phone calls from her. Those hotel rooms on the road would be
dimmer without the prospect of those little surprises. Worse, I'd have cut off one more
lifeline for someone who needed it.
To my relief, she started to laugh, a genuine laugh of pleasure. I waited, then finally
joined in, the two of us laughing together until the spell was spent.
"How did you know?" she finally asked. "I thought that was a killer story."
"It was," I said. "I just knew it wasn't you. I pictured the woman with MS sitting in her
room on the phone with me, and, well, I just knew that woman wasn't you."
"Very impressive. You're two-for-two. Now what?"
"Now why don't you tell me why you make up these terrible stories?"
Iris took a deep breath, as if making a decision. "Do you know who Scheherazade?"
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I'm pretty good with names and I'm a pretty quick thinker, but I have to admit it took me
a couple of seconds to recognize the name, and couple more to guess where she might be
headed. I didn't like that direction, so I tried to pass off my reply lightly. "The movie
star or the woman in 'The Arabian Nights'?"
"The latter."
"Sure." I paused. "So?"
Iris must have shook her head sadly, not able to finish what she had started. As gently as
I could, I tried to dissuade her. "Didn't she tell her tales so her cruel husband wouldn't
kill her in the morning? She had to keep him interested to stay alive?"
"That's right," Iris said in the barest of whispers.
"Iris, do you think I'm going to hurt you?"
"No, of course not. You'd never hurt me."
"The evidence of all the other women in my life notwithstanding," I observed

sardonically.
"You'd never hurt me," Iris repeated forcefully.
"How can you be so sure?" I asked. "You don't even know me."
"Don't I?"
Somehow I believed her. It was nice to know someone believed in me like that. Hey, if
she thought so highly of me, who was I to dissuade her?
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"Then why the stories?"
"Zeb, I'm going to tell you something and you're going to have to trust me on this. OK?"
"OK," I said, although I wasn't really sure it was going to be OK.
"You're never going to meet me. You're never going to know about my life. This isn't
going to be one of those meet-cute stories that ends up with us together or anything. I'm
always just going to be a voice on the phone to you. I don't know what you were thinking
was going to happen, but those are the rules. That's how it is going to be."
"But why?" I started to protest.
"You're just going to have to trust me on this one. You don't have to like it, but that's how
it has to be, and I can't change that."
I didn't like it. I didn't like it one bit. I don't know what I thought might happen, and I
hadn't really imagined meeting her in the future. I hadn't even really known we had a
future. I hadn't thought that far ahead. But I knew right now I didn't like these limits she
had placed on it.
"Will I at least get to know how you found me? How you keep finding me?"
Iris laughed, pleased that her ingenuity had me stumped. "Probably not."
"Why should I keep talking to you?"
There was no laughter in her voice this time. "You know why."
"No, I don't."
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"Because you promised to help me, in that very first conversation."
I wanted to point out to her that I had made no such commitment, that she'd asked but I'd
avoided a direct response to that particular question. I wanted to set the record straight
on that one point, but I also knew that she had me. I did want to help her. And I needed
her to help me too, help me through these nights alone.
"Then why the stories?" I asked finally. "Why make up these stories?"
"I guess I just wanted to make myself interesting to you," Iris said with a simplicity that
must have cost her nonetheless. "Because if I wasn't interesting to you and you stopped
wanting to talk to me…" Iris left the sentence unfinished.
"That's not going to happen, Iris," I reassured her, with a strength that was stronger than
I could fathom. "I promise that's not going to happen."
Chapter 17
The next few months were, well, complicated. I didn't see Tracy again for almost three
weeks, when I ran into her in the airport in St. Louis. I was walking out of my corridor,
on my way out of the airport, when I heard her familiar voice call me. She was waiting
between flights, and had been strolling down the length of another corridor when she'd
happened to look up and spot me. It was an amazing coincidence, and I was glad she had
seen me. We were both on our way out and didn't have much time, so we went to the bar
and had a quick drink together. Mine was coffee and hers was bottled water, so I suppose
technically it wasn't drinks, but we did share some time together.
The bar was an oasis of repose in a sea of movement. People sat there waiting for their
time to go elsewhere, most of them trying to cover their apprehension about flying. The
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rest were bored and killing time by watching the never-ending stream of people walking
by. For once, I paid them little heed.
I sat there quietly enjoying her company and remembering our nice weekend together in
San Francisco. As much as I enjoyed being with her now, I was feeling sorry that we'd
missed having dinner or something together. Maybe we could have coordinated
schedules better to have given us longer and sampled some St. Louis highlights. From
observing her, I didn't think I was alone in this sentiment.
I do not clearly remember who suggested it first. It could have been me, but it might
have been her. We decided, there in that nondescript, noisy bar full of people on their
way to other places, that we didn't want to miss these rare opportunities. So we agreed to
do something about it. We exchanged numbers. I gave her my cell phone number, my
work phone, my home phone, even my email address. She gave me her cell phone
number, and apologized for not having email. "I'm never home to check it anyway," she
said. "And I hate the thought of lugging a computer around with me."
Tracy didn't offer to give me her home phone, and I didn't ask for it. We left her husband
and that home life out there in the distance -- just outside the circle of immediate
awareness, but not quite far enough away to be actually forgotten.
The plan was that we'd check in regularly, compare our schedules, and see when we were
going to be in the same place at the same time. When we were, we'd plan to see each
other. I'd never done anything like that. Sure, girlfriends, or women whom I was going
to sleep with; yeah, I'd coordinated schedules on occasion. This was different. Mind you
-- we weren't talking about making plans together. Neither of us suggested we take a
vacation or anything. We were just two pilgrims on the road, banding together when we
were going the same way, the way travelers have done for as long as people have been
travelling. It was innocent…but it was not.
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And that's the way it worked out. We saw each other maybe eight times over the next six
months. It varied every time. The first time was in San Antonio. We had dinner in an
outdoor café along the Riverwalk. There were strolling musicians playing Mexican
ballads, and the twilight added to the air of half-mystery. We took a stroll after dinner
and of course Tracy insisted on going to the Alamo. It was closed, so we walked around
it. I was struck by how small it seemed. It's funny how history has a way of magnifying
people and things. Maybe Lincoln was really only five foot six, and it wasn't until after
his death that he got to be so tall.
There was a weekend in Los Angeles. We did Rodeo Drive, but did our real shopping in
Santa Monica. She wanted to go to Disneyland, but I refused. I draw the line at that, as
with opera. She made me drive to see the Hollywood sign as a second choice. The
sunshine was brilliant, and we felt like imposters. I'd never liked Los Angeles, especially
since they'd overtaken Chicago as the second largest city in the country. Fortunately no
one forced us to change the nickname: somehow "Third City" doesn't sit quite as well.
Ah, they can have the warm temperatures and ocean. It will all be underwater after the
Big One hits, so let them enjoy it while it lasts.
She was always creative about suggesting things to do. Boston was our next overlap, I
think. We had time for a walk along Beacon Street and the Charles. It was summer but
not too hot to be outside. School was not yet back in full force, but the tourists were. I'm
not sure which would have been worse. Tracy had told me she had a surprise for me, but
wouldn't tell me what. She just said to stay casually dressed. She picked me up in a cab
at the Ritz and finally I was allowed to ask where we were going. I expected a routine
tourist answer like Fanueill Hall, maybe dinner at Dirgin Park, but nope. She informed
me we were going to a concert. "Who the hell is Beth Nielson Chapman?" I asked when
she told me who we were seeing. "You'll see," Tracy replied with the confidence that a
only a devotee has.
Indeed I did see. Ms. Chapman was playing with the Pops, and it was a delightful
evening. I loved her songs, loved her singing. Her lovely voice and those heartfelt lyrics
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almost put me away. There wasn't any flash or glamour about her performance -- no
back-up dancers or laser show, nothing like that. She just stood up there, chatted with the
audience, and sang these amazing songs that rushed like a freight train from her heart into
yours. I tell you -- it had been years since I'd bought a CD just for my own amusement;
the only times I bought them were as gifts for desirous girlfriends. This night, though, I
cleaned out the assortment of her CDs they had on sale at the back. Tracy just looked on
knowingly.
We took in an Orioles game at Camden Yards. She insisted on sitting in the cheap seats
this time, where we swilled beer and stuffed hot dogs down our throats. Neither of us
really cared about the game, but we quite enjoyed the scene. Baseball is meant to be a
participatory experience, not something to be watched on television. Camden Yards was
great, but I told her it still didn't compare to Wrigley Field. I expected her to give the
standard rejoinder -- "you'll have to take me there someday" -- but she just smiled a small
smile and let it pass. It was a recognition of the barriers that were all around us, invisible
but still constraining our relationship.
Cleveland was the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame and the Flats. She knew more about rock
and roll than I did, and studied the various plaques and histories as though studying for a
test. She just seemed to soak up facts like a sponge. Later in the evening, at a club in the
Flats, we even danced a few times, me doing my imitation of a twist. Or something. At
least she didn't openly laugh.
Minneapolis saw us going to a Monday night Vikings game in the Metrodome. It was
loud, not very full, and inelegantly played. But we could see, in a way that doesn't come
quite across on television, just how big the players were, how hard they hit, and how fast
the action was. Thank goodness for instant replays on the scoreboard. The next day she
made me sneak out during the day, in a break from my various meetings, and take a
whirlwind tour of the Walker Art Center. It was impressive, and she studied the art with
the same avidity she'd studied the displays at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. She was no
art snob; both ends of popular culture equally fascinated her. I found myself wishing I
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didn't have to get back to yet more meetings, as the thought of taking a walk around some
of the very nice Minneapolis lakes was very appealing to me. But duty called.
She made me go to Graceland while we were in Memphis, despite the fact that neither of
us were big Elvis fans. I wasn't too keen on that -- whatever opinion you might have
about Elvis, the people visiting there were scary -- but I did enjoy Beale Street. We took
in some blues clubs that made us feel better about things in general -- life wasn't so bad,
after all, in comparison, and the music was splendid. I was staying at the Peabody,
naturally, while she was at a Holiday Inn. I had to show her the fabulous lobby, although
we missed the ducks, and then went up to the roof to see the view. Then I put her in a
cab to her hotel, feeling out of sorts. It was late, but I still didn't want the evening to end.
Another woman, another time, and the evening would have progressed to my suite, but
that wasn't the script here. No wonder I felt out of sorts.
In Atlanta, I showed her some of my old hangouts in Buckhead. She liked that part of the
city, but confessed that, to her, Atlanta would always be Hartsfield. There wasn't any
remaining room in her head for any favorable impressions, try though as I might. I could
show her all the lovely houses, all the beautiful tree-lined streets, all the bustling areas
that I wanted to, but it was to no avail. The snarled traffic on the beltway reconfirmed
her opinion anyway.
Then there was San Diego. This was that rare luxury, a weekend; at least Friday evening
to Sunday morning. I'd spoken at a conference in La Jolla Friday morning, and she was
taking a long break between Denver-San Diego legs. I thought about driving up to the
Ritz at Laguna Niguel, but I was concerned it was too pricey for her. So we stayed at the
Del Coronado; separate rooms, of course. I thought she'd enjoy the history of the Del,
and I was right. We walked along the beach, we went to the zoo, and we even took a
quick side trip on the Trolley to Tijuana, just to say we'd gone. We bought some silly
tourist items as reminders, and exchanged them over dinner.
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Throughout all these excursions, with the different things we saw and did, two things
remained constant. One was that she was always calm, collected, and appropriate. She
wasn't the kind of woman to show up in cutoffs or a belly shirt; her version of casual was
always tasteful. You could take her anywhere. I never got to see her really dolled up,
dressed to the nines for an expensive evening out. I didn't get the feeling that she cared
about such things, but I wouldn't have minded seeing her in a low-cut evening dress.
She'd have some nice necklace and earrings on -- although I noticed she rarely wore
much jewelry. She always wore her hair up, in varying styles, and I thought it would
look particularly nice braided up with something fancy and showing the whole world that
lovely neck of hers. I could picture her on my arm, the gossip television shows panning
to us and wondering who this very handsome couple was. Of course, I flatter myself; I'd
have just been that guy on the beautiful woman's arm, a superfluous bit of decoration.
With her I'd not mind.
The other constant was our private lives, and how they stayed private. At some point in
each of our times together -- preferably early on, so I could get it over with -- I'd ask after
her husband. She'd smile tightly and say he was fine, and we'd be done with it. She
never asked me if I was dating anyone or what I did in between the times we saw each
other. We didn't compare romantic histories. I might tell her about visits to someplace
we were, such as when we were in Atlanta and I told her about living there, but these
were more in the nature of a travel guide than they were of a confessional nature.
The truth is, we didn't need those topics. We filled up conversation quite easily, and any
silences that ensued were perfectly comfortable, such as walking along the ocean in San
Diego.
Even if she had asked, there wouldn't have been much to say. I saw Kathy once or twice
more in the weeks following our night together, but my heart wasn't in it. I let her drift
out of my life like I had so many others. I was in Philadelphia a couple times as well, and
didn't end up calling Ellen. The first time I was tempted, but I resisted. The second time
I wasn't even really tempted. Nor did I follow through on the other opportunities I had
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during those few months, be they women I met while travelling or friends of friends who
wanted to set me up. I was sorry about both Ellen and Kathy, for letting things go that
far, and didn't want to let it happen again with someone new.
Our times together were frequent when you considered that we lived a thousand miles
apart, that we each logged many thousands of miles in the course of our jobs each week,
and that we'd only known each other for a short time. To say nothing of the fact that she
was married. But they were too, too infrequent when I thought of the quality of those
times together. With her, each city was an adventure, a place like none other and our
mission was to try to get to some of the heart of it. Without her, they were just backdrops
to whatever meeting room I was in. I still could go out, sample the city life, but it was
dull and tasteless without her. She was the spice.
Chapter 18
I really knew I was in big trouble one night in Washington D.C. I was checking in at the
Ritz. The desk clerk recognized me from previous visits, and steered me to the side to
check me in. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed an attractive woman checking in next
to me. I glanced over and got a bold smile in return. I gave her one of my good ones.
She was in her late twenties, and wore an attractive suit. It was cut just a couple inches
shorter than the norm. She had the legs for it. The suit had been tailored to fit her body
perfectly…or her body had been tailored to fit the clothes. Either way, it worked; she
wore it like a second skin. I noticed that the suit jacket showed daring glimpses down her
chest. I expect the designer had intended most women to wear a blouse or at least a scarf
under the jacket, but not my new friend. I couldn't really see anything, but she knew I
was looking and she liked it. Truly, she was bejeweled and bedazzling. Her skin was a
light coffee color, and it looked like she'd been spending some serious time on the beach
or had great genes. Her hair was short and sporty, yet very professional, the result of an
expensive hair salon. I notice these details. I've learned to know how much effort people
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take in trying to look good. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't. Everything
looked good on her.
"Hello, Mr. Clarke," the clerk said. She handed me a keycard.
"Hey, Nicole, how've you been?" We exchanged a couple pleasantries. It never hurt to
cultivate these relationships.
"This came for you, sir," Nicole politely informed me, handing me a Fed Ex package. I
had been expecting it, as it was background for my next couple days.
"Thanks," I replied, catching a sympathetic glance from my new friend. She got her key
as well, and we wandered over to the elevators together. It wasn't like we were walking
together, but we both had to get to our rooms and there was only one way to get there.
She had one of those suitcases on wheels, and maneuvered it expertly, with a small laptop
case over her shoulder. I shouldered my carryon bag and laptop manfully. Sometimes I
wondered if I'd eventually have to break down and go the wheeled route as well, when
my back eventually gave out. We did the usual strangers-at-an-elevator dance while we
waited, observing each other observing each other.
She took the initiative first. "That looks like a lot of work," she said, indicating my
package. "Your next week?"
"Just the next couple of days."
She chuckled knowingly. The elevator came and I ushered her in ahead of me. I was
planning out my plan of attack. Drinks? Dinner? Walk her to her room? I wasn't
coming up with creative lines or ideas too quickly, but it didn't matter. She beat me to it.
"All that work is going to make you hungry. Want to get something to eat later? I know
some fun places."
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I had no doubt that she did. I had no doubt that dinner might lead to other fun things, and
I gave her a subtle up and down to verify that it would indeed be worth it. She was well
made and well maintained, and she had a hungry look about her that suggested she had
fire to her. She'd eat me alive and make me enjoy it. There wasn't that much reading to
do. I could get up early the next morning and catch up, or have her give me an hour or so
to speed through it.
"Sure, great. When?"
We worked out the logistics, and I watched her wheel her way down the hall at her floor.
She gave me a backward glance with a small triumphant smile. She'd bagged me, all
right, but if I was the prey for a change I wasn't complaining.
I met her in the lobby. I'd changed into chinos and a polo shirt, as it was mid-September
and Washington was typically warm. She'd changed as well. She appeared in a thin
white blouse and a long wraparound shirt. Nothing undue was exposed, but I noted that
the blouse was thin enough so I'd know if she got cold, and that the skirt, although long,
had an extended slit that flashed glimpses of her well toned legs when she walked. I also
noted that it seemed to me held in place by one strategically located pin. She wore
sandals, completing her summer outfit. There was a gold chain around her ankle and a
toe ring.
"You look great," I told her with complete candor. She preened appreciatively. We took
a cab to Adams-Morgan and ate at a Caribbean restaurant she suggested. We settled in
and ordered. We started with some appetizers and moved on to more involved, and
spicier, entries. Perhaps we were both carbo-loading for a later strenuous event.
Over dinner, we exchanged histories. Her name was Christina Tropez, and she lived in
Miami -- South Beach, of course -- and worked for a software company. She'd never
heard of TDK, of course, but liked that I worked with the investment community. "Any
hot tips?" she asked teasingly.
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"TDK, of course." She made a face, which just looked cute. I told her I wasn't kidding
and she just looked more thoughtfully at me. I guess when you've got stock options in
your own software company you tend to be a bit dismissive of more mundane industries.
But this wasn't the time or place to get into that debate.
We shared entrees, and actually got to the point where she fed me a couple bits from her
dish and I did the same to her in return. It was daring for a first dinner, but I was getting
the sense she liked things that way. Her choice was spicier than mine was, which came
as no surprise, but I told her I liked to sample spicy things, and gave her a knowing look.
After dinner we took a walk. Washington is a fun town to walk in. There are lots of
streets of great character, and there are also the people. People of all walks of life, from
your basic homeless derelicts to well-heeled snobs of all sorts, from every nation and
every walk of life. It was like a mini-United Nations.
The people that fascinated me most were the beautiful young women. That's no surprise,
of course, but it's not for the obvious reasons. There are beautiful women everywhere, of
course, but what made the women of Washington so special, so radiant, was their
innocence. Well, some of them anyway. In other cities, you find people who are out to
conquer the world. In Washington you have this curious cadre of women and men who
aren't out to conquer the world. They want to save it. Despite the commingling of
politics and business and entertainment, despite the dirty tricks, deals and backstabbing,
they still believe in a Platonic ideal of democracy that deserves their every sacrifice. They
think that their efforts will make a crucial difference somehow. Maybe they do, and the
wave after wave of them provides the fodder that keeps the Republic going.
Give them a few years here and their desire to save the world will have turned into
wanting to protect their turf, and that virginal beauty that suffuses them now turns into
something quite else.
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Christina was no young innocent. Our walk ended up at KramerBooks for some coffee
and dessert. It was a fun place, bustling even at ten o'clock on a weeknight. We sat
outside in the sidewalk cafe.
Christina didn't have much interest in the books, it seemed. She liked the people
watching, and spent as much time as I did checking out the comings and goings of the
crowd. Neither one of us was completely holding the other's attention. I knew as much
as I wanted to about South Beach social activities, and she didn't care much about
widgets. We did a typical run-through of people we might know in common, but came
up blank. But, hey, I get in a lot of conversations where I don't have that much in
common with the other person, and it's particularly easy when the person in question is so
good looking. She'd done this before as well. We felt each other out like a couple of
sparring partners, feinting and probing, jabbing and generally testing out strengths and
weaknesses. Fortunately, we got a lot of mileage comparing notes on favorite cities.
Things were going pretty well. We'd known from the start that we were mutually
attractive, and had spent the evening making sure we'd met whatever other qualifications
we demanded. It wasn't as if we were thinking about getting married. This was at most a
fling, a way to spend some time and release some sexual or other psychic energies. We
walked slowly back to the hotel, and I took great pleasure in watching those legs flash in
and out of that skirt. I thought ahead and pictured her removing that one pin, and the
skirt slipping away to reveal both legs all at once. For some reason I suspected a thong
underneath, but that was getting ahead of things. For now, the flash of those legs, the
shape of her breasts as revealed by the sweater, the promise of flat stomach -- all
promised a nice time later, some memories to put in my mental scrapbook of similar
evenings on the road. It had been a long string of celibacy before Ellen, and I'd been a
good boy since then. I was overdue, and she seemed willing and eager. We arrived at
the hotel and headed slowly towards the elevator banks.
Ordinarily, we might have had to progress through some more qualifying rounds. Going
to a club to dance or listen to some music, maybe drinks at the hotel bar to work out our
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nerve and lose any remaining inhibitions. We were beyond that. Christina seemed like
the type to make decisions quickly, and she'd basically made hers in that first elevator
ride. She'd just been giving me time to get used to it. Plus, we both had to get up early to
do some real work, so we didn't want to waste any time pretending to get used to the idea.
"Want to come up and have a drink?" she asked in the elevator.
She lounged against the elevator railing almost insolently. She leaned back so that one
leg stuck out of the skirt's slit, and with her chest straining against the thin fabric of the
blouse. I stood a couple of feet away from her, and I knew the logical answer was yes.
The logical thing to do, the correct response, would be to not answer but just to lean
forward and kiss her. She wouldn't be taken by surprise, and I could imagine her arms
encircling me hungrily. Her leg might wrap around mine to draw me in closer. I doubted
we'd actually have sex in the elevator, but it'd be a nice warm-up for what should come
next.
But I didn't kiss her. Going to Kramers had been a mistake. On the walk back I had
started thinking about how Tracy would have liked the place. She'd have exclaimed over
the books, and thrived on the atmosphere. She'd wander through the shelves, and pick
out a book by some author I'd never heard of. She'd force them on me, and I'd end up
reading it on some plane or in some hotel room and be struck with her good taste.
This wasn't Tracy. Christina offered me carnal pleasures not available from Tracy, but
Tracy also offered me evenings where the point was not so direct. Our times together
had no logical reason to be, and no real point to them. We weren't doing business, and
we weren't doing verbal foreplay. We just enjoyed our time together.
I didn't really enjoy Christina's company. I'd love to see her with no clothes on, and
having sex with her would be like an interactive porno movie, with me as a star. Yeah,
it's very exciting, but, you know, I didn't watch much porno either. We'd just been
passing time, waiting for the sex. Christina would just be a body. I didn't worry about
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using her, because I was sure she would be using me as much or more as I would be
using her. I just didn't want to.
Tracy had taught me better. I liked her, and being with her. It was real human
interaction. Going further with Christina would really be like a movie, with two-
dimensional things doing a horizontal act. OK, with Christina there probably would be
some vertical and maybe even diagonal involved as well. But depth would still be
missing.
I looked at Christina with a reserved gaze. She knew immediately something had gone
awry, and teased a couple more provocative tilts out of her body trying to keep me
interested.
"I'm beat," I said. She looked at me inquiringly, debating whether to take another run at
me. I could almost see the options go through her head. Should she try to coax me, kiss
me, maybe even lift the blouse to entice me? She played them out in her head, and
compared the probable outcomes with how I had answered her invitation. I saw them
play out, and I also watched her accept the result.
The elevator stopped on her floor.
"You sure?" She asked almost insolently.
I nodded. She moved lazily off the elevator, flaunting that lovely body. "Too bad," she
said, and gave me a quick kiss on my cheek. "You don't know what you're missing."
The door closed. "Oh, yes, I do," I said aloud, with no one to hear it but myself. Maybe
Iris would call…
Chapter 19
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Neil Kincaid also was a frequent occurrence in my life. I didn't keep up the bi-weekly
visits, but Margaret clearly wanted me to stay a presence at Vista, so I was there quite a
bit more often than I normally would. Neil took it all enthusiastically, more than I would
have had the situation been reversed. He always invited me to join him in meetings, and
introduced me freely. He even gave me a nice office, close to his, to use while I was
there. I could tell that most of his staff didn't know what to make of me, but they took
their cue from Neil and let me in their world. After awhile it became like participants in
a focus group -- you tell them initially they are being watched, even videotaped, and at
first they will be reserved. But after they get going they forget all about the observers.
So it was with my watching them.
Even when I wasn't physically at Vista, Neil seemed determined to make sure I didn't
forget them. He send me emails, called me when I was in the office and left me voice
mails when I wasn't. He was selling me, I thought with amusement. I thought I was
immune to it, but I had to admit that the guy had charm. Still, it didn't stop me from
continuing to tell Margaret the problems I saw.
Curiously, Elliot took note of my interest in Vista, or perhaps of Margaret's. He didn't

deign to visit, but he called Neil in for a few visits and also asked for several new reports.
At first, Neil was delighted by the attention. Elliot strongly defended Vista while I was
still giving Margaret more pessimistic reports. "I think Elliot gets it," Neil told me once
in those early months.
"Uh-huh," I responded neutrally. We were going to have to agree to disagree on this one.
I wondered why Elliot was so high on Vista. I knew the numbers and was coming to
really know the operation, and I just didn't think Elliot could be looking at the same
things. I pondered it and pondered it, and finally concluded that Elliot was just playing
counterpoint to what he perceived as my position. If I was going to not be a booster, he
would be.
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As the months went on, my attitude softened, imperceptibility at first but more definitely
after awhile. I never cooked any numbers or withheld anything from Margaret, but I
grew more optimistic. I had indeed concluded that Vista indeed was not going to deliver
in the short term, but I had also become convinced that the strategy was right. Project
Alpha would be a home run, in time, and Neil was the only guy that could deliver it.
Sure, a slash and burn CEO could make the numbers come sooner, but he wouldn't
deliver Project Alpha, and only at the cost of a culture that Neil was trying to both keep
and to transform into something that would thrive for years. He wanted to take his
grandfather's great company and make it into his own image. It was kind of fun to watch.
Still, it was going to be slower going than Margaret would demand. Neil could not mask
the way that inexorable numbers were going to play out. Everything was just taking too
long, and costing too much. The cash flow from ongoing operations was fine, but Project
Alpha was sucking it up in great gobbles. I could be more optimistic in my reports back,
but the numbers were the numbers. TDK wasn't getting its return, and it would affect our
earnings and our stock price. I didn't know if Elliot realized it yet, but I knew it,
Margaret suspected it, and I was sure that Neil was acutely aware of it.
Elliot turned more negative as I grew more positive, as I might have suspected. We'd sit
in meetings with Margaret, and for anything good I'd say he would feel compelled to
offer something bad, and I found myself doing the same in return when he offered up
rifle shots aimed at Vista. Neither one of us ever made things up. Margaret was too
knowledgeable to let us get away with that. But there is always some twist you can find
to support both the good and the bad, and Elliot seemed to be going out of his way to pick
up anything remotely discouraging about Vista's performance or prospects. I attributed it
to his simply being against whatever I was for. It was petty and beneath a man in his
position, and I could scarcely believe he was letting his dislike of me affect his judgement
so much.
Elliot finally tried, in his inimitable way, to get a truce between us. Of course, he wanted
to just impose the peace rather than to negotiate it. I was in my office during one of my
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rare times in town when I got an internal call. The phone screen indicated it was Elliot's
assistant. I picked it up and put on my best cheerful voice.
"Hey, Rhonda, this is a treat," I said. I always make friends with the assistants; it never
hurts to have an ally. "You never call."
"Mr. Zu was wondering if you could come up to his office for a few minutes," she primly
told me. Rhonda was not a prim person, but working for Elliot had trained her to be
circumspect. I suspected that Elliot had Rhonda work this all out ahead of time -- they'd
picked a time when I was relatively free.
"He does, does he?" I said mockingly. "Not enough that he'd call himself, though."
"Mr. Zu is very busy," Rhonda told me, but giving me a slight glimpse at the humor
underneath. She didn't have much more use for Elliot than I did, but he was her boss. I
told her I'd be up in a few minutes, and deliberately let a half hour go by before heading
to his office. I wasn't going to let him dictate all the terms. Rhonda greeted me with
relief; no doubt Elliot had yelled at her for my not showing up sooner. She ushered me
into his office, and I gave her a wink before she closed the door behind her.
"Come in, Clarke," Elliot said gruffly, yet he purposely finished reading some email on
his computer, with his back towards me. I contemplated picking up one of his
paperweights and smashing it on his head, or at least on his desk, to get his attention, but
in the end I just sat down. I surveyed his office. It was the size of a decent apartment,
with three separate seating areas and very expensively furnished. He even had built-in
bookcases with numerous rare looking tomes. I wondered if he had read any of them, or
if he'd bought them as a package from some decorator. He finally finished his reading
and punched out a reply with a flourish.
I was sitting on a couch several feet away from his desk. He looked at this situation with
some disapproval. I expected that he had wanted me to sit in one of the shorter, less
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comfortable visitors' chairs across from his desk. Fuck that, Elliot; come to me, I
thought. He apparently gave it some thought, but ended up leaning back in his chair and
letting the twenty-some feet stand between us.
"Let's get down to business," he started. "Look -- you don't want to be an enemy of mine,
Clarke."
"Are we enemies, Elliot?" I said coyly, putting a foot up on his table. His eyes narrowed
and I could see the dollar signs working behind them. "I didn't realize that."
Truth was, I didn't make many enemies. I didn't like some people, but I didn't generally
let them know it. It's bad for business. Enemies take too much time watching, and too
many resources combating. I shouldn't have let things with him get this far, but I wasn't
sure what to do about it. Plus, I really didn't like him.
"This shit about Vista has to stop. OK, I was wrong to tell Nicholson about my earnings
estimate…"
"And you were wrong about the numbers," I interjected, to twist the needle a little more.
They'd come out right below my estimate.
He glared at me, then continued. "Yeah, right. I said I was wrong. Now it's your turn.
Back off from defending Vista." I cocked my head and inquired why.
"Because this time you're wrong. Vista can't give us the returns on our money and
Kincaid is going to get his ass fired. You've seen the numbers; you know it. But you
keep sweet-talking Margaret into giving him more time."
"I'm not sweet talking anyone. Margaret asked me to keep an eye on Vista and I do. I
just tell her what I see."
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We glared at each other across the room. I noticed Elliot had a clock on his credenza and
it was ticking away loudly in the ensuing silence. I imagined it hiding a bomb which
suddenly exploded and took Elliot out with it. I started to calculate if I'd be far enough
away, then ruefully refocused on Elliot. He narrowed his eyes menacingly. "Yeah, well,
you're not the only one who Margaret listens to," he blustered. "I can make things very
difficult for you."
I sat up and leaned forward. "Is that a threat?"
Elliot's mouth narrowed, matching his beady eyes. He leaned forward as well. "Stop this
stupid pissing match. It's not making either of us look good."
I stood up. "Is that it?"
His head followed me. His expression darkened further. I was afraid with all that pent-
up gravity he might turn into a black hole and implode. He didn't like my
presumptuousness in starting to walk out on him. I was a little surprised myself, but I
was tired of his silly mind games.
"Well?" he asked.
"Elliot, I don't want to be in a pissing match with you." He looked pleased at this, and no
doubt was complimenting himself on cowing me. Then I finished. "I wouldn't piss on
you if you were on fire."
He jumped up, and slammed his hands on his desk for emphasis. "You'll be sorry!"
I let myself out his door, but before I left I looked at him and added, "I'm already sorry I
wasted my time here."
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Rhonda just looked at me as I passed her desk. She paused from her computer. "That
didn't sound like it went so well."
I stopped, although I figured Elliot would soon storm out of his office and I didn't want to
still be there. All in all, she had a point. I suppose I could have been more diplomatic.
My behavior would be trouble for Rhonda. "You must see a lot of that."
Rhonda nodded, then started typing again. "You better get going. I give it five more
seconds before he comes out to find someone to yell at."
"Sorry it's you." She arched an eyebrow and I figured she could take care of herself.
The hardest thing about the whole Vista affair was that, in the end, Elliot was right. I
didn't know how we'd maintain a normal working relationship after all the bad blood
Vista had caused us. I'd let things get way too personal. What I feared was that I was
going to have to be the messenger that delivered the bad news to Neil. There was going
to be bad news, and he'd come to trust me. The worst of it would be Elliot's satisfaction
in beating me.
After I said goodbye to Rhonda, I wandered over to Margaret's office. I didn't expect her
to be there, but I figured I might as well say hello to her assistant while I was in the
executive suite. As I said, it never hurts to make friends with the assistants, and I
genuinely liked Maggie.
Maggie was an indeterminate age; she could be anywhere from thirty-five to fifty-five. If
the former, she was unusually serious for someone so young; if the latter, she was
extraordinarily well preserved. Her hair was cropped short, and she wore very little
discernable makeup. I always figured she did both to avoid having to take any longer
than necessary getting ready for work in the morning. She did evidently take great care
in her clothing: she was always impeccably attired. None of this "casual day" nonsense
for Maggie; you could take her and put her on a fashion runway for businesswomen
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without missing a beat. We shared that sense of sartorially preferences in a world grown
looser.
"Ms. Barnes isn't in the office today, Mr. Clarke," Maggie said upon spotting me.
"I just came up to say hello to you, Maggie. And aren't you ever going to call me Zeke?"
Maggie may have smiled briefly, if skeptically. "You came up here just to see me?"
"Well, I had to see Elliot," I admitted. Maggie was well practiced at hiding her true
feelings, but I believed her eyes darkened just slightly at the mention of Elliot. Rumor
had it that Elliot was tough on his assistants -- not tough as in working them hard, but
tough as in inconsiderate, rude, and all round nasty. They usually only lasted a year or
so. I worried for Rhonda. On the other hand, Maggie had been with Margaret since
joining TDK. It was kind of funny that their shared the same name, but I suspected few
people had ever called Margaret by that more informal version of her name. On the other
hand, it was hard for me to think of Maggie by any other name.
When I first met her, she barely spoke to me, and wouldn't even make small talk, much
less share anything with me. After wooing her for awhile, she opened up enough to chat
politely, but maintained the façade that she knew nothing. After years of this cat and
mouse, we both knew that she knew most of what went on around TDK, and sometimes
would let some nuggets slip. Still, I knew nothing of her personal life, and didn't know
anyone who did. I wondered what she'd be like without the corporate reserve, or if she
ever let it slip. It was tough to imagine her laughing at something silly, watching
Friends, or just sitting around doing nothing. She and Margaret were a good match.
Maggie and I chatted for a few minutes, nothing earth shattering. I shared a couple recent
travel stories, plus one interesting rumor I picked up about Elliot. Margaret did a good
job of looking interested and laughing modestly in the right places, but I couldn't really
tell what she thought. I didn't want to overstay my welcome. Margaret worked her hard,
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and relied on Maggie's shorthand abilities. Not the old-fashioned transcription kind of
shorthand, but rather oral skills. Maggie could listen to long-winded, very technical
messages from people trying to get to Margaret, and very succinctly translate it to the
time-starved Margaret. Similarly, Margaret could bark out the briefest set of instructions
to Maggie, and count on Maggie elaborating them to the appropriate parties.
"When are you going to come to work for me?" I asked, getting ready to leave. I often
asked her this, more in jest than anything else at this point. Maggie just looked
inscrutable. "Goodbye, Mr. Clarke."
Jason gave me an amused look when I got back to my office. Kathleen and Matt had
both moved on, and had been replaced by two clones. The new kids kept their heads
down, fingers furiously flying away at the keyboards when I walked by. Jason was
sitting with his fingers behind his head, leaning back in his chair and watching them
work. "Good meeting?" he asked coyly, giving me a speculative look with a slightly
tilted head.
"Yeah, great," I replied, wondering what he knew. "Not too busy, I see."
He just smiled. "Just watching the kids," he said evenly, nodding towards his
compatriots. If I'd been one of them I'd have resented his attitude, but he had these two
completely cowed. They were almost as scared of him as they were of me. Maybe more.
Hell, he probably was teaching them more than I was, as much as I was out of the office.
"Where's that report I asked for?" I jabbed, knowing what the likely answer was.
"I emailed it to you a few minutes ago." He didn't take his hands away from his head,
and I walked the rest of the way to my office mentally shaking my head.
Vista wasn't my whole focus, of course. It wasn't even the only thing Margaret and I
talked about when we talked. We still shared rumors, and she still sought my opinions
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about other companies and people inside and outside the company. I'm sure some of my
comments had an influence on people being hired, fired, or promoted, and that didn't
bother me. Every conversation, though, included "what's new at Vista?" or "how are
things at Vista?" These would be followed by probing questions that really should have
been asked of Neil directly, and perhaps were. She still asked me, though, and I had to
spend enough time at Vista to be able to answer them intelligently. I kept waiting for her
to say Neil was gone, or talk about his replacement, anything to indicate what her plan for
him was. I knew she wasn't going to let him stay on, but I couldn't figure out what she
was waiting for. It wasn't like her to be indecisive like this, so I began to think more
about what pieces of the puzzle I was missing.
Although Vista was only a small part of my activities, Neil was becoming something
unique, more of a friend than just a colleague. I met his wife Annie, an attractive blonde
woman who had literally been his high school sweetheart, and his five-year-old son
Andy, who thought the world began and ended with his dad. We had dinner at their
house one summer night, an old estate house that dated from the nineteen twenties.
"Your grandfather's?" I asked sardonically, and Neil just smiled. His grandfather must
have bought it before Vista had really exploded and he'd made his fortune. It was nice,
but hardly a showplace of the rich and famous. "I didn't want Andy thinking he was
entitled to everything," Neil told me later.
In early September he dragged me along to see Andy play soccer. We drove out to a
large park, and walked over to the playing fields. It was like watching a swarm of
butterflies, with hundreds of multi-colored little creatures moving in unpredictable
directions. I knew that there were well-defined teams, playing on lined fields, within an
organized set of rules, but the actual visual effect was rather more chaotic. Bunches of
five and six year olds of both genders milled around, with the soccer balls seemingly
moving more by some odd brownian motion than by any conscious effort on their part. I
thought back to my own Little League years, where I'm not sure the caliber of play was
all that much higher but at least the sport didn't encourage quite the same level of random
motion.
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It was all so disorganized. If I'd come there by chance, I might have just left, but Neil
just smiled and plowed ahead through the crowd. I soon realized there were isolated
clumps of taller figures -- the parents, standing together like a wagon train circled up for
safety against marauding Indians -- and Neil immediately headed towards one of them as
if guided by a homing signal. Perhaps it was pheromones. We slipped by streams of
soccer players intent on following the ball, or at least following the other running players,
until we reached the safety of Neil's wife and a few other parents.
"You made it!" Annie said with a smile. She was wearing the uniform of the other
mothers: shorts, sandals, and a t-shirt, with a pair of sunglasses perched on the top of her
head. She gave him a brief kiss, then turned to me. "And you brought Zeke. How
delightful." She shook my hand warmly.
Neil and Annie made small talk with the other parents, with Neil directing comments
towards me every so often, presumably out of concern that I was bored. I don't think
"bored": was the right word. I felt like a sociologist studying some foreign tribe, even if
that tribe was as common as suburban soccer moms. They were foreign to me.
What surprised me was how comfortable Neil was in this world. He was a high powered
CEO, and I'd seen him equally at ease in a lab talking engineering as in an investor
meeting discussing financing. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised that he could be
a chameleon in this crowd either, but I was. I watched him and detected no artifice. He
loved being here, and it was clear that these people accepted him as one of their own.
They knew it was difficult for him to get away and come here, and they appreciated not
only his presence but even more that he put on no airs of superiority. He was one of
them, part of the community. Still, they treated him with deference. He wasn't just one of
the community; he was a leader of this world. This was one of the roots that made him fit
into life here. His family was another, and Vista was a third. His family history underlay
it all. I felt, oh, "pang" isn't quite the right word, but I couldn't think of another.
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My world was airplanes and hotel rooms. I knew them well, could tell you what to
expect on any model of plane or any name brand hotel, and could direct you to a good
restaurant in any city, but those were just places and things. My tribe, my community,
was made up of faceless, interchangeable fellow road warriors. We might recognize each
other, sympathize with our travels, and have some disdain for our more earthbound
compatriots, but I couldn't even tell you most of their names. Those weren't roots. I
didn't know what they were.
I surreptitiously watched Neil's face as he watched the game. It was difficult to get too
caught up in the game itself, given the skill level involved, and most of the other parents
spent more time chatting among themselves than paying close attention. They'd shout
out words of encouragement as their offspring swept by occasionally, but generally they
weren't all that interested. Neil kept up his fair share of the conversation, but I could tell
he was keenly interested in Andy's performance. Late in the game Andy actually made a
solo breakaway and scored a goal on his own. He may actually have been aiming at the
goal, but I wasn't entirely sure the goal wasn't a happy accident. Neil harbored no such
doubts. His face lit up with pleasure. "Did you see that?" he asked, grabbing my arm in
excitement. "He's fast, isn't he?"
I agreed and gave Andy due credit for his budding skills, but I was thinking more about
Neil than I was about Andy. I'd now seen Neil in many situations. Even when talking
about his wife or his beloved Project Alpha, I'd never seen such pleasure and pride on his
face. I wondered fleetingly if my father had taken similar joy in my athletic
achievements, or if my brother now got the same kind of rush coaching his teams. I
unsuccessfully tried to conjure up anything that gave me that kind of pleasure.
I thought about my relationship with Neil. Most successful careers have been graced
with some mentor or two. I suppose Margaret had been one for me, keeping an eye on
me and steering me to the right opportunities, but this felt more personal. He saw
something of himself in me, which is why I was allowed to share this personal time with
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him and his family. You can't predict when these odd business relationships will happen.
It's as much a matter of chemistry and timing as any romantic relationship.
Jason might be on his way to that kind of relationship with me. It's funny. I saw him as
my junior, well behind me in our career paths, while I thought of Neil as essentially my
peer. I wondered if Neil thought of it the same way. I thought he might enjoy giving me
support and advice in just the way I would Jason. I'd had a few proteges of my own, and
it is very gratifying -- and ego boosting to help bright young people like that. But, you
know, watching Neil watching Andy play soccer, I knew that this kind of gratification
paled in comparison to the pleasure a father takes in his children's development. Jason
was bright and would go far, but -- I was not going to get the kind of joy Neil got from
Andy scoring that goal.
Later in the year he also did finally get me out for that golf game at his country club, and
we had a nice round on a beautiful day. It was a beautiful course, and neither one of us
gave it justice. It turned out Neil wasn't much better of a golfer than I was. I'd thought
him to the manor born, with a golf club in one hand and a silver spoon in the other. He
might have been, but he'd put both of those away to get his hands dirty in making Vista
survive and thrive.
I tried to warn him about what I saw coming. "Project Alpha is eating you up," I told him
once, after a long day at Vista. We'd been sitting through an update, and were relaxing in
some plush chairs in his paneled office.
He looked sharply at me, then smiled. "That's Elliot talking."
"No. It's Margaret."
Neil nodded his head slowly. "And what does Zeke say?"
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"I say it's a great idea, but TDK needs the money. The spending on Project Alpha is
starting to affect our stock price. You either need to boost earnings in other ways or slow
down spending on Alpha."
"I can't do either. We're in a war here. Vista is just getting back to the market share we
should be at. We can't start gouging just to improve earnings in the short time."
"Which leaves Alpha."
Neil stared at me with slightly narrowed eyes. I saw him reevaluate me: was I friend or
foe? Gradually his head started to nod, imperceptibly at first, then more noticeably as a
smile replaced the sterner face. I was back on the friend list, or he was smart enough to
hold foes close. "Point noted." We left it at that.
.
One day in early November I was in my visiting office at Vista, doing business on the
phone, when Neil stopped by. I suppose we were going to a meeting or something and
he'd stopped by to pick me up, or maybe he had just stopped by to say hello. I don't
remember, but I remember thinking that this was one of the few times when he got to
observe me doing my job instead of vice-versa. I was sweet-talking a CFO of a medium-
sized insurance company about why they should put some of their investments into TDK.
He'd never invested in us and was wary about why he should. I'd been working him for
over a year, and had come out to visit their Investment Committee a few days earlier. I
was ninety-five percent there, I thought, but it's also that last five percent that makes you
lose your hair. Not that I was, of course.
"OK, sounds good," I said, wrapping up the call. "Keep me posted."
Neil was leaning in the doorway, arms folded over his chest and an amused look on his
face. "What?" I asked gruffly, as I got off the phone. I thought it had been a pretty
smooth rap and I was pretty sure the guy was going to buy a good bunch of our stock, so
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I was pretty pleased with the call and the work that had led up to it. Neil was looking at
me like I was his teenaged kid that he'd caught calling the girl next door.
"I could never do your job."
I sat back in my chair. Neil just stood there, except he put his hands in his pockets. That
wasn't what I had expected he'd say. "Sure you could."
Neil shook his head.
"Sure you could," I repeated. I didn't know why he was being modest. Sure, he wouldn't
be as good as I was, but he'd do fine. I was flattered that he'd seen how hard my job was.
"You're great with people, you have a good handle on the financials, you understand the
industry. You'd be good." I thought that was pretty gracious, and even mostly true. But
he still was shaking his head.
"No, I mean I could never do your job. I wouldn't want to do your job."
I slumped back in my chair, feeling mildly hurt. He must have caught the odd expression
on my face. "No, you're really good at it, and I'm glad TDK has someone like you doing
it," he told me, coming into the office and sitting down in the visitor's chair across the
desk from me. It was a small office, nicely furnished but not as grand nor as spacious as
his office. I usually didn't think much about it other than a place to drop my stuff off
while I was at Vista, and as a place to sneak in a few calls when I got a few spare
minutes. Now, just the two of us sitting across the desk, it seemed oddly intimate.
"But?"
"But -- you're always on the outside, aren't you?"
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Neil had a strange expression on his face, equal parts puzzled and pained. "What do you
mean?" I asked, watching his face carefully.
"Take here. You go to meetings, and you usually have something to contribute, but it's
just another meeting with another set of people in another company. Then you go off and
make phone calls or go to other meetings with other people."
"So?"
Now he was getting frustrated at his inability to communicate what he meant, or at my

inability to understand it. I knew he didn't want to hurt my feelings. He stood up and
went over to the window. It was late in the day and the sun was about down. You could
see the purple sky, and I then thought he was watching the sunset. Thinking back, and
hearing his words in my head again, I understand now that he wasn't really looking at the
sunset. He looked out and only saw his beloved plant, his company.
"It's not your business. You don't make anything, you don't serve anyone."
"Just the shareholders," I said, trying to lighten the tone.
"Yes, the all-important shareholders," he replied with a touch of bitterness. This was a
man who had had to turn his family's company over to those shareholders, possibly
selling its soul in order to stay alive.
"Hey -- no shareholders, no customers."
"No customers, no need for shareholders." He walked to the door. "Forget it."
"Neil," I said. He stopped, and turned towards me. He had that odd expression on his
face again. "What is it? I care about customers too. I know you're doing a good job for
them."
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"You could do this job," Neil told me.
"Excuse me?" That came out of left field.
"Don't be modest. You should get out of that corporate job and do something real."
"Something like this, you mean."
He nodded. "I'm serious."
"What's wrong with the job I have?" I was slightly miffed, and trying not to let it show.
"I think it's a pretty good job."
"It is a good job, and you do it well. But I suspect you could do lots of things well," Neil
commented neutrally. He studied me curiously. "I've seen you in these meetings, and I
know you get the business. But don't you get tired of watching other people making the
decisions?"
I didn't know how to answer that, and Neil didn't push it. We went on to our next
meeting, and soon after that I flew out. But I kept thinking about what Neil had said.
Chapter 20
Thanksgiving went by, and it was grey in Chicago. It wasn't too cold yet, but the cold
and snow were coming soon. My trip to San Diego came in early December, and I came
back from it thinking about a Christmas present for Tracy. Ours was a curious
relationship, I had to admit. I wanted to get her something, but what to get for a married
woman whom you see infrequently on stolen moments from your real life?
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I wandered down Michigan Avenue one weekend. I love Michigan Avenue even in the
worst of times, like in the summer when it is hot and humid and the sidewalks are jam-
packed with slow-moving tourists. December is definitely a good time, with the
Christmas decorations and throngs of shoppers searching for just that right thing. I
strolled along looking at storefronts and at people, but no idea what to get for Tracy. For
lack of any better idea, I stopped in at a jewelry store that I'd used numerous times in the
past.
The store was small and off the Avenue, but their stuff was unique and well designed. It
was tucked away in a small older building that had somehow defiantly survived among
the newer monoliths that towered above it. There were only few windows on the ground
floor, with little merchandise on display. This was an insider's place. You had to
stumble upon on by accident or be steered to it. Millions of tourists walked only a couple
of blocks away, unaware that they opting for much more expensive jewelry that wasn't
half as nice. I forget how I'd first found it, but it had been my regular supplier for several
years now.
I have to admit that one of the other key attractions was the fact that I had a small crush
on the owner. Patsy was a British transplant who both owned the store and designed
much of their stuff. She was in her early thirties and quite attractive, tall and elegant with
long black hair. Of course, her accent was an added plus; I'm a sucker for an English
accent -- Irish or Scottish too, for that matter. Probably French or Italian too, and perhaps
Russian or Japanese when you come right down to it. I guess I like women with accents,
which is kind of funny when you consider that I live in the Midwest, the land of flat
tones. I suppose you could say that Chicago natives have a unique accent too, but no one
was ever going to find it an object of such fascination as I found Patsy's.
"Well, well, well," she said, making each word sound delicious. "Zeke, as I live and
breath. It's been a few months."
"Hello, Patsy," I replied with a smile. "How's business?"
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"Slow and boring since you've stopped coming in." She leaned forward to give me a
quick peck on the cheek, and I flushed slightly in pleasure. She casually flipped her hair
back. "You know that my business is directly related to the success in your romantic
life."
It had been a slow year for me, I had to admit. The last woman I'd been involved enough
with to justify buying jewelry for was in January, and I'd come here to get her something
for Valentine's Day. We'd made it to then, and broke up soon after.
"What can we do for you today?" Patsy asked, turning to business. "Christmas present
for your lucky lady?"
Patsy had been the accidental witness to my erratic love life over the years. I wasn't sure
if she knew how widely distributed my purchases had been. My relationships rarely
lasted long enough to merit getting more than one or two pieces of jewelry. Patsy might
have given me the benefit of the doubt and assumed that they were all for the same
woman, but somehow I thought she'd always known better.
In truth, I'd often thought about asking Patsy out. She was beautiful she was smart, she
was intelligent, and she lived not too far away. But I'd never gone beyond our
professional dealings. For one thing, I had picked up on the fact that she had a lover,
probably some snooty arty guy with long hair and paint on his fingernails. She was
probably the breadwinner of the pair.
For another thing, what do you buy for someone who owns a jewelry store? I mean, at
some point in a relationship you have to buy some jewelry, and it's not like I could buy
her a gift from either her own store or from a competitor. She didn't wear that much
jewelry, true, but that wasn't going to negate the problem. And, in the end, I figured that
a good jeweler was harder to find than a beautiful woman, so why jeopardize a sure
source of nice stuff by getting involved?
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"She's just a friend."
Patsy made a politely skeptical face.
"She's married," I added. Patsy just nodded, as if to say -- if she's just a friend, and she's
married, then why are you buying her jewelry? But she didn't say it. Instead, she asked,
"What did you have in mind?"
Since I didn't have anything specific in mind, she showed me some things that she
thought might be in my taste. After the various things I'd bought over the years, she had
a pretty good feeling for what I might like. And I discovered that I actually did have
something in mind. I hadn't realized it when I came in the door, but by looking at what
she showed me I found that I could discard most of them fairly easily.
Tracy didn't wear much jewelry. I thought this was partly economics and partly taste.
She wouldn't want anything flashy or ornate. I found myself thinking about her neck,
how long and lovely it was. And how bare it was.
"How about this?" I asked, pointing to a necklace in a case. It was a simple diamond
teardrop, as elegant and beautiful as its intended recipient.
"Very nice," Patsy told me. Of course, she would think so, since she'd designed it and
would make a nice profit by selling it, but I still liked the reaffirmation of my choice.
"It's a bit more than I think you were looking to spend."
I wasn't quite sure how she'd decided how much I was looking to spend, but she was
correct. Sure, for a steady girlfriend that would be one thing, but for someone I just had a
long distance friendship with? When could she ever wear it? What would her husband
say to such a gift?
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"I'll take it."
As fate would have it, Tracy called the next day. I was at home, working, and she was on
her way to Dallas, it turned out. "Hello there," her warm voice greeted me. I leaned back
from my computer. "Hello there, yourself."
"I'm surprised you're not out Christmas shopping."
"I did that yesterday."
"Did you pick me up anything nice?" she asked coquettishly. I smiled, knowing she was
just teasing and suddenly very happy about my extravagant purchase.
"A card."
"I guess that means I better get you a card too." Somehow I suspected she'd do more than
that, but I doubted she'd top my gift.
We started comparing schedules. The holiday season made things more complicated. I
didn't have as many trips scheduled, and when I did there were Christmas parties and
such that required my presence. We didn't come up with anything before Christmas. I
felt disappointed.
"Going home for Christmas?" she asked.
"No." I knew it required more of an answer than that, but I was uncharacteristically terse
with her.
Tracy just said "oh" and there was a moment of silence. I gave in. "I usually go away at
Christmas," I explained. "Take a little vacation, get some sun."
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"That's nice. I'm stuck with the relatives."
We talked a little about Christmas, with its special joys and burdens, and Tracy waited
for a pause to slip in a new question. It didn't seem out of place, fit in with the holiday
discussion.
"What are you doing for New Year's?"
I don't really like New Year's. If I'm In Chicago it's cold and there are usually lots of
parties I feel compelled to attend, full of people drinking too much and pretending to be
happy that another year is starting. Or maybe they are happy that the current year is
ending, as though something would be different in the months to come. Yet if I go away,
try to extend my Christmas get-away, then I miss some important networking.
"I don't know," I said noncommittally. "There's usually a few parties. What about you?"
There was a slightly long pause, long enough to make me notice and to wonder what was
going on. It wasn't such a hard question. When she replied, I knew what the delay had
been.
"What if I come there?"
Chapter 21
That might have been when things changed between us. Maybe they didn't actually
change until New Year's Eve itself, but this might have been the start. As many times as
we'd talked, as enjoyable as our jaunts in the various cities had been, as close as we had
become -- we'd stayed pure in some sense to the unusual relationship model we'd created.
I'd been in Denver a few times over the past few months, and I was sure that Chicago had
been graced by her presence during that same time, but neither one of us had suggested
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that we give the other a native tour. Our home worlds, our homes -- these had been off
bounds by some unspoken agreement. Now Tracy had spoken.
But things had already changed, when I think hard about it. Otherwise, why I had just
bought her an expensive piece of jewelry that I had no right to give her? Something had
changed how I thought about her, and I couldn't deny that.
This conversation wasn't the beginning of the change. You never really know when
things change in your life, not usually, but this one I think I can pinpoint. The change
came in Atlanta; I suppose it had been in mid-November. I ran into Kelli on a flight from
Miami. I boarded the plane and there she was. After the many months of flying, and
running into Tracy by accident those few times early on, before we started scheduling our
overlaps, I finally ran into Kelli again. I was probably overdue to see her. The last time
had been that time in New York.
Kelli gave me a big smile and a hug. Later, during the flight, she suggested we grab a
quick drink after the flight landed, which I happily agreed to. Kelli was still a stunner,
and I must admit I gave her a few lavicious looks as she paraded up and down the aisle
during the flight. I think she knew it too, knew that most of the men (and perhaps some
of the women) were looking as well. I'd been pretty chaste the last few months, and she
looked awfully good to me. I thought about the missed opportunity in New York, and
started daydreaming about making up for lost time.
The guy in the seat next to me, who turned out to be the COO of a company we wanted to
do business with and with whom I subsequently had a very productive conversation, was
more impressed that I knew Kelli than by anything else we talked about. He gave me an
envious look when Kelli suggested the drink.
"You know her?" he asked incredulously, watching her walk away. I nodded
nonchalantly, as if a gorgeous stewardess staffed every flight I took. It was a pretty good
icebreaker. I could see him thinking, hey -- this is a guy I want to do business with.
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We weren't going to have a chance this time. I was staying in Atlanta, but Kelli had
another flight in little more than an hour. Drinks would have to do it for now. We
settled in a cozy corner of a club lounge by ourselves. We sat next to each other on a
small couch. She put her arm along the back of the couch, and crossed her legs invitingly
towards me. Her skirt rose up on her legs. She'd taken her jacket off, and suddenly her
white blouse seemed more transparent and tighter than I had recalled.
Now, there is not much you can do with a flight attendant's uniform. They all look pretty
much alike. Lord knows I'd seen Tracy in one numerous times, and on thousands of
other attendants over the miles I'd flown. But I have to admit that Kelli wore hers like no
one else. She made it sexy and uniquely hers. I thought back to her outfit the night in
New York.
Kelli wore her clothes like a tease, a promise of what lay underneath. It was like
Courtney Love at an awards show -- she might be covered up, mostly so anyway, but you
got the sense that she'd be happiest if she could just be naked. I imagined that Kelli
enjoyed sleeping naked, maybe walking around her house with nothing on. She had a
great body -- you could tell that even fully clothed -- and she knew how to flaunt it. She
liked flaunting it; she wanted you to notice it and to want her for it.
I couldn't help contrast her to Tracy. Tracy had a nice body too, or so I had concluded,
but clothes to her were more practical. She never dressed to provoke or to incite lust; she
just dressed like she wanted to dress. She had style, and everything she wore fit her just
right. Not just physically -- this wasn't a case of having a good tailor -- but of matching
who she was. You could take her anywhere and know whatever she had on, whomever
she met, she would fit in and seem totally at ease. Kelli, on the other hand, drew her style
from countless magazines, movies, and music videos, and I suspected I'd want veto rights
over her outfit before introducing her to someone like Margaret.
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We chatted about things, and reminisced about the Knicks game. She was keen to know
how a couple of the guys she'd met that night were. We mused over the misfortune of my
having missed her late night call, and each of us silently reflected on the might-have-
beens as we each took a slow drink.
"Well, I guess it's for the best," Kelli said brightly, recovering first. "I hear you've been
seeing Tracy."
"Seeing?" I wasn't sure what she knew, or what she thought.
"Yeah, I hear you and she have taken some trips together."
"No, no -- nothing like that," I said, trying to minimize things. Partly I wanted to protect
Tracy's reputation, and partly -- I don't know -- I suppose I was trying not to spoil any
chance of anything happening with Kelli. She did look damn good even in that dull
uniform. "Our schedules overlapped a few times together." Kelli gave me a disbelieving
look.
"Besides, she's married," I added lamely.
Kelli raised her eyebrows questioningly, as if to ask if that mattered, then checked her
watch and took a last drink. It was evidently time for her to go. I guess I wasn't going to
get a chance to proposition her, and now that we'd brought up Tracy, I was no longer so
sure I wanted to. Next to Tracy, Kelli was second class stuff. Kelli gave me an evaluative
look, deciding if I was being straight or not. Evidently she decided to give me the benefit
of the doubt, that I wasn't just playing innocent. "She likes you."
"I like her too. She's a neat lady."
Kelli patted my knee warmly. "Zeke, she likes you."
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With that she stood up, and leaned over to give me a quick kiss. She deliberately leaned
over at an angle that allowed a view inside her blouse at the lacy bra enclosing her ample
bosom, reminding me what I would be missing. "I've got to go. I'll see you later." She
walked off and I watched her go, admiring her figure while thinking about what she had
said -- and, even more, thinking about what she implied.
Iris had been telling me for some time that there was more to Tracy's and my friendship
than I was willing to admit, but I had always dismissed her comments as idle speculation
by someone who didn't really know either one of us. With Kelli's statements, though, and
not knowing if it was all her own opinion or if Tracy had confided in her, I had to take
seriously the prospect that there was something more than friendship going on, or at least
might be possible.
The next time I saw Tracy after that conversation with Kelli was the time in San Diego. I
approached the visit differently than our earlier ones. I mean, I wasn't going to make a
pass at her -- I had too much respect for her and for our friendship to do anything rash --
but I watched for hints that I might have been missing all the other times together. She'd
always been charming, and sometimes innocently flirtatious, but nothing that seemed to
overtly invite me to move beyond the bounds
That weekend we didn't do anything out of the ordinary. No romantic candlelight dinners
or midnight confessions of love or lust. I didn't kiss her, nor did she invite me to. Yet I
came away from that time together feeling eminently different about her.
We had dinner Saturday night at a restaurant in the Gaslight district. The streets were
bustling and we enjoyed walking around people watching and checking out places to eat.
I suggested a quiet French restaurant for dinner, but Tracy pooh-poohed it. "We'll have
french food when we go to France," she declared firmly.
"France, eh?" I replied. "Getting ambitious, are we?" She just smiled boldly at me, and
took me to a noisy, crowded Mexican place. I don't know if the crowd was tourists or
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natives, or some of both, but they all seemed to be having fun. There was a maharachi
band in one room, and a wandering guitar player in our room. The troubadour stopped by
our table at one point. "Newlyweds," he leered. We shook our heads, and he gave me a
wink, undoubtedly certain something sexual was going on between this beautiful woman
and myself. I kind of wished we had a special song he could play. I thought for a second
that Tracy was going to impishly suggest one to him, but she glanced over at me and saw
me wondering what she was going to do. Somehow that stopped her, which was odd.
Usually she liked to embarrass me. I wondered if maybe she thought it was a step too
close to home.
The restaurant also had a magician, stopping by tables, especially the ones with children.
I found myself watching him, and being amazed by his tricks, but I was more interested
in watching Tracy watching him. In a room full of wide-eyed little kids, hers were
among the widest, the most enthralled by the wonder of illusion. I mean, balls were
disappearing and reappearing in people's ears and under their hands. Cards seemed to be
totally interchangeable in his hands, so that whatever card you picked suddenly turned up
in his hands, or wherever he wished them.
We were adults; we knew it wasn't really magic. But the tricks had no seams, and we
were drawn in against our rational minds to believe, if only for a second, that magic
existed. I thought about magic in my life. Now, I'm about the most prosaic guy around.
I don't believe in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny, or in putting your fate in the hands of
good luck. I don't usually have time for parlor tricks like magicians. Tonight, though,
was another thing.
The essence of magic, I think, is mystery. There had not been much mystery in my life.
Oh, there was lots of unpredictability. I didn't have, and couldn't have, one of those nine-
to-five, in the same office everyday kind of job. Every week I was in a series of different
places, meeting with different people about different things. I usually started out the
week with a schedule, but even that wasn't any guarantee. Planes could be delayed,
connections missed; meetings could be cancelled and emergency meetings called. The
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market behaved in often irrational patterns. There was a lot in my life to keep me
guessing.
But unpredictability isn't the same as mystery. With all that my life had had, there had
been no mystery. I might go to many cities, but, in the end, all the meeting rooms looked
alike. All the hotel rooms blurred together, a variety of very nice rooms that were not my
house. I might talk to different people about different things, and we might even act like
friends. We could start conversations like we were two buddies out to lunch together,
chatting about sports or politics or whatever old buddies talked about. But in the end it
was always only really about business. Either we could make each other some money or
we couldn't. If we couldn't, then so long until next time. Putting a different face and a
different name in a different city didn't make the situation new or interesting. I pretty
much knew what to expect from every event everyday.
Now my life had mystery. Sitting there with Tracy, I realized that I was no longer
checking the room for contacts or acquaintances, and hadn't been doing it all weekend. I
was with the person I wanted to be with, and was just enjoying it. Life seemed richer
somehow; the air was sweeter, the colors sharper, the sights more interesting. And, yes,
certainly Tracy had something to do with it; she brought that out in me, and probably a
lot of people, due to her zest for life. But I suspected that Tracy was the beneficiary, not
the cause, of my new way of seeing the world. The cloak of mystery that pervaded my
world now made everything more interesting, and allowed me to appreciate Tracy and the
way she experienced everything.
It all started and ended with Iris. Maybe it was slight of hand, or an illusion, but any way
I looked at it she had no business being able to pick up the phone and find me in a hotel
room in a city I hadn't told her I'd be in. How could she do it, again and again? I'd come
to accept it, but it was magic nonetheless. It shouldn't be, it couldn't be -- but it was.
Everything about her was mysterious. I didn't know anything about her life, and I
couldn't understand either her interest in mine or her ability to keep tabs on me. And I
didn't care, not as long as she kept calling.
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My entire world was different because out there was a woman, only a voice on the phone,
who called me late at night.
Tonight, watching Tracy glow in the light and bask in the warmth of the happy crowd, I
was certain that I'd rather not be with anyone else in the world just now. I didn't know
what the hell we were doing, but that wasn't the strange thing about it. I've enjoyed the
company of many women that I didn't know what I was doing with. The oddness came
from my acceptance of this platonic relationship. I wasn't waiting, I wasn't seducing; I
was just enjoying things. My new view of life allowed me to be willing to just see what
would happen next, not force the next steps. There was the luck -- or maybe it was
magic, too -- in how we had gotten to know each other at all. What if I'd run into Kelli
instead of Tracy on that flight to Philadelphia, or if Tracy hadn't happened to have her
friend cancel on her in San Francisco and then decide to call the Ritz? Fate? Just the
laws of probability? I didn't know, but I savored her role in my life.
Still, all of that could have just passed, a momentary giddiness on a fun evening. It was a
nice night, we were both healthy adults away from home, and we'd probably had a little
too much to drink. That's a combination that often led to strange feelings, ones that you
regretted after the trip had ended. But I came away from that stay with feelings that
wouldn't go away. It was due to the swimming.
I took a run along the beach the next morning, and finished near the hotel's pool. There I
saw a mermaid flowing along in the water. It was a woman, I saw at once, clad in a cap
and goggles and a practical one piece suit. It was clearly a woman, but she flowed
through the water with such grace and ease that I just assumed she must be born to it. It
was a natural mistake to think of her as a half-woman, half-fish. I stopped and watched
for fifteen minutes or so while the swimmer went through various strokes, never stopping
or taking it easy. Just stroke after stroke of effortless motion. I knew early on that it
must be Tracy, but even if it hadn't been I would have still been rooted to the spot. You
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don't often get to see someone so purely in their element. The fact that I knew her
outside this venue made it all the richer.
She might have noticed me while she was swimming, but she still acted slightly surprised
to see me when she emerged from the pool. "Zeke," she exclaimed. "How long have you
been watching?"
"Long enough," I replied. "You're sensational."
Tracy was toweling off, and looked pleased. I watched her dry her long legs and
swimsuit. It wasn't like she was wearing a bikini or a cleavage-enhancing Baywatch type
suit. It was just an everyday, working suit for someone who took the swimming part of
being in the water more seriously than how she might look lounging. Having seen her in
action, it was more thrilling than a thong might have been. She took her cap off, and
either it was a poor protector from the water or she had gotten her hair wet before starting
out, for it was thoroughly wet. She ran the towel through her hair. It lay plastered
against her head, and I could see the young girl she had been getting done with swim
practice.
"I don't get to swim very much," she said, "but I still enjoy it when I can."
"The lack of practice hardly shows. I can't get over how good you were."
"Not good enough to even be national class when I was younger," she protested
modestly.
"Good enough to impress the likes of me," I responded. "You swim better than I do
anything."
Tracy laughed and protested that what I had said was hardly true, and we walked up to
our rooms. We only had time for breakfast and a short walk along the ocean before we
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each had to fly out. I didn't know what to say to her. I found myself thinking about her
in new ways. The swimming had made me acutely aware of her physicality, and I
thought that body of hers was the hottest thing I'd ever seen. It wasn't the body of a
model or a movie star, but it was definitely the body of a woman, a real woman. It was a
body that she fully inhabited and was comfortable with, just like she was comfortable
with everything about herself. That's why her clothes were always so natural on her. She
seemed to me to be the most totally herself person I had ever known, and I was filled
with the need to learn every nook and cranny of that person. I thought of what Kelli had
said in Atlanta, and I knew I was no longer going to be satisfied with our strictly platonic
friendship.
Yet I still let her fly out that afternoon without a word, without a sign, to that effect.
Chapter 22
And always, always, there was Iris.
Work was a constant, of course. There was always another meeting to go to, another
report to read, another angle to figure out and another pitch to pitch. Every day I
watched our stock performance and smiled a little smile whenever it rose, died a little
death whenever it dropped. Work had been my constant for longer than I could
remember, and I'd always expected it to be my constant for longer than I could foresee.
What I had not expected were these complicating factors. Vista, for example. As many
places as I went to, and as much as I might like the people where I was going, I looked
forward to visiting Vista more. I felt at home there; I had come to feel that I had a friend
there in Neil. It screwed up my objectivity, and I kept waiting for Margaret to call me on
it.
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Then there was Tracy, of course. Any trip where she was waiting made it special, a
place I wanted to be instead of place I was just passing through.
But, you know, over the years I'd had friends who had been special in some way. Neil
and Tracy just joined that list. Much as I enjoying seeing them, each in their own way,
they were confined to discreet compartments of my life. I didn't see either one of them
often enough to count on them as major parts of my life. I might never be sure when the
next time I'd see either of them was going to be. Nine times out of ten, if not more, when
I went on the road I was still on my own.
Iris kept me from minding that. Over those months we probably talked, on average, once
a week. It was never as regular as that. The intervals had been as short as a day, and as
long as ten days. I could never know for sure that she was going to call, but I quickly
became accustomed to knowing that she was going to call sometime.
The only real pattern was that she only called when I was on the road; I only heard from
her late at night in hotel rooms. The calls came unbidden but increasingly not unwanted.
I'd be sitting in my room alone, thinking about the next day ahead, and the phone would
ring. Sometimes it would be one of my staff, giving me some last minute facts for a next
day meeting. Sometimes it would be Margaret, catching up from some distant hotel room
of her own. In those cases, I'd listen politely and have whatever discussion was called
for. Those calls were intrusions on my solitude, breaks from the silence but not breaks I
felt any need to prolong. Get or give the facts, commiserate insincerely on our lifestyle,
and get off the phone. Back to my work, back to the hotel room, back to the background
noise of the television. Back to waiting for another phone call, one from Iris.
I gave up wondering how she found where I was, and never asked her why she never
called me at home or in my office. I'd offered her those numbers, plus my omnipresent
cell phone that was the most reliable way to get in touch with me, and she'd politely
refused. I know I should have asked why, but somehow it felt like asking might break the
spell. Once you know the trick the magic is never the same. I preferred to not know.
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Perhaps I already knew why she never called me in Chicago. That wasn't how we
connected; our life together was in those solitary hotel rooms.
She never left a message when I wasn't there. I guess I was never out or in the shower,
or maybe she just didn't leave messages. I was convinced that she only called when I
was both there and able to answer the phone. How she would arrange that was beyond
me, but it was no less credible than the simple fact that she could find me at all.
We often "watched" television together. I'd sit on my bed, lights turned out, and we'd
comment on whatever we were watching. The light from the television would cast a
bluish hue over my room like a cool fireplace, drawing me in along with the warmth of
her voice in my ear. She seemed to have an encyclopedic knowledge of old movies and
television shows. I never knew if she was watching the shows along with me, or if she
just had them committed to memory and didn't need to be watching. She got me to watch
a collection of those thirties screwball romantic comedies that I'd missed out on growing
up, and allowed me to indulge myself in simple pleasures like "The Andy Griffith Show"
-- a guilty pleasure I'd have never confessed to anyone else.
"Do you identify with Andy or with Barney?" she asked once.
"Hell, I could only wish to be Andy," I told her ruefully. "I'm probably more like
Goober."
"Maybe you just want to live in a place like Mayberry."
"Pass," I told her firmly.
We didn't just watch television together. We talked. The television was just a spur for
other topics of conversation, topics that always ended up veering to what I felt about
things. I opened up with her in ways I had never done with anyone. I suppose it was like
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confession. Sitting in the dark, by myself yet with this totally non-judgmental, always
sympathetic and wise person, how could I not feel at ease talking to her?
On the other hand, it wasn't a two way street. Once she stopped making up those stories
about her life, I didn't ever get any more insight into who she was or why she was
calling. She was just there to listen.
"That girl has the hots for you," she warned me early on about Tracy. I kind of liked the
idea, but had to protest. I told her that was ridiculous, that Tracy was, if not a happily
married woman, then most definitely a married woman nonetheless. "You're wrong,
Iris," I told her more than once. "I think I'd know if she was coming on to me or if she
wanted me to come on to her."
"Are you always so sure about what women are feeling?"
"Except you," I confessed. Again, she just laughed that laugh of hers that told me
nothing.
After the trip to San Diego, she reminded me of what she had told me earlier about
Tracy. When I bought the necklace and then Tracy suggested coming out to Chicago for
New Year's Eve, Iris refrained from the I-told-you-so that she might have used. "What
are you going to do?" she asked instead.
"I don't know," I told her simply.
Now it was Christmas Eve. I was alone at the Boulders, just outside of Phoenix, for my
usual Christmas get-away. Skiing, the beach, casinos -- there were lots of places to go.
If there was a girlfriend, and she didn't mind being away from her family, then I might
have company. More often than not, though, it was like this, another trip alone, only with
no business to justify it. That getting away still was a powerful need.
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I'd considered two other alternatives, South Beach in Miami and Vancouver. Both of
them were more urban and much wetter than this choice, but this year the quiet, stark
beauty of the desert appealed to me. Walking at night in the desert was like walking on
the surface of the moon. No trees, no grass, and whatever signs of life there were looked
obviously imported and struggling to hold on. The silence was eerie, and the emptiness
so complete except for the shocking number of stars that twinkled away in the sky. Then
in the day it was like the surface of the sun, with blinding light and egg boiling
temperatures. A life so full of contrasts.
In the day I'd play golf, scrounge up a tennis game, or just relax by the pool. Nights
were harder to fill, but I managed. On this particular night I'd taken a walk in the
moonlight after dinner. It was cool -- not the cold that Chicago would have been, much
less the raw bitter arctic air I'd have felt at my parent's, but cool nonetheless. I was
alone in the world. There was no Tracy to walk with me, no work calls to make. I didn't
mind that, but I felt the need for company and I found myself not in a hurry to return to
my casita, lovely though it might be, nestled away on its own in the foothills. I could sit
in the jacuzzi, or I could stay up all night watching Christmas movies. I could sit on my
patio and watch the sky, so filled with stars that it took my breath away.
But what I hoped for, what my Christmas wish was, was that Iris would call. Out of all
the things in the world I could have, all the things in the world I could ask for, this was it.
I must have been a good boy this year; I got my wish. The phone rang at eleven.
"Hello, Iris," I answered the phone.
"How did you know it was me?" she asked, not sounding surprised.
"It was either you or Santa Claus, and I think Santa is busy."
"It could have been Mrs. Claus, feeling lonely." I smiled at the thought of the randy Mrs.
Claus. "You could be Mrs. Claus for all I know," I told her.
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Iris asked me what I was watching. 'It's a Wonderful Life' was about over, and 'Miracle
on 34th Street' was to start soon. I'd seen them both dozens of times, but on Christmas
Eve it's those, a Mass someplace, or Frosty the Snowman. I hate snowmen and I'm not
Catholic.
"So, how do you think everyone else's life would have turned out if you hadn't been
there?" Iris asked. George Bailey was seeing how badly things went without his
stabilizing influence. I suppose everyone who watches 'It's Wonderful Life' thinks about
that, at least anyone with any sentiment.
"I don't really know. I'm not sure anyone would really miss me." It sounded kind of
pathetic.
Iris didn't let me get away with it. "I'd miss you."
I had to smile gratefully at that vote of confidence, hoping she could tell I was smiling
but also hoping she couldn't detect the small tears in my eye.
"What about you?"
There was a long pause, and I had this mental image of her in her room. She was sitting
at her desk -- don't ask me why I didn't picture her in an easy chair or reclining on her
bed, as I was -- and the room had a small Christmas tree. A tiny one; the room was too
small for a big tree. The tree and its few ornaments were all the signs of the holidays in
her dark room. I could see all this so well, but I still couldn't see her face.
I realized she wasn't going to answer.
"Why aren't you with your family?" she asked. "Your parents are alive, right? And a
brother and sister, I seem to recall."
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It was my time to pause. Yes, there was a big family gathering at my parents'. My
brother and sister, and each of their spouses, would be there, along with my nieces and
nephews. They'd have a big tree and a roaring fire, and lots of presents for the kids. A
Norman Rockwell Christmas. I shook my head. "Oh, Christmas is my break. I like to
take a little vacation."
Iris didn't reply, and in her silence I could tell there was patient disbelief. "What, can't I
take a vacation?" I challenged.
"It's not a vacation," she countered. "It's a retreat. But from what?"
I considered. I had nothing to gain from telling her, but nothing really to lose either. It
was Christmas Eve and I was alone again. At least I was connected by that long thin line
to the one person who might not only care but also understand. I didn't expect she'd tell
me her story in return, but somehow I knew she'd understand. So I gradually told her the
story.
I grew up in a small town in Nebraska. My dad runs the local hardware store, which
pretty much means he knows everyone's business in a small town like that. He knows
everyone in the county, and my mother said I got my gift of gab from him. Mom said a
lot of things, but people never really paid her much mind, least of all me. My sister
works in my dad's store, and raised her three kids on the side.
My brother coaches football and baseball at the county high school, our old stomping
grounds. John had been a big football star in high school, and he'd lived on the dream
by walking on the University of Nebraska football team. He paid his dues and kept at it,
and started his senior year. That team made the obligatory bowl game, which they won,
and he even made a crucial interception. With that, his life was over. He was going to
spend the rest of his life reliving that interception, having friends and neighbors
reminisce about it. Someday he'd be an old man bringing it up and boring younger
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people who had their own feats to brag about. Since he was a coach, he probably
already was.
None of them had ever been away from there for more than a few days, if you don't count
John's time at college. Most of the people I'd grown up with were still there. All of them
wanted it that way. Not me.
I'd gotten away. I saw other worlds on television and in the movies: I read about other
lives in books. I wanted more out of life than I could get there. I was a couple of years
younger than John, and even then I was determined not to follow in his footsteps. I
turned to wrestling instead of football -- you had to play some sport, and wrestling
seemed like one in which I could control my own fate. I'd gotten a scholarship to college
and escaped that life. I didn't know anyone there, which let me be the person I wanted to
be instead of the person others knew me to be. I'd been watching television and movies,
and I knew that guy I wanted to be. So I became him, like Archie Leach became Cary
Grant. College opened the doors to business school, which opened the doors to Wall
Street, which opened the door to Margaret, who had led me to my current life, the life I
loved. Zebulon became Z, who turned into Zeke, and no one had to remember Zebulon.
Except Iris.
I wasn't going back. I kept inviting my parents to come visit me in Chicago, but I knew
and they knew it wasn't going to happen. I made the odd pilgrimage back, maybe once a
year or so if I was doing business in Omaha or sometimes Denver, but I wasn't going to
spend the damn holidays there. I tried to joke my way out with Iris. "Listen: it's eighty
and sunny here in the day, and I'm sitting in my own luxury casita. Up there it's zero and
I'd be sleeping in a twin bed about the size of my closet here."
"I'm not quite sure what a casita is," Iris said smoothly, "but it sounds yummy. I think
this is about not wanting to fight for the remote."
"There is that," I conceded.
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"So now I know why you like 'Andy Griffith." I had to ask why, and she told me. "You
grew up there."
"Well," I considered. "Maybe, except for the fact that it was always sunny and warm in
Mayberry. But wouldn't that mean I wanted to go back, not stay away?"
"It's one thing to watch it on TV; it's another to live it." She let me off with that, but
warning had been politely served. "Your parents name you Zebulon but your brother
they named John?"
"Kind of unfair, isn't it?" I agreed.
"Poor John," she said. "What'd they call your sister?"
"Francis," I told her. "It's a long story."
We talked about 'Miracle' for awhile. "Do we ever know why Margaret O'Sullivan
doesn't have a husband?" I asked. "Did he leave her?'
"I think he died."
"I think the evil psychologist is her ex," I theorized. "It would explain a lot." Iris didn't
buy it. "No way any pairing of him and her produces Natalie Wood." I had to agree.
We watched more, or at least I did. She might have been watching the movie in her
head.
"I love this part about the mail," I commented. The court scene was on, where Kris
Kringle's lawyer gets the post office to deliver the mail to Santa Claus and "prove" that's
who he was.
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"They took it out of the remake, you know. They changed it."
"I don't think I saw the remake."
"That's probably why," she said. "I like the part about faith is believing when you don't
have any reason to believe."
"Oh, John Payne has already told it to Maureen O'Hare. The part where the she says it
to Natalie is coming up." I could already feel little, irrational tears forming in my eyes.
We watched in silence, and I imagined that her eyes weren't dry either.
"It's like that with us," Iris said when the movie was ending.
"What?"
"All we have to go on is faith in each other. We don't have any reason to, but we do."
I turned the television off. It was suddenly too dark in the room, and I felt like a tiny
presence in a big world. The phone was my lifeline -- to what? I didn't quite know, but I
held on tight anyway. "Hey, Merry Christmas." I'd just realized that it was no longer
Christmas Eve.
"Merry Christmas yourself." We were quiet for a second.
"I don't go home for a reason, you know," I blurted out. "I don't belong there anymore."
"You don't?"
"No, I don't. They're small time people in a small world. I still love them, but I don't fit
there."
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Iris just hmm'ed noncommittally. For some reason she didn't seem to buy my statement,
but she gave me the present of not calling me on it. "So, New Year's Eve is next?" she
asked instead. "Are you ready?"
"Ready for what?" I asked. She refrained from answering, and I again gave in. "I
dunno. I don't know what to expect."
"Do you know what you want?"
I considered that. "I know what part of me wants, but I'm not sure if that is the good
Zeke or the bad Zeke."
"Maybe one is Zebulon and one is Zeke."
I wondered which she meant was the good one. It was kind of weird, talking about
whether or not I was going to sleep with another woman with this woman. I didn't know
much about her, and she'd already let me know without any question that I wasn't going
to get to know her in person, but I wondered if it made her jealous or envious to hear
about stuff like this. "It's not just up to me."
"Sure." She sounded dubious but not eager to argue. There was more silence. I was
finally getting tired, and I was ready to sleep late on Christmas morning. Iris sensed that
it was time to end the call.
"Zebulon, just one thing," Her voice sounded like a concerned mother, or a lover. "Be
careful."
I laughed. "Careful with her or careful about her?" Meaning -- did Iris think Tracy was
in trouble from me, or with me?
"Just be careful. Merry Christmas."
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Chapter 23
New Year's Eve started out badly. Snow had been falling since mid-afternoon, and
several inches had already collected. The weather service was now calling for a major
storm throughout the Midwest, with Chicago at the epicenter. I left work around five,
and it took me a good hour to get home, fighting the traffic and roads that just could not
stay clear. You'd think people in Chicago would know how to drive in snow, yet in every
storm you find stupid people who take reckless chances, and make all the other drivers
pay for their mistakes. Traffic was snarled and the drivers snarling, everyone just
wanting to get home safe and sound. My street, not a major thoroughfare, apparently had
not yet seen a plow, and was covered with several inches. And still the snow fell.
Tracy had called just before I'd left work. She'd been scheduled to get in around six, and
I was supposed to pick her up. The plan was to hit a few parties tonight, and then show
her around the rest of Chicago on New Year's Day. She was due to fly out on the 2nd.
Just another tourist weekend, only this time it was my town and she would be staying in
my house. That changed things in ways I didn't quite know.
The storm threw that plan in jeopardy. She was in Detroit, and at best she was not going
to get in before nine. She'd told me to go on home and she'd get a cab to my house. I
warned her that by then cabs might not be too anxious about driving, and offered to drive
back out to get her. Leaving her to face the fury of the weather alone seemed at best not
chivalrous, and at worse quite risky. I didn't like it.
"I can't be sure when I'll get in," she said practically. "Don't worry -- I'll get to your
house. I just don't want to spoil your New Year's Eve by waiting around for me all
evening."
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"The parties will still be going on when you get here," I reassured her. "Even if it is two
in the morning."
I came home and changed into slacks and a warm sweater, and went up to my study. I
logged on for a little while, but for once my heart wasn't in it. The business world had
slowed down, if only for a day or two, and I couldn't use it to divert my attention from the
events at hand. The outside world -- the real world, not the business world -- drew my
attention. From the study window, I could see the snow continue its relentless fall,
obscuring more and more of the everyday sights. Things that had once been cars were
now just car shaped objects, and soon would just be featureless masses of snow. The
trees took on a white sheen, full of branches that now flaunted a new kind of leaf, this one
soft and white. The whole world looked different. Eventually, I supposed, if it didn't
stop it would cover everything up into a smooth white plain. Maybe the South Pole
actually had a big old city covered up underneath. Cars, trees, houses, their version of the
Sears Tower -- maybe all lay below that smooth white surface. In the Ice Ages, this
whole plain had been covered by a mile high glacier. Looking out my window tonight,
that distant past seemed not so distant. I was used to snow; hell, I'd grown up with snow
and hard winters. But I didn't like it, especially not with as much travelling as I had to
do. Snow these days was just another impediment to my lifestyle. Sure, it looked pretty
as it first fell, but after that initial novelty wore off it just was a bother. Soon the
beautiful white would turn gray and slushy. Cars would be dirty; puddles would make
walking treacherous. Planes would be late. It was a nuisance. It disrupted people's lives.
The snow didn't care. It just kept right on falling.
I wandered around the house, jumpy as a cat. That's actually kind of a funny expression.
Cats aren't particularly jumpy. They're usually cool as a cucumber. Dogs -- now, dogs
are jumpy. I shook myself. Damn, I was jumpy. Cats and dogs, men and women. I
settled in on the couch in the living room, and turned on some music. The thing was, I
didn't know what I wanted, or what I expected. Having Tracy join me for a holiday, in
my hometown, staying in my house -- it was crossing the line, that invisible line we'd
allowed to separate us these past few months.
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I'd be a gentleman, I had already decided. If she didn't want anything to happen, nothing
would. I wasn't going to make a pass or otherwise risk our friendship. Still, how was I to
know if she wanted something to happen? Usually you just know these things. There's
that moment, and once you cross it you know right away if it was the right time. You
kiss her, you take her hand. The moment is different every time, different for every
woman. But if you miss that moment, if you try too early or too late -- you don't usually
get a second chance. In this case it wasn't like someone I was on a date with, or even like
someone I'd just met. This was a married woman, a woman who'd trusted me to behave
and with whom I had done so.
I hadn't been looking for moments with Tracy. OK, maybe we'd flirted some, and I'd
known almost from the start that her marriage might not be picture-perfect. But I'd also
believed right from the start that Tracy was not the kind of woman one could take any
liberties with. Flight attendants must get good at preventing unwanted advances with, as
well as gracefully diverting ones they couldn't prevent. I wasn't going to be one of those
jerks she had to guard against every day, and, anyway, I'd grown to enjoy our platonic
friendship over the months. At least until San Diego, when I realized the full
womanliness of her. Tonight, though -- well, tonight I was looking for a moment.
Then there was that damn necklace. It was too big a present, too soon. It could look like
I thought her affection could be purchased with some jewelry. She might be insulted,
throw it in my face and walk out into the snow. But, on the other hand, if I didn't give it
to her, then I wouldn't have any Christmas present for her. Most of all, though, I wanted
her to have it. I thought it was beautiful, and I thought it'd look especially beautiful on
her. I wanted her to have it. Moment or no moment, husband or no husband, friendship
or whatever, I wanted her to have that necklace.
My house seemed too big, yet at the same time too small. The pacing of those big cats in
the zoos made sense to me now, as I started pacing, just for something to do. I thought
about what Tracy would think about my house. Would she like it? Would her opinion of
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me change because of it? Maybe she'd think it was boring, or not up to her expectations.
Maybe she'd think it was pretentious and decide I was an empty suit after all. I liked my
house, but would she? Why did it matter? I'd brought dozens of people here -- clients,
friends, lovers -- and somehow I had never been this unsettled about it.
I turned the big screen TV on in the basement, just to watch the weather. Nothing like
seeing a weather map where Maine is bigger than your head. There was a cloud of snow
hanging from Milwaukee to Buffalo, and it wasn't going anywhere. Earlier in the day the
forecasters thought we'd be on the southern edge of the storm, maybe just three or four
inches of lake effect snow. That's the great thing about being a weather forecaster;
people always listen to you and want to trust you, but sort of expect you to be wrong. It's
like Charlie Brown always falling for Lucy's offer to hold the football for his kick. The
city had been suckered this time. This was a holiday evening before a day that was both
a holiday in itself and a weekend. The city crews had been on skeleton staffing, and by
the time the true movement of the storm became obvious it was too late to get some of
them back on duty. Some of the ones who did report for duty were already in, shall we
say, a holiday mood and were sent back home. So the roads were not going to get cleared
anytime too soon, and the city was burrowing in for the duration.
The television had some pre-New Year's countdown thing going on, so you could see all
the crazy people hanging out in big public places in different cities around the world. I
bet there were people hanging out even in the snow throughout the storm's track. That
was more depressing than watching the weather channel, so I turned the television off
and went back upstairs to the living room.
The phone rang. "Hello?" I answered.
"Still home?" Tracy's voice asked cheerfully. "Listen -- I'm at O'Hare and will get there
as soon as I can. If it's not too late." She said the last sentence in a worried tone, as if
afraid I'd changed my mind. I reassured her that she was still welcome, and again offered
to pick her up. Peering out the window at the steady snow falling, I was slightly relieved
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when she again demurred, although I did wonder how she was going to get here. I settled
back and began waiting, and damned if I didn't fall asleep. With nothing I could do about
anything, and too much unexpected time on my hands, I did what millions of miles of
travelling had taught me to do: I fell asleep. Sometimes nerves keep you awake, but with
me they put me to sleep. It's a waiting defense mechanism that my hours of travel have
taught me well. You can't worry about what you can't control while you are asleep,
unless you count restless dreams. It was ten when my doorbell rang.
Chapter 24
For a half second I thought I was in a hotel room and that the doorbell was a telephone,
perhaps Iris. Then I saw my living room and knew where I was, and that, ready or not, it
was show time.
I popped up, put on my shoes, and rushed to the door. Opening the door, I could see a
pure white backdrop, a blank canvas with Tracy as the centerpiece. My porch light
illuminated her like an angel with a halo. The world closed down to that little sphere of
light, as my heart seemed to stop for a second, then started beating ever more furiously.
It was a moment too beautiful for words, too special even for thoughts. In that small
second I saw everything, down to the smallest detail. I noticed the color of her sparkling
eyes, the fine texture of the skin on her face, the brightness of her smile. I watched the
snowflakes falling as though in slow motion, each flake purporting to be unique. Some
landed on her face, sitting there silently until the warmth of her skin changed the snow
back into teardrops that flowed down her face. I could have stood there for a second, for
an hour, for years, just taking it all in.
Fortunately, Tracy had more presence of mind. "Hi," she said simply.
"Glad you made it safely," I said, recovering myself and motioning her inside. "I was
getting worried about you." I urged her in before the cold and snow could sneak into my
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entryway and threaten my warm abode. She stood at the doorway for a second, taking
my measure, then came in calmly.
Tracy was bundled up for the elements -- jeans, a long coat, mittens, a hat, even a pair of
sturdy hiking boots. She was carrying a flight bag and a hanging bag. Her coat and hat
were covered with snow, as were her boots. She came inside and stomped her feet on my
carpet.
"What'd you do, walk?" I asked, pointing to her snowy exterior.
She took her coat off and handed it to me. "My ride only took me to the corner. I had to
walk the rest of the way."
I brushed the snow off her coat before hanging it up, as she unlaced and removed her
boots. We stood awkwardly in the entryway. "Grand tour, or put away your stuff first?"
I inquired politely.
"Oh, the grand tour first," she said with a twinkle in her eye. "I've been dying of curiosity
about your house ever since I met you."
I'd never thought for a second about what her house was like, and never expected that I'd
ever see it. I guess that, for some people, houses reflected the person. That was exactly
why I'd been nervous about her coming. Well, one reason anyway. Putting on my best
face, I led her on. First was the living room.
"Does the fireplace work?" she asked, eagerly eyeing it. I confessed that it was gas but
that it did indeed work, and she seemed to store that fact up for future reference. In the
kitchen I made her a cup of hot chocolate, which she gratefully accepted. She seemed to
be getting more warmth from cupping her hands around the mug than she did from
drinking the hot chocolate. "Nice kitchen," she observed. "Do you do a lot of cooking?"
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"You've pretty much seen it," I admitted, pointing to the hot chocolate. "I'm hell on a
microwave."
"Then why the fancy kitchen?"
"Chicks dig it," I said with my best deadpan expression. We broke up laughing.
The basement drew some oohs and aahs, mainly a reaction to the pool table and big
television. "Are things actually life-sized on this?" Tracy asked, standing up next to the
screen and comparing her reflection.
"Nah, it's too small." Tracy gave me an incredulous look, so I continued. "I'm going for
the NBA edition."
Tracy looked up to the ceiling, back to the TV, and then to me. "You're going to need a
bigger basement," she giggled.
Tracy declined a drink from the bar, evidencing her still steaming hot chocolate. I got a
bottle of water, just to make sure I was hydrated as well. It wouldn't do to have dry lips
tonight. She idly rolled a ball across the pool table, watching it coast and bank off the far
wall.
"Checking out the pitch so you can hustle me later?" I kidded. She gave me a shark's
gaze. In a silky voice, she informed me, "honey, when I hustle you, you won't know it
until it's over."
On the way upstairs I picked up her bags, and deposited them scrupulously in the
guestroom. I watched her out of the corner of my eye to see if there was any sign of
where had she been expecting to sleep, or any evidence of disappointment or relief when
I put them there. If it were later in the evening, I might have a clearer option, but by
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putting them there now I was saying, hey -- Tracy: you can still trust me. If you want to,
that is. But I couldn't read her.
She liked the master bedroom, especially the closet. "All these suits are yours?" I kind
of wondered who else they might belong to, but laughed it off. Good thing my summer
suits were in the back closet. Tracy took the most time in my study.
"So this is where you are when you're here," she noted, running her hand gently over the
desk and computer. I thought it was an extremely prescient guess. I'd just shown her the
whole rest of the house, lots of comfortable spaces, but she immediately knew this cozy
little nook was my spot, my haven. Was it just because she figured I'd spend my time
where I could work? Did she know I just felt comfortable here?
"I like it here."
"Me too," she replied neatly. "Who's this?"
Tracy was pointing to a couple pictures of my family. One was an old one of my family.
I must have been in sixth grade, and my brother and sister and I were sitting on the floor
of our living room at Christmas. My mother was in the background, and I suppose my
dad was behind the camera. I don't know why I'd kept that picture, out of all the family
photographs, all the holiday memories. Maybe sixth grade was about the last age before I
knew I wanted to leave there, before that world got too small.
The other photograph was of one of my brother's football teams, taken a couple years ago
when they'd won a district championship. It was a big deal in the town, as our high
school was pretty small. My brother was surrounded by his players, and he was beaming
to beat the band. It was a small moment, in the big scheme of things, but when I look at
that picture I had flashes of envy -- I wanted to be that happy about something too.
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"Just family," I said, after a small pause. I didn't really want to talk about them, or there.
Tracy had picked up the family picture and was studying it intently, so I gently took it
from her and put it back on the credenza. She didn't say anything. I went over to the
window to see what the snow was doing, and she followed me.
"So, what's the plan?" she asked, looking outside.
It was worse than ever. The snow continued to fall, and seemed more impenetrable than
before. The snow had become a force, a wall dividing the world into little isolated
refuges like this. My house was bright and warm, like an oasis in the desert, or, in this
case, like a warm lodge at the South Pole.
The parties were probably still going on, but I suspected we would not be conspicuous by
our absence. "Do you feel like going out in this again?"
Tracy made a face as she looked out. "To be honest, not particularly. But I've seen
worse. I'd hate for you to miss your parties." She put her hands on the windowsill
resolutely. "Whatever you want to do."
I thought about it, but I only needed a half-second. I'd probably gone to New Year's Eve
parties of some sort almost year since I was in high school, and in recent years had gotten
used to multiple ones in the same evening. There were always people I needed to see,
appearances I wanted to make, information I wanted to gather and distribute. But, I'm
not really all that fond of parties anyway, and for one night there was no one else I
wanted to spend the evening with. "Let's just stay in, if that's OK with you."
Tracy's face brightened, and I felt I had made the right choice. The only thing was, I
wasn't sure what to do with the remainder of the evening.
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"I have a favor to ask," Tracy said shyly, turning her back to the window as though
closing off the outside now that we'd decided to stay in. I thought, oh, here it is, that
moment, and so soon. I kept my face from showing my surprise, and my eagerness.
"What?"
Tracy moved her head sideways, shy girl that she was. "Well, I brought this dress…."
Her voice trailed off.
"You want to get dressed up anyway?" Tracy nodded gratefully, still not quite looking at
me. "Sure. I'll get changed too."
"No," she stopped me. "I see too much of you in suits. You're fine the way you are.
Why don't you get the fireplace going and I'll be down in a little bit."
I went down to the living room to wait for her while she got ready. I didn't know her well
enough to know if she was a ready-in-five-minutes kind of girl, or if I'd still be waiting in
a couple hours. I wondered how dolled up she'd get. To keep busy, I fiddled with the
fireplace, getting a nice rosy glow to the room. I also put on some music.
Tracy ended up being a half an hour kind of girl. She didn't need much fixing up in the
first place, but I was still taken aback when she came down the stairs. She was exquisite.
Her dress was a dark blue evening dress, going down almost the way to the floor. She
had to hold it up slightly as she slowly came down the stairs. On the other hand, the
dress didn't go up all the way. It didn't actually show any real cleavage, but her shoulders
and upper chest were left bare. They were smooth and strong and sexy, and had more
effect than if she had worn a low cut gown. She wore these clothes with the same casual
confidence she wore everything else, neither arrogant nor shy about her body. Her hair
was, as usual, up and off her neck, further enhancing that expanse of lovely skin. It was
braided in some elegant type of french braid, held in place by a couple of strategic
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hairpins. I don't know how she could have possibly achieved all that in as short a time as
she had. Tonight, all dolled up like this -- she looked as elegant as a movie star of old.
All right, she wasn't movie star-beautiful. Then again, neither are some movie stars.
Like them, it was that inner glow that Tracy had which made the difference. I sensed in
her a desire to have me approve of how she looked. Usually it wouldn't have occurred to
me that she wanted or needed approval or compliments, but tonight there was that
slightest uncertainty that begged reassurance. It wasn't hard to give.
"Wow. You clean up pretty nice!"
Do I know how to do compliments or what? Despite my inelegant phrasing, Tracy

looked pleased, but put on a mock expression of disappointment. "That's it? 'Wow, you
clean up pretty nice'?"
"Double wow with sugar on top? You clean up very well?"
"That's more like it." Tracy floated over to the fireplace, and soaked in the warmth. It
was more light than heat, but on a cold snowy night like tonight the comfort it provided
was almost primeval.
I offered her some champagne, which she accepted. We stood in the living room sipping
our champagne, and gradually grew comfortable with being together in that house. We
sat and talked, of things little and big, of things old and new. We played a game or two
of pool, and damned if she didn't hustle me for twenty bucks after all. We ended up back
in the living room, sitting on the couch. My legs were stretched out on the coffee table,
while Tracy tucked hers underneath her on the couch.
"You never said how you liked my house," I noted finally. It had been preying on my
mind, making me feel slightly insecure -- not a feeling I was used to or comfortable with.
Tracy looked around the room. "Oh, it's very nice. Decorator?"
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I admitted that I had professional help in decorating the place. I frowned. "Do you think
it's too much them and not enough me?"
Tracy took a sip of her champagne, and signaled me for a refill. I topped off both our
glasses before sitting back. "The study is you, for sure," she told me.
"And the rest?"
She looked around again, more carefully. I could tell that she was conflicted about how
to say what she thought. "Come on," I prodded her.
"OK: it's very neat."
"I've got a good maid."
"No, it's more than just that. Everything in is in the right place. Everything is so …
organized. That's you. I've seen you travelling, and I've seen your hotel rooms. I think
you're the same way all the time. You like things organized."
I didn't know quite how to take that. She had a small smile on her face as she said it, but
I didn't want her to think I was a Nazi or anything. I mean, I do like to be organized, and
in business I try to always be the best prepared person in the room, in every room I'm in.
I suppose it carries over to my personal life, what little of it there was. "Is that bad?" I
asked.
Tracy smiled sweetly. "It's just you." She reached over and patted me gently on my leg,
a touch as unexpected as it was exciting. It was innocent, but was the first time she'd
touched me with anything like that affection. "I like the way you are."
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There was maybe a chance at a moment her, but it was still before midnight and I didn't
want to risk spoiling that moment either. So I decided it was time for another moment.
"Wait here a second."
I went upstairs and got the necklace from my dresser. Patsy had wrapped it up for me, in
festive red paper with a little bow, all inside in dainty holiday gift bag. I stood there a
second, still not sure it was the right thing to do. But only for a second. I went back
downstairs and handed it to her. "Christmas present," I said lightly, and sat back down.
Tracy's mouth opened in surprise. "But…"
"No buts. I wanted to."
"I didn't get you anything."
"You're here." That silenced her, and she looked down at the package. I thought perhaps
her eyes watered slightly, but I could have been wrong.
"Should I open it now?" she asked. I nodded slowly.
Her gasp as she saw what was inside said it all. She put her hand to her mouth in shock.
"Zeke! Zeke, you shouldn't have! It's too much!" She held it like she was afraid to have
it, but reluctant to let it go.
"Stop it. It's not that much, and I want you to have it. It will look beautiful on you." I
may have been blushing slightly, proud yet embarrassed. Her eyes were wide and, I
thought, definitely slightly teary.
We stood up and went to the hallway, where there was a mirror. "Here, let me help you
with that," I offered. I stood behind her and draped it over her. It highlighted that lovely
bare skin on her shoulders, making them even more desirable than ever. The diamonds
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caught the light and sent out little bursts of light, perhaps messages from some world
where everything was as beautiful as it was. She put her hand up to touch it, to feel it and
make sure again that it was real and not just a dream, and looked at me gratefully in the
mirror.
This, too, might have been a moment. I could have kissed her softly on the shoulder, like
a butterfly landing ever so softly, and then seen where that took us. There was a second
when our eyes met, and I thought that if I casually looked down and moved my lips to her
shoulders, she wouldn't mind. But again I didn't, and the moment passed. She turned
around.
"It's so beautiful, Zeke. I love it." Instead of my kiss I got a warm hug, and that was
pretty good too. We disengaged and went back in the living room. It was almost
midnight.
I didn't have a television in the living room, of course, but the sound system was on and
we could hear the revelry from various other parts of the world. It seemed to make us
quieter by comparison. Tracy sat down on the couch and seemed absorbed by the fire. It
was hypnotic, but it seemed an odd time to get distracted by it. I watched her watch it,
the firelight bouncing off her face. She was really beautiful, and not just because she was
the only woman in the room, or because she was dressed to the nines. I couldn't tell how
much of the glow came from the firelight, and how much came from her special qualities
inside. This was a contemplative side of Tracy I hadn't seen before. She was either not
thinking at all, or thinking far inside herself. I let her think.
She roused herself a couple minutes before midnight. "Want to go see the ball drop?"
We adjourned to the kitchen, curiously enough. The television in the bedroom seemed
too presumptuous, and neither of us really wanted to pass the moment in the basement,
life-sized or not. We stood at the counter and watched the lunatics in Times Square shout
away the year. The ball dropped.
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"Happy New Year," Tracy murmured, looking at me.
"Happy New Year," I replied. This was the moment for -- she leaned over and kissed me.
Chapter 25
It was over before I knew what was happening. This was not a passionate kiss. This was
a kiss-the-one-you-are-with New Year's Eve's kiss. I'd had them before, with other men's
wives, with friends, and with strangers at parties. I only had time to get a brief taste of
those soft lips, and it left me craving for more. Had I been so inclined, I could have
grabbed her then, taken a longer, deeper kiss. Maybe lift her up on the counter and make
love to her right there. The temptation was there, flashing quickly through my mind fully
realized even as I knew the moment wasn't there. As I'd told Tracy that first night we'd
gone out, I'm just not that kind of guy, at least not with her. Too bad; conscience can
really get in the way sometimes. She pulled back discreetly, smoothing her dress with a
casual gesture.
We stood there, not making eye contact. We were two adults who had gone to the
precipice, and had backed off. We both seemed slightly embarrassed about the whole
thing, as though realizing that perhaps being together here in my kitchen, in my house, on
New Year's Eve was not the wisest thing in the world. It had just been a modest, socially
acceptable kiss, but we both knew what fires lay behind it, and it seemed clear to me now
that Tracy was determined to keep those fires at bay. So much for looking for the right
moment. There would be no moment tonight. I felt saddened yet relieved somehow at
the same time. I understood the sad part more than I did the relieved part. I might have
been relieved at not finding out she'd take that next step, or at finding out that I wouldn't.
The sad -- well, the sad was knowing all that I was missing, had missed, and would go on
missing. These were things this woman might be able to help me find, or so I thought. I
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put my hand on the counter, just for something to do. I didn't know what to say. Again,
Tracy came to the rescue.
"So, hey -- I almost forgot to give you your present," Tracy said cheerfully. I wondered
if she was as unaffected as she sounded, but did my best to match her.
"Oh, I hope you didn't get me anything."
"Don't worry -- it's nothing like this lovely necklace," she teased. "Although it does have
to do with jewelry. It's upstairs. Let's go up and get it."
I wondered why she hadn't offered to go get it, but I wasn't going to pass up the chance to
watch her slink up the stairs in that form-fitting dress. If I wasn't going to get to touch, I
could still at least enjoy the view, and, believe me, I did. She stopped in the hall. "How
about a New Year's dance first?"
I didn't know why we had to come upstairs for a dance, or why we were dancing after the
magic midnight had passed, but I acquiesced. I offered to put on a CD, but she insisted
she had just the thing. She went into her room and picked one out of her bag, then got
instructions from me on where the CD player was. "Just wait there," she commanded.
I stood stupidly in the hall as she went into my bedroom and put the CD in. It took me a
half-second to recognize it. It was Beth Nielsen Chapman. Tracy skipped a few songs on
the CD and started with "Dance With Me Slow." Of course.
"Here?" I asked. It was a nice hall, I thought, but smaller than the living room or either
of the bedrooms on this floor. The light was old and somewhat dim. Perhaps that's why
Tracy wanted our dance to be there.
"Here will do," Tracy decided. We held each other a polite distance and swayed to the
slow, rich sounds of longing coming from Beth's mouth to our ears. The song was slow
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and tender, and enveloped us like a warm cloud that cut us off from the normal world,
from how we might normally think or act or feel. As with the kiss, we didn't dance like
lovers; we danced like a strange couple might at a New Year's Eve party, one who had
not had too much to drink and who weren't just looking to get laid. We were far enough
apart to not actually be touching, but not so far apart as to be distant. It was like a little
force field separated us yet held us together. Somehow the distance between us made it
more tantalizing, increasing my appreciation instead of cooling it. I wished the song
could go on all night, and that the night could go on all year. I wished that the kiss in the
kitchen had gone differently, or that I'd met her long ago, before she'd gone and done
something silly like getting married. I wished…well, I wished a lot of things, none of
which were resolutions I could or was going to keep.
If it was my gift it was indeed a special one. The best gifts are small things, not things
that money can buy. Tracy had made my night special simply by being here. The kiss
and this dance may not have been done with the passion of lovers, but they were
moments I'd remember for years to come. They connoted passions not spoken, routes not
taken, which made them poignant beyond words. I closed my eyes and savored the
moments.
Nothing lasts forever. The CD started inexorably on to its next song. Lovely as that
might be as well, we didn't really have an excuse to keep dancing here in my hallway.
We separated. "Thank you for my present," I said humbly.
Tracy laughed. "That wasn't your present," she said. "That was my present. No, this was
just a dance."
I tried to recover. "That's right, you said it was a Rolex or a pinkie ring."
"Something like that. Hang on a second -- I want to take these damn shoes off first." She
put one hand on my shoulder, keeping eye contact, and used the free hand to slip off one
shoe. Never taking her eyes away, she switched hands and removed the other shoe.
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Without them, she was a couple inches shorter, and seemed curiously vulnerable standing
there barefoot in the hall. She was not wearing hose, I noted. I also noted that she had
not removed her hand from my shoulder, and I was not quite sure what to think of that.
"About that present," I said, trying to break the ice.
"Oh, yes," she said absently, and took her hand back. "You'd better sit down first."
Tracy led me to my bedroom, where she sat me on the edge of the bed, facing the door.
She retreated to the door and struck a pose. The only light was the hall light, framing her
like the porch light reflecting off the snow had when she had shown up at my door
earlier. She looked like an angel then, and now she looked like -- I didn't have the words.
Except for those dreaded, "like another man's wife."
"Yes?" I asked. I realized that the next song on the CD was "Say It to Me Now," a tale of
an anguished woman pleading with her love to break down the emotional walls and
profess his love for her. I began to suspect that her plan with the CD had not been limited
to dancing.
Tracy smiled, the smile breaking out on her face like the sun coming over the horizon.
It's beautiful to watch, but they always warn you not to stare into the sun, because it will
blind you if you're not careful. I didn't care.
"I've been wearing it all night."
I cocked my head. It took me a second to realize she was talking about my present, but I
was still confused about her hint. There wasn't a lot to what she was wearing. "Your
dress?" I hazarded a guess. "It is quite lovely, at least with you in it. Not my size,
though."
"No, not the dress," Tracy said softly, tenderly.
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"Hmm, not the dress…"
Tracy put her arms together in front of her modestly, her fingers intertwined with the left
hand on top. "Guess again."
I noticed it then. I don't know why I hadn't spotted it before. Years of travelling, of
meeting strange women in airplanes and meetings and hotel bars, had trained my powers
of observation to notice this facet without effort, yet somehow tonight they'd failed me
completely. Perhaps because I knew her too well, perhaps because I was too taken by
how great she looked in the dress. Maybe I had noticed and had simply been too afraid to
realize it.
It wasn't what she was wearing. It was what was missing. She'd given me the hint in the
kitchen when she'd told me it had to do with jewelry. Her earrings were familiar, and her
new necklace was the only other piece. There was something new all right, but not some
new item she'd picked up at a store. The newness was not in the presence, but in the
absence, in something that was missing.
Her wedding ring.
Tracy watched these thoughts move through my head, as if I were a cartoon character
with dotted balloons appearing above my head to reflect my thoughts. As I reached the
inevitable conclusion her smiled faltered uncertainly for a second, and then she put it
back on by force of will.
She started to move slowly towards me, putting her hands up to her hair.
"Tracy…."
Tracy shushed me silently, a finger to her lips, and proceeded to pull some pins from her
hair. It cascaded down her neck, and she gave it a quick flip to loosen it. She completed
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the freeing by moving a hand through it lightly. I'd never truly seen her hair down
before, except that time at the pool, when it was wet and stuck together. I had not
realized it was so long and soft. I'd come to think of her with it in its various controlled
variations -- braided, pinned, pulled into a tight ponytail, all the different ways I'd seen it
over the past few months. She was showing me a new Tracy tonight, literally letting her
hair down for me.
That simple act of letting her hair loose -- pulling the hairpins out, followed by that
casual-yet-deliberate flip of the head and toss with her hand -- was perhaps the single
most seductive thing I'd ever seen, and I thought I'd seen them all. There was more to
come this night, and that was all very erotic as well too, but for me it boiled down to that
one act.
It seemed a long way from the doorway to my bed. She was moving towards me slowly,
and time was passing in slow motion. She was giving me time to adjust to this new
situation, and it also gave me time to let everything soak in. Without stopping or
appreciably slowing down further, Tracy reached behind her back with both arms and
pulled down the zipper to her dress. The dress loosened and slipped off her easily. She
was not wearing anything underneath. I guess I could have realized this before too, had I
been more observant, but I'd somehow missed all the clues.
Tracy's gaze never left my face, with an expression on her face that was hard to interpret.
It made her seem both defiant and vulnerable. This was her real gift, and she was
offering it to me not sure I wanted it.
Try as I might to match her eyes, I could not keep from dropping my eyes to take in the
sight of the rest of her body. I'd seen her dressed many times, and since seeing her in the
swimsuit I'd imagined her naked on more than a few as well. Nothing prepared me for
how beautiful she was. Long and lithe, round in all the right places, those broad
swimmer's shoulders and legs sandwiched a tight waist and firm hips. Her body was
muscular and lush at the same time, and more desirable than any woman I had ever seen.
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No one would confuse her with Pamela Lee. She didn't have a model's body. She had
the body of an athlete, of a goddess. She was Athena, Greek goddess of the hunt. She
was an Amazon princess. She was Flo-Jo and Babe Didrickson and Chris Evert, all
rolled into one. I suppose a more apt comparison would have been some famous woman
swimmer that I should know, a female Mark Spitz or Johnny Wisemuller, but none came
to mind. I was doing pretty well to come up with any rational thought at all, given the
bounty that stood before me. Whether it was the woman or the body, my mouth was no
longer dry.
As she approached me I rose to meet her. She stopped inches from me, searching my
eyes.
"Are you sure?" I asked. She nodded silently. "You need to be sure. I don't want you to
risk anything you're not prepared to risk."
It was a small smile, the smallest of movements but one that flooded relief across her
face. Relief and, at the same time, more joy than I could imagine. She looked me dead
in the eyes, a look that let me see deeper and further inside her than I could have guessed
possible. I thought that she must be having the same view inside me as well, and for once
I didn't mind being open before someone else. She held the moment briefly, letting the
tension build. Would she back off again, regain her senses and become practical again?
I'd come too close, but I knew if she stepped just a fraction of an inch back I'd have to let
her go and spend my night, and all the nights to come, alone and wondering what might
have been. But she didn't. Just when I thought I'd lost her, when the tension had become
unbearable, she spoke. Her voice was entirely serious, knowing this moment had gravity
to it. She had decided.
"I'm sure."
The third song on the CD was "When I feel This Way," and we did.
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Chapter 26
I woke early thinking, boy, am I in trouble.
That sounds unchivalrous, I know. Tracy had given herself fully to me, at the risk of her
marriage, her emotional investment, and who knows what else. I should be waking up
grateful and honored, not to mention delighted. It was not that the sex was bad; far from
it. The sex was all I could have hoped for and more, so I had no complaints on that score.
She had a nice body, she was very passionate, and someone I felt privileged to be with.
And it wasn't the sleeping together afterward. Sometimes you wake up with a woman
and it feels all wrong; you're sorry that you'd given into the carnal urges of the preceding
night. Sometimes you wake up and you're already on opposite sides of the bed,
distancing yourselves from the intimacy that had been shared. This still felt good, and it
seemed natural to have Tracy in my arms when I woke. It scared me a little.
All that being so, there were a couple of things I thought about while laying there. I'd
been single for a long time, and it wasn't for lack of opportunities. I have these protective
mechanisms, and they keep me awake at times like this. They are like little mental
antibodies that protect me from getting too infected by affection or something more. One
thing that was wrong was the location. She was not only in my bed, but also in my home.
Usually if I wake up with someone -- assuming we actually spent a full night together,
rather than just a hello-goodbye -- it's at her place. Her hotel room, her house.
Sometimes it's my hotel room, but the point usually is to have it someplace where I have
to get up to leave. That way I have a built-in excuse. No such luck this morning; she was
at my house and scheduled to stay another day.
But I'd known that she'd be in my house when she arrived. The bigger problem was that
the sex changed things. I knew her well enough to be pretty sure it was going to change
things. Before you have sex you might abstractly think about that, but lust has its own
powerful pull. After sex, though, all sorts of worries and complications become more
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overriding. I liked how things had been. I'd been attracted to her, sure, and known I
wanted to sleep with her. It probably had always been on my mind, but only really
uppermost since San Diego. Having achieved that goal, though, I didn't know where to
go. She wasn't a woman to do this lightly. She'd have agonized about the risks she was
taking, about the problems it might cause, about what it might mean for her and David
and for her and me. I might have blindly had carnal relations, but she would have gone
into it with her eyes open. I have to admit that there is a perverse feeling of -- oh, pride
isn't really the right word, but damned if I know what is -- in sleeping with another man's
woman. It's like saying: see, I can have her if I want; I'm, more desirable than you are.
I'd never met David, never even seen a photo, so my feelings on this were entirely
instinctive, but they were there nonetheless.
Then in the morning reality sets in and pride definitely isn't the right feeling.
It was another hour or so before it got light out. I waited for it brooding about things, and
badly needed to clear my head. I need my exercise fix. Tracy looked so peaceful and
lovely there that my guilt and my uncertainty about what I had done really were troubling
me. Once I judged it was light enough, I disengaged myself as quietly as I could and
crept out of bed. Tracy barely roused, just readjusted her position and went on sleeping.
She seemed so relaxed and comfortable, at sleep like a little kid. I gathered up some
clothes and got dressed downstairs. Once downstairs I saw that there was way too much
snow to go for a run, and I didn't want to work out in the basement, partly because it
might wake her, but more because I wanted to be out in the crisp air. I was making some
coffee when I hear her pad downstairs.
She was wearing one of my shirts, and had rescued some white socks to protect her feet
against the morning chill on the hardwood floors. She looked cute as hell, and sexy to
boot, which just goes to show you how lust overpowers guilt.
"I'd kill for some of that coffee," she said cheerfully, giving me a tender kiss once she got
within kissing range. I poured her a cup and she sat at the counter on one of the
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barstools. She cupped the coffee cup in that warming way she had the hot chocolate last
night.
"Going somewhere?" she asked, indicating my state of being clothed. I was warmly
dressed, and just needed my boots and outerwear to be ready to face the elements.
"There's too much snow for a run," I replied, "I didn't want to workout downstairs, so I
thought I'd go for a walk. I was going to leave you a note."
"Sounds fun. Give me fifteen minutes and I'll join you." She stood and went to get
ready, carrying her coffee with her, without waiting for my assent.
In truth, I'd really wanted to be alone, but I was too polite to say anything. I wished she
had stayed asleep.
True to her word, in fifteen minutes she returned, dressed in the warm clothes she had
arrived the night before in. We each laced up our boots and put on our coats, scarves,
hats and gloves like a pair of Arctic travelers, then opened the door to face the elements.
It was a winter wonderland. My guess was that we'd received a foot and a half to two
feet of snow. The sun was now out and struggling to warm things, but the temperature
was only in the teens. The sky was a pretty blue, not a cloud in sight. It was very quiet
out. If you listened hard you could pick up some of the normal city noises -- the
occasional bus, some traffic on Lake Shore Drive -- but it was as though someone had
turned down the sound, sent everyone away. All the intelligent people were still sleeping
off their New Year's Eve, or had taken one look outside and opted to stay safely
ensconced in their warm abodes. The silence was more impressive than the snow.
"Sure you want to do this?"
"You bet," Tracy said with a glow on her face.
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The white covered everything, like God had taken back all the colors except for the white
of the ground and the blue of the sky. Everything was just a mass of white. The roads,
the only partially visible parked cars, the houses, even the trees. Here and there you
could see hints of color, but they only served to make the remaining whiteness seem more
pure by comparison. The sidewalks were impassable, so we walked down the middle of
the road. At least there were some car tracks to follow. I felt sorry for the people who'd
parked their cars on the street, because they weren't getting them out anytime soon. If the
plows reached the street before the snow had subsided, they would further cement the
cars in. Tracy followed me in the tracks as we walked towards the park.
There weren't any car tracks to follow in the park, of course, so we plunged in the snow.
Cautious at first, wading our way slowly through the deep snow, but gradually started
romping like a couple of kids. It took me back to those days when snow was a delight
instead of a bother. You got off from school, hung out with your buddies, and made
mischief. Sure enough, it didn't take long until we were throwing snowballs and chasing
each other around trying to put snow down the other's back. I was supposed to be getting
my exercise, after all, and Tracy started the snow fights.
"Here -- does this look like an angel?" Tracy was laying on her back in the snow, and
moved her arms in a grand sweep.
"No, but you do," I said sweetly. She smiled brightly in return.
We walked up to the lagoon and stood on the bridge. The water was frozen and I
suspected it wouldn't be too long before the real kids would come out and start skating.
Right now we still seemed to have the park to ourselves. I could see over to Clark Street,
which was already starting to get under control. A couple plows had passed by, and the
buses were running. Soon Chicago would have recovered from this momentary setback,
and life would be back to normal.
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"Penny for your thoughts?" Tracy asked after we'd stood there in silence for a minute or
two.
In truth, I'd been thinking this was no way to get my workout. It was fun and I was glad
Tracy was having a good time, but my workout time wasn't a time for fun. It was to get
my body the exercise it needed and my mind the disciplined time it needed to keep on top
of things. I certainly had plenty to think about, and instead of resolving anything I was
with the source of my confusion, and having a good time to boot. I should have just used
my rowing machine in the basement and shut the door. "Nothing," I said instead. I didn't
see any point in complaining to her. "Just taking in the view."
"Are we going to talk about last night?"
Women always want to talk about things. Dating means relationships, sex means love.
Men and women just view these things differently. Well, maybe not all women. Look at
Ellen. I kept looking out at the snow, not sure how to articulate my thoughts.
"Cat got your tongue?" she prodded, although with a tone that was less impish than her
words. I noticed she was standing straighter as well. I took a deep breath and plunged in.
"I guess I'm wondering how last night changes things."
"Changes things?"
"Sex always changes things."
"Relationship 101," she said lightly. "Well, what are you worried it will change?"
"I liked things the way they were. I liked being friends and how easy it was with you. I
liked…"
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"…the lack of complications," she finished, although that wasn't what I had been going to
say.
"Doing things with you," I finished firmly on my own.
"So you didn't enjoy what we did last night?" she asked coyly. It brought a smile to my
face.
"Oh, yes, I enjoyed last night very much."
"All of last night?" She had turned to face me.
I turned in return. "All of last night," I admitted.
"Then what's the problem?" she prodded. "Hmm?"
I looked awhile, and saw a mother with a couple of young kids timidly come in to the
park, the mother holding on to the children's hands tightly, but I suspected that wouldn't
last long. I could hear the faint sound of what must have been squeals of delight from her
children. They were young enough that this probably was the first really big storm they'd
seen. In some places the snow reached up to their waists.
"You're married," I reminded her. She nodded and suppressed a smile. "There is that,"
she admitted.
"Was this a one time thing?" I asked.
"I don't know yet. What do you think?"
"I think -- I'm worried that you will regret this."
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Tracy flashed a bright smile. "I don't think so." She reached out and put a hand on my
arm. "I've been wanting to do this for a long time. I have no regrets. Do you?"
I looked at her, so full of life and obviously happy about it. "I don't know yet. It kind of
depends on how you are about things. Why now?"
Tracy took a deep breath. "I finally decided I didn't want to wonder what if."
"That's not what I meant about the what-ifs in my life," I told her, thinking back to that
conversation back in San Francisco. It troubled me that she might have taken this risk
with her marriage, with her life, on the basis of some off-the-cuff stories I told her sitting
in a park.
Tracy shook her head sympathetically. "I know. Those were women who took chances
and ended up not being with you. That may still happen, and that's OK. I'd rather take
the chance. It's worse to regret the things you didn't do than the things you did. That's
the what if I was scared of."
I suggested we started walking. Even with the sun out and all of our layers, it was still
getting cold. She took my arm with hers as we headed back to the house. Her closeness
warmed me, from the inside.
"So what now?" I asked after awhile.
"What do you want?"
I helped her over a particularly high drift, then hopped over myself. "I liked what we had
before. And I liked last night as well."
"Did it come as a surprise?"
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I laughed. "A surprise, yes, I suppose so. Was it something I hadn't thought about,
something I hadn't wanted -- no, I can't say that." Tracy looked immensely pleased.
We reached my door. Tracy stopped me before we went inside. "Listen: I'm not asking
you to change. I'm not trying to take more of your life. I want us to have fun the way
we've always had fun. And, yes, I'd like to sleep with you again. No strings, no ties.
Just a new way to be together."
It was too good to be true. It sounded like all I could ask for. Still, I'd learned over the
years that things that look too good to be true usually are. On the other hand, it was
warm inside and we had the rest of the weekend together. Practicality beat long term
ethics. "Let's go inside."
Chapter 27
Iris was circumspect about the whole thing. I flew into Dallas that next Wednesday, and
that night she called me. "How was your weekend guest?" she opened with.
I wasn't surprised at all to hear from her. In fact, I'd have been surprised if she hadn't
called. In truth, I'd have been disappointed. I was looking forward to talking to Iris
about the weekend and get her perspective.
"Pretty good," I allowed casually.
"Zebulon…" she prodded.
So I told her about the weekend, starting with the snow and ending with me seeing her off
at the door Sunday afternoon. Tracy had refused my offers to drive her to the airport or
even help her get a cab. "I'm a big girl," she said, flashing me a tolerant smile. "I know
how to get to airports on my own." I'd watched her from my window, trudging through
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the snow. The streets were fairly passable, but the sidewalks left a lot to be desired.
Some industrious homeowners had shoveled and salted. I must confess I'd not done my
civic duty yet, hoping my neighbor with the snow blower would do me a favor. It was
hard to see her go, but there was a certain relief in being on my own again too.
"So you still like this girl," Iris said, bringing me from my reverie.
"I do."
"And…" Iris left that hanging, a pregnant pause that was clearly aimed at sex.
"And what?"
"And anything different between you two?"
I looked out my window at the lights of Dallas. It was dark out but the cars still moved
relentlessly on the streets. I have to confess that I wouldn't pick Dallas as a place for a
vacation, but I liked coming here on business. People in Dallas understand business and
appreciate businessmen, especially ones with money. Maybe the Fairmount staff would
treat me just as well if I was poor, but if I was poor I undoubtedly wouldn't be staying
here. Taking a deep breath, I admitted that Tracy and I had shared a bed, and that there
had been more than sleeping involved. I didn't go into any details, out of respect for both
Iris and Tracy, but things were different and that was why.
"How do you feel about things?"
I turned from the window, closing the blinds, and picked up the remote. I started flipping
through the channels, still standing up. "What do you mean?" I stalled.
"You know what I mean, Zebulon. It's different now, isn't it?"
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I conceded the point, and awkwardly tried to describe the ambivalence I'd felt, especially
that first morning. I told her how Tracy had tried to reassure me, and that the rest of the
weekend had been satisfying silent on any implications. We had talked about when we'd
get together next, that we didn't want to let it be too long, but that was about it. "So
maybe it's not so different. Best of both worlds -- a nice lady to pal around with and I get
to sleep with her, with no complications."
"There are always complications. You know that."
I sat on the bed. There was a comedy on, but the sound was too low for me to follow the
humor. I knew it was a comedy because people kept falling down. Just like in the silent
movies -- pratfalls still get the laughs. "I suppose so. In the end, though, she's still
married and it doesn't sound like she intends to change that."
Iris asked me a really hard question, one I'd avoided thinking about the past several
days. I'd known before the weekend that I might have to think about it, and I'd known
during the weekend that I'd better think about it. But I hadn't, not until Iris called me on
it. She asked me what I wanted Tracy to do about it.
"I don't know," I said. "I'm not sure she's going to do anything about it. Maybe we'll just
enjoy this. I don't think she necessarily wants anything more serious."
Iris laughed. It didn't sound like she thought it was all that funny but a laugh was the
only way she could go with what she was feeling. "Oh, Zeb, Zeb -- she wants to live in a
big house back from the road and have babies with you."
"'Live in a big house back from the road?'" I quoted back at her. "What is that from, a
fairy tale?"
"That's what she wants from you. She has a life; she wants a fairy tale. Cinderella,
Snow White ---"
219
" -- Scheherazade," I interrupted.
"Her too," Iris continued with barely a break. "I think she thinks her life will be one long
vacation with you, like these little trips you two take."
"But now with sex," Iris reminded me.
"That doesn't mean she wants to leave her husband, and it definitely doesn't mean I want
her to."
"True," Iris admitted. "So you tell me: do you really think she's doing this lightly?"
I had to concede that this point had troubled me too. I'd warned Tracy not to risk
anything she wasn't prepared to lose, and she hadn't blinked an eye. I didn't attribute
that to her just being horny. "She knows I don't want to settle down. She wouldn't ask
me to," I rationalized.
"What she thinks and what she wants don't have to be the same thing. Same goes for you
as well."
"Huh?"
"I think you know what I mean. You could have asked a lot of women to visit you for
New Year's. Instead, you picked the one most likely to lead to complications. Maybe
that's what you want."
"Oh, you think I'm looking to settle down, have kids? They don't go too well with all that
travel."
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"Oh, she'd wear you down" Iris assured me. "She's got a few years to break you in
before her ovaries go. She only wants one or two."
"I don't want kids," I said stolidly.
"You'd be a good father," Iris answered thoughtfully.
I let the moment go longer than I should have. I could have laughed her comment off, or
just thanked her for the compliment. But I didn't, and I could sense her realizing my
pause had meaning.
"What is it?" she finally asked softly.
Again I paused, hesitating. Iris let me decide; if I didn't want to tell her, I didn't have to.
But it was early in a year that had a long, long way to go, in an impersonal city far away
from home, and I was talking to the person I trusted most in the world, odd as that was.
"I have a kid. I'm a terrible father."
There was a suitable pause on her end of the phone. My mental picture of her showed
her taking the receiver away from her ear, maybe resting it lightly on her chin as she
digested this unexpected piece of news. Her face -- which I still could not picture --
would be thoughtful. Gradually her resolve would build back up in her, and she held the
phone back up to speak. "Come again?"
…………………………………………………………………………………………………….
I met Heather in New York during my time in the investment firm. She was a lawyer at
one of the big firms, on the partner track but with a few years of proving herself yet to
go. We met through mutual friends, at a party at their East Side condo. There were lots
of available women at the party but only one for me once I saw her. She was striking and
vivacious, and had a self-confidence that was clear from across the room. She was
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talking to some poor guy who was doing his best to impress her when I walked over to
her and introduced myself, to the scowl of my competitor. He didn't have a chance,
trying to pick her up talking about an art exhibit or some such thing.
"Zeke Clarke," I introduced myself. "You must be the beautiful woman Mark and Nancy
told me about."
She smiled despite herself. "Is that so?"
We struck up a conversation, excusing ourselves from the art-lover and soon from the
party. The next few weeks were a whirlwind courtship. We both worked insane hours,
and had active social lives, but somehow we found time to fall in love. I met her family
at their house on the Hamptons, and next thing I knew I'd proposed. Her father and I
knew some people in common, and evidently I checked out because once I'd proposed the
wedding planning was in full force. Neither one of us wanted a long engagement, so less
than nine months after first meeting we were married. The service was held in the back
of their summer place in the Hamptons, overlooking the water. My family even came out,
meeting her for the first time at the rehearsal dinner.
Married life was different, slowly at first but more noticeable every day. We didn't go
out as much, and when we did it was usually dinner with another couple rather than
going to a club or some live event. We both still worked long hours, but she started
pressing me more about predictability, about when she could expect I'd be home. We
started fighting over stupid stuff, things I didn't really even care about but which I found
myself unwilling to compromise on.
It was silly. They were stereotypical first year marriage problems, but I didn't have the
patience to let things evolve to a steady state. I began to chafe more at being married.
I'd find reasons to come home later, and when I came home I did so with apprehension,
waiting for the inevitable fight to start. Sometimes I'd purposely start one just to end the
suspense. The fighting I could deal with, but the waiting for them was too nerve-racking.
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Publicly we still put on a good front, and even at home there would be nights when the
evening would pass without incident. Sometimes we laughed and we still made love
periodically. I never got tired of her body or having sex with her. But inwardly the Zeke
I knew was dying.
Then Heather got pregnant.
I don't know what she was thinking. She claimed it was an accident, that we were still
taking precautions, but she didn't seem too bothered about it. Heather immediately ruled
out abortion as an option, brushing aside my reservations and claiming she always
wanted a baby, which was news to me. I was convinced then that she wanted to have a
baby in hopes that it would help our marriage. That was typical self-centered blindness
on my part. It wasn't until much later that it occurred to me that she purposely got
pregnant because she wanted a child, and the marriage was just the most socially
acceptable way to get there.
She started talking about moving out of the city, getting a house in Westchester or
Connecticut and commuting. I loved the city and hated the thought of being a suburban
dad, so we had one more thing to fight about as she got bigger and bigger and I saw my
life get smaller and smaller.
I made it through Jeffrey's birth. I wish I could say that seeing my son born, that holding
that helpless infant in my arms, changed everything, but I can't. He was this scrawny
little red thing, screaming his head off. I hated not being able to sleep at night, I hated
changing diapers, and I felt even more distant from Heather as she held him and
assumed that archetype mother persona, glowing with the maternal love. I started
staying later at work, began looking for more reasons to take business trips, anything to
keep me out of our family nest.
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It wasn't all bad, of course. Sometimes I'd sit there and we'd look at each other, and I
felt like he knew it was me. I imagined he was thinking, "this is my dad!" although I
knew he wasn't really thinking anything at all. He'd hold my fingers with his tiny hand
and I'd think about him as a boy, walking with me through a park holding onto my hand.
Maybe we'd have a catch together, and I'd teach him how to throw a baseball correctly.
Unfortunately, those moments were too few and far between. The rest of the time I
resented him for being so helpless -- helpless yet somehow able to ensnare me in this net.
Then Margaret came along with the idea of the Atlanta job.
Heather was absolutely opposed. She argued, not unfairly, that her family was here, our
friends were here, and that I didn't need to change careers. I had a fine future doing
what I was doing. If I just needed a job change I could walk over to any number of other
Wall Street firms and have a job the next day. Atlanta meant throwing our life in New
York away and starting over.
That's probably what appealed to me. I took the job anyway.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………
"Hmm," Iris thought aloud. "That's when you got divorced?"
"Yep. She never moved down, so we separated and the rest was just paperwork. It was
pretty amicable -- she didn't get any alimony but she got full custody of Jeffrey."
I imagined Iris's head nodding in understanding. "Was that it?" she asked.
I'd long lost interest in the television, and finally flicked it off. I wandered into the living
room section of my suite -- thank goodness for long cords -- and sat at the bar. "Well, a
year or so later Heather married someone else, another lawyer, and they moved out to
LA. They had another kid and I gather the four of them are all doing well.
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"Did you stay in touch with Jeffrey?"
I listened carefully to her words, trying to detect any judgement or motive, but could only
sense sympathy and curiosity. "I tried for awhile -- you know, sending birthday presents,
Christmas presents, that sort of thing. When he got a little older I tried to call him every
so often, but eventually Heather stepped in and told me it was just too confusing to him.
He didn't really remember me, she told me with some satisfaction, and my trying to stay
in contact was not helping. So in the end we agreed I'd step out of the picture.
"How old is he now?" Iris asked.
I worked it out in my head. "He'd be ten next month."
We were both silent for a couple minutes. I was thinking about how somewhere a few
hundred miles from here another man was putting my son to bed. Maybe ten year olds
don't get put to bed, but you can be sure Heather and her husband stopped by Jeffrey's
room on their way to bed to check in on him. They'd listen to his soft breathing, and
smile with pleasure at the prospect of the morning bedlam to come with their kids. Here
I was on the phone with a stranger, alone in a strange place -- as usual.
It was all a long detour from Tracy and I wasn't sure how to get back to that topic, or
even if I wanted to. Somehow I suspected there were as many landmines in that territory
as this one. Iris broke the silence first.
"And no regrets?"
It took a second to realize she was reminding me of my own words. "No," I said slowly.
"No regrets. There's lots of things I'd do differently if I had them to do it all again, but --
no, no regrets."
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It was the first lie I'd told Iris. I think she knew it. What we were both too polite to
mention was that I might be starting down the same path with Tracy.
"Zebulon?" she asked. I acknowledged I was still there and listening. She asked me
again if I really liked Tracy, liked her as a person and not just as a travelling aid or a sex
partner.
"Yes, I really do," I admitted.
"Then enjoy things," she advised. "Just be careful."
Chapter 28
January was a busy month. The Dallas trip was only the first of many excursions. I'd
lived in Chicago long enough to know that if you can schedule things to be away in
January and February, you do it. It turned out that the New Year's storm was the worst
weather of the month, but even so it was cold and snowy in Chicago the whole month.
People who haven't lived in the Snow Belt don't realize that it's not the big storms that get
to you. You can cope with the isolated crisis, and if its bad enough it almost becomes
fun, in a macabre sort of way that disasters sometimes pull people together. It's the hit
after hit, the unending grayness and chill and more snow, that kills you. The snow never
goes away, and sometimes it seems like the sun never shines. The cold has a numbing
effect, so that you never truly warm up, or when you do getting cold again seems all the
colder.
So I hit the road, five and six days a week. I spoke at conferences, I did my usual rounds
with the money men, and I kept busy. Being busy kept my mind off of other things, but
at the end of each day those hotel rooms loomed. They felt smaller, seemed darker and
more confining, than usual. I'd get in them and feel almost trapped. I tried to combat the
feeling by doing more dinner meetings, taking later flights, and working even more than
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usual when I got to where I was going. My associates would be looking at their watches
and yawning before I reluctantly let them go home to their warm little houses and
spouses. Anyway I cut it, at the end of the day it was still me by myself in an impersonal
hotel. I'd toss and turn in bed, with the television doing a poor job of distracting me. I
kept waiting for Iris to call and break the routine. I wanted her company, and I needed
her friendship. But she was as absent as the warm weather and sunny skies were from
Chicago. That was unusual, and after the first couple of weeks I started to wonder if
something had happened. Had she gotten tired of me, or had something happened to her?
Would she ever call again? It added to the things I had to think about, and didn't help my
tossing and turning.
I saw Tracy twice, and that was too few and far between. We had an evening in Detroit,
and a day and a half in Orlando, sandwiched around my meeting obligations. I tried to
stay away from Disney World, but Tracy, of course, dragged me through the Magic
Kingdom. She made it fun, of course, but the meticulous planning involved with every
detail made me nostalgic for the small town carnivals of my youth, where you felt like
you were taking your life in your hands by getting on the rides. Or by eating the food, for
that matter. Here the only risk was to your wallet.
Both were good times, with our usual companionship spiced up by lovely evenings in bed
together. It helped, but only for two nights. Saying goodbye was hard. Work was my
only real solace, and Vista kept coming back to the top of my agenda.
I started hearing more reports that something was brewing. For example, early in the
month I was visiting Reliant Technologies, one of our large divisions headquartered in St.
Louis. I had dinner with Ron Dodds and Bill Santee, the CEO and COO respectively, at
The Grill at the Ritz. I'd known Ron for several years, while Bill was a more recent
recruit that Margaret had referred.
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"So what's up with Vista?" Ron inquired over cocktails. Bill looked mildly interested.
We were just three guys in suits sitting around shooting the shit, surrounded by our peers.
I doubted anyone there was paying for their own meal.
"Up how?" I replied carefully.
Ron shifted in his chair and toyed with his drink. He was drinking scotch on the rocks,
and he liked to play with the ice cubes. The clicking was starting to annoy me. Bill was
a beer kind of guy, but they made him drink it in a tall iced mug, this being the Ritz.
"Margaret was here last week, going over the year-end numbers. We got to talking about
TDK's year, and Vista came up."
It was no secret that Vista's earnings were sub-par, and that Neil was under pressure to
get them up. The CEOs of the divisions had a pretty good network, and I expect Neil had
discussed Margaret's concern with Ron. "And?" I asked, sipping my own drink casually.
"She said things would be sorted out soon at Vista," Ron replied, tossing down his drink.
Our waitress brought our salads, so I had a brief interlude before replying. Ron ordered
another drink. I wondered why Margaret was making statements like that almost as
much as I wonder what she had in mind. After our plates were settled and we'd taken a
bite, I followed up on Ron's comments.
"Did Margaret say how they'd be sorted out, or when?"
Ron was chewing a mouthful of what looked like something you'd find in a tropical forest
at the time, so Bill fielded my question. Bill had passed on the salad and was eating soup
instead. "No, she just said soon."
"Did she seem, umm, worried or anything?"
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Ron had now finished his mouthful, or most of it anyway. If that didn't clean out his
colon I don't know what would. He laughed. "I thought Margaret shared everything with
you."
I let it go, passing it off with a laugh, but it did bother me. I thought Margaret shared
most things with me too, and I'd especially thought so in regard to Vista. She wasn't
someone who made statements lightly, so she must have something in mind. I wondered
what it was.
A week later I had a voice mail from Kathleen, who was now working in our offices in
San Francisco. I'd helped her get the job, out closer to her family and a couple of well-
deserved rungs ahead on the ladder. I called her back from my hotel in Raleigh. It was
ten my time when I called her back, expected to find her still in the office. My
expectations were accurate; her work ethic hadn't changed. It was only seven there, so
she had a couple hours to go yet.
I flipped through the television looking for a weather report. There was a storm front
moving through, threatening to coat the region with an ice storm, and there was a good
chance I'd be stuck here. I was hoping it would hold off long enough to catch my plane
to Jacksonville in the morning. "What's up, Kathleen? How's life in the Sunshine State?"
"Hey there yourself, Zeke," her sunny voice replied. "Sunshine state? I'm in San
Francisco, not Miami. This is the fog capital of Fogland."
"Yeah, my heart breaks for you. Last I checked they still had some pretty sights there."
We made small talk for a few minutes, comparing notes. Matt had gone back to New
York to work in the investment banking firm of an old family friend. He'd be useful to
me over time, more so than if he'd stayed with TDK. Jason was still with me, as
impressive as ever, but due to move on soon as well. Kathleen and Matt's replacements
were doing fine, although I suspected Kathleen wanted me to tell her that they were good
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but not as good as she had been. I thought about it, and about when I'd be in San
Francisco next, but didn't say either. Finally we got around to her voice mail. "So why
do I think this wasn't just a social call?" Kathleen might have wanted to call just to say
hello, but she wouldn't do it unless she had some nugget for me.
"It's nothing, really. I'm sure you've probably heard."
"Heard what?"
"Hang on a second." I heard Kathleen put the phone aside, and get up to close the door to
her office. She returned a moment later. I was going to tease her about being paranoid,
but I realized I'd trained her to be. "It's about Elliot."
My gut tightened a little. "What about Elliot?" I asked. I thought about the possibilities
-- had he been fired, committed suicide, what? I knew these were unlikely, as I'd have
already heard about those. I began to wonder if he'd been arrested in a gay bar or
something in San Francisco. That would be useful news.
"I'm not quite sure. John Franken" -- who was the head of her office -- "just said Elliot
had the long knives out for Neil Kincaid. Not that that's new, of course," she hurried to
admit, "but John seemed to think Elliot had something specific in mind."
I again stored this up to chew on later. I thanked Kathleen, absently watching the
weather map show clouds slowly moving over the middle part of the nation. Getting out
of town seemed even more urgent than before, but it was less clear where I needed to get
to. Somewhere other than here, I guessed, where I was too far away from whatever
action was up. Kathleen and I chatted for a few minutes further, and I promised I'd stop
in and see her the next time I was in the area. Hanging up, I found myself wondering if
her hair was as long, or if she'd cut it. Women sometimes do that, you know, to mark a
change. A move, a new job, a new man in their life. Men tend to stick with what they
think is working for them long after it is not, but women seemed more able to shrug off
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external trappings and try something new. It's as though they are constantly unsure of
their attractiveness and always working to prove it or enhance it.
Men, on the other hand, don't think twice about their attractiveness; we just take it as a
given. Put some down-on-his-luck, old and wrinkled guy at a bar and hire a beautiful
young woman to start flirting with him -- he's not going to wonder why, he's just going to
assume she's seen that handsome dude in him that all the rest of the women in the world
have missed his whole life. We're so vain.
Jason also put his two cents in one day. "The Board is going to do something about
Vista," he reported. I was checking in from New York. It was dark and dreary there,
with the snow blackened and defeated by the city's constant motion and energy. A nice,
clean white snow is cheerful in some sense, but there are few things as depressing as the
snow that stubbornly hangs on several days afterward in a big city. It's dirty and slushy
and piled in uneven lumps by the plows and shovels. No beautiful white blanket here.
"How do you know?" I asked. The Secretary's office was notoriously good about
keeping the Board's agenda a secret. Margaret worked directly with them. People only
found out what the Board was going to talk about if they were going to present
something. I attended many of the Board meetings, and I had a pretty good handle on
TDK's business, but I still got surprised. Still, Jason was the guy who tracked down the
would-be trout fisherman, among other coups.
"I have a friend," he said slyly. I imagined him wooing a secretary or cleaning lady.
Maybe he tapped their phones or photo machine. Maybe he bribed the mail carriers of
the Board members to see what they were getting from TDK. I didn't want to know.
"So what do you know?"
"I just know the Secretary's office has put together a lot of background on Vista, as well
as their organization charts and executives' bios. I'd guess they're looking at a
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restructuring at the least, maybe a sale or merger, but most likely some executive shake-
ups." Jason was matter-of-fact about it. He knew I'd spent a lot of time at Vista, but he
was careful not to get emotionally involved either way.
I wasn't out to Vista until the third week of the month, shortly after talking to Jason. I
spent the day going to meetings with Neil. The year's earnings were a disappointment,
below expectations, and Neil's staff was gloomy about hitting first quarter goals as well.
They pretty much were resigned to the new year not being any better. Neil was chipper
as ever. Business was fine, but Neil had increased his budget for Project Alpha, wiping
out the gains the rest of the business had achieved. Neil was gambling everything,
doubling up his bets while he could. I tried to curb his risk profile at dinner.
We were at his club again. They seated us at the same table as my first dinner there, only
this time the expanse of the golf course was a snow covered expanse. I hoped the club
had some sort of provision for sledding or ice skating, taking advantage of nature's
bounty, but I rather doubted it. They wouldn't want a passel of little kids enjoying their
real estate, especially if they were just neighborhood ragamuffins. Maybe they sponsored
cross-country skiing outings -- members-only, of course.
"Neil, you're in big trouble," I said bluntly after we'd polished off our meal. The room
was quiet, with no one within twenty feet of us. There were only two other parties
anyway, an older couple carefully enjoying some of what must be their monthly dining
obligation, and a group of four businessmen. One of the club members was entertaining
some prospects, and the three guests were slightly awed by their trappings. You could
see them awkwardly try not to make any mistakes, then drink too much to try to relax and
end up laughing stupidly and talking too loudly anyway. I didn't think they'd be invited
to join.
Neil just smiled. "So what else is new?"
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"This time I think it's serious. The word I hear is that the Board is going to take action at
their February meeting." That meeting was less than two weeks away.
"Action?" Neil still seemed unconcerned, but he looked out the window at the snow as if
his mind was elsewhere. Maybe he was imagining those little sledders too.
"Neil, I think they're going to ask you to step down. Maybe Margaret has talked to you
and you know all this, but I didn't want you to be caught off guard. You've got to get to
Margaret, make some deal. Tell her you'll cut back spending on Alpha. Tell her what
will happen if you leave."
Neil turned back to me and smiled. "And what will happen?"
I shook my head slightly and turned to the window myself. The sun had gone down and
the moon was full. The play of the dark night with the white of the snow created an
almost surreal sight. It looked not quite day and not quite night, but somewhere in
between. The moon illuminated the snow, reflecting off the snow like the minor sun that
it aspired to be. Still, it could not fully penetrate the darkness, and served mostly to
create unusual shadows.
"Margaret isn't telling me anything, Zeke," Neil said. "She talking to you?"
I shook my head without turning from the window. Neil continued. "Nothing about
succession?"
"I don't know anything, Neil," I said, looking back at him. "Margaret's made up her own
mind and hasn't asked for my counsel. Or maybe she has and is choosing to ignore it,
after all these months. I just wish you could change her mind."
"It's too late for that," Neil said. He shrugged in resignation.
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"Then you'll lose Vista, and all your work on Alpha."
At this Neil perked up. "Not quite."
"Why not?"
"I own the rights to Alpha and all its applications."
I was dumbfounded. In all the work I'd done on Vista, all the briefings I'd been to, all the
documents I'd read -- this hadn't come up. "You're kidding" was my eloquent response.
My mind raced with the thought of Neil trying to take Alpha away with him. "She'll
never let you get away with it. Her lawyers will tie you up in court forever."
"I have some pretty good lawyers of my own," he said. Neil had the smile of a cat that
swallowed a canary.
Whether Neil could pull this off against the forces Margaret could bring to bear if she
wanted to was a whole other question, but it would be a fight worth watching. My
esteem for him elevated a few notches. "I go into things knowing what's important to me
and what I need to protect," he continued. His voice was pitched low, with an almost
hypnotic tone. "Who and what I need to be loyal to. Tell me, Zeke -- when push comes
to shove: who are you going to be loyal to?"
Loyalty was not a concept I thought about a lot. If asked, I'd naturally tell someone I was
loyal to the shareholders. But, you know, the shareholders were for the most part an
anonymous bunch, mostly impersonal institutional investors who would drop TDK in a
second if they felt our returns were too low. Loyal to TDK? Nonsense; it was a holding
company, a jumble of unrelated companies all trying to make a buck. I could spin the
tale of why they were synergistically linked, but even I had to sometimes remind myself
what each one did.
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I suppose I could posit that I was loyal to Margaret. I admired her, for sure, and she'd
clearly been the sponsor of my career for many years now. But loyal? I had several
years of observing Margaret at close range, and I knew Margaret's views on loyalty. She
rewarded people who did well for her and got rid of those who did not. History with her
did not count for much. I suspected she'd drop me without a second thought, without a
twinge of guilt or sorrow, if she felt I wasn't the man for the job anymore. We had a fine
relationship as long as she respected what I did for her, but that was it. We didn't have
any deeper bond.
And here Neil was talking to me about loyalty. Here was a man who had come back to
his hometown to help rebuild the company his grandfather had founded and that his
father had almost ruined. He was a man who was so driven to make his own mark with
his pet project that he defied his bosses and risked his career, all on an idea that was at
best still unproven and possibly not even achievable. I supposed there was a lot I could
learn from his man about loyalty, but I didn't know that any of the teachings had taken.
In the end I was as craven, as shallow, in how I valued people and things, as I cynically
attributed to Margaret.
I didn't reply to Neil. I shrugged my shoulders slightly and raised my eyebrows to

indicate the cosmic uncertainty of the question.
Chapter 29
If Neil has astonished me, I don't know what the word would be for the surprise I had
from Tracy. I saw her the next week. I had a speech in Las Vegas Tuesday afternoon,
and she joined me afterwards. We had a fun time, seeing a couple shows, doing some
modest gaming, but mostly watching the glitter of it all -- the flashy people, the bright
lights, the constant motion of a culture built on looking for that edge, that inside tip or
good luck totem that will swing the odds in your favor.
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I'd had a good run of luck at the blackjack table, getting about five hundred dollars ahead
before quitting while I was ahead. We walked by one of the all night wedding chapels
and had stopped outside to see what the action was. Sure enough, in a few minutes a
couple tottered out, looking dazed and delighted at the same time. They were young, the
girl no more than nineteen or so, and the boy not much older. He had the close-cropped
hair and erect posture of a Marine. Maybe he was on leave and they just decided to go
ahead and get married before he shipped off. Or maybe he just liked short hair.
I felt sad for them somehow. Would they wake up in the morning and regret their
impetuousness? What if they didn't even remember this excursion? It could be worse, I
supposed. A quickie divorce was easier than getting a tattoo removed.
"I'm not married," Tracy informed me.
We were sitting in one of the casino restaurants eating a very early breakfast when Tracy
blurted out this news. It was about two in the morning. She seemed calm while she said
it, then suddenly turned nervous and uncertain. Even at this hour, on a Tuesday night, the
restaurant was bustling, full of people in many moods. Some were on a high -- either
naturally induced or artificially assisted -- while others were recovering from their losses,
recharging their batteries for another run at Lady Luck. It was a large room, with bright
lights and lots of noise, but at Tracy's statement the room narrowed in scope to just our
booth. The background noise became only a quiet murmur.
"Excuse me?" Certainly I misheard her, I thought. We'd been talking about the wedding
chapel and wondering why people got married in them. I was speculating on the close
link between the availability of gambling and of marriage in the same place when Tracy
dropped this unexpected bombshell.
"You heard me right. I'm not married." Tracy offered her ringless finger as proof. She'd
had the ring on earlier, I was sure, and must have slipped it off under the table while we
were waiting for our food. I'd seen her hand naked before, of course, but there is a
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difference between a special occasion absence and an ongoing vacancy. The former is a
holiday of sorts, while the latter is a vacuum waiting to be filled.
"When did this happen?" The only plausible explanation was that she'd gotten up the
nerve to finally get a divorce. "I can't believe you got divorced and never told me you
were doing it," I complained. It would explain a lot of things. She must have been well
on her way when she came to my house at New Year's. That was why she had the nerve
to sleep with me after all those months of our platonic relationship. Only I was wrong.
"It never happened," she admitted. She looked down at her plate rather than meeting my
eyes. "I was never married."
OK, this was going to require some explanation. She looked up at me sheepishly, then
looked nervously around the room. She took a deep breath and met my eyes. "I told you
I was when I met you for the same reason I wear a phony ring while I'm flying -- it
discourages men I don't want to encourage. Hey, don't look at me like that -- I thought
you were this jetset playboy, inviting us to the Knick's game! By the time I decided I
liked you, after the game, it was too late. I didn't know how to change my story at that
point without looking stupid."
"But all those months…"
"I know, I know. I kept wanting to tell you, but just didn't know how. I was going to tell
you a couple times, especially New Year's Eve, but there was enough happening as it
was."
It was a lot to absorb. "And David?"
Tracy laughed, and a smile broke out over her face. "Hey -- you named him. I just went
along with your suggestion. An imaginary David worked just fine from both of our
standpoints."
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I studied her. She'd regained her normal aplomb, the confession out. I hadn't gotten mad
or stormed out or anything rash, and she'd gotten the weight off her shoulders. I
remembered that awkward conversation that second night in San Francisco, when she'd
brought up telling truths after a lie. Now I knew what she had wanted to tell me. I
wondered how these last few months would have gone had she told me then.
It was in my court now. I thought of the things I hadn't told her. I'm a good liar; it's
better to just not tell certain truths than to make something up. Making things up leaves
you having to try to remember the name of imaginary husbands. I had a real, live son
that might have made a difference to her -- or, rather, my abandonment of him might
have -- but I was not going to make this clean breast a mutual thing. "Why now?"
Tracy's eyes widened. "Well, it did complicate things."
"And now you're looking to simplify things?"
Tracy looked away, down at her plate. She played absently with her eggs. I watched her,
facing this new world where she was not someone else's wife. I didn't quite know how to
feel about it. It was a bigger world, maybe a better world, but definitely a world with
more risks. Tracy looked up and shrugged, her mouth struggling to hide a smile. "It
might make the logistics of getting together easier."
I leaned back in my chair. "No more skulking around matching up schedules."
"You could call me at home."
"I could…" I stopped. I was about to say "meet your family," but I wasn't quite sure I
was ready or eager to take that leap.
"...see me on weekends," she finished my sentence, oblivious to why I'd paused.
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"There is still the Denver-Chicago thing. Not just a quick drive."
Tracy smiled with assurance and put a hand over mine. "That's surprise number two."
I frowned. "What's surprise number two?"
"I live in Oak Park."
Oak Park was a close suburb of Chicago, not far from the airport. "But…"
"I know, I know." She patted my hand. "I guess I wanted to have a little more mystery, a
little distance. I didn't want to seem too close."
Tracy, as it turned out, had gone home New Year's Eve, then driven her Jeep to my
house, parking it in a nearby garage. That explained how she made it through the snow,
and why she didn't accept my offers of helping getting there or back. It was weird
thinking about her living so close. I had foolishly showed her around Chicago like a
zealot trying to convert a heathen, while she was the true native. I could have run into
her on the street numerous times over the years, could have passed her by in a crowd and
never realized it. Maybe I had.
"And now?"
Tracy leaned back, taking her hand with her. She glanced quickly around the room, then
back to me. Those grey eyes were as calm as ever. "Now is a lot like before. We enjoy
each other's company, only you don't have to worry about my mythical husband. You did
worry, didn't you?"
"It did cross my mind from time to time," I admitted wryly. Not as often as I suppose it
should have, but it was there.
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"Now we can see each other as much as we like. Our schedules won't help, and maybe
you like just seeing each other every few weeks, but I wanted to take this one barrier
away. I like being with you. I want to spend time with you. I didn't like the weight of
this on my conscience."
I took a deep breath, and looked around the room myself. I was thinking about whether
part of the enticement I'd felt was that hidden but tacitly acknowledged tie to someone
else, that sense of winning a desirable woman away from someone else. You don't
necessarily want to keep them, but you do want to win them. I hated to think that this
could be true, and I didn't yet know that it was, but I was still left adrift somehow. Yes, I
certainly wanted to still see Tracy, and, yes, I didn't mind not feeling guilty about it. But
as some philosopher once said -- or should have said -- in a world where nothing is
forbidden, nothing is allowed either. Too much freedom can be as stifling as too little.
She watched me, and I could sense that her mood softened somehow. "Hey, don't get
worried, big guy. I'm not looking to trap you or anything. We'll do things at whatever
pace makes sense." She smiled sweetly at me. "But I wouldn't mind walking down
Michigan Avenue with you more often."
Chapter 30
Margaret called me back to the office the next day. I was about to fly to Kansas City
when I got a call from Maggie, requesting that I catch a flight straight back. It wasn't so
unusual for Margaret to summon me like that, but I wondered what catastrophe had
happened. Maggie couldn't -- or wouldn't -- shed any light on the nature of our meeting.
"I couldn't say, Mr. Clarke," she said in response to my attempt to find out. "There's a
United flight in an hour that you can catch. I've already made the reservation." Maggie
was nothing if not efficient.
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I figured it had to be about Vista, and probably linked to the upcoming Board meeting. I
didn't think it was going to be good news for Neil.
I got to the office around one, and went up to Margaret's office. Maggie was outside and
she greeted me. "Ms. Barnes is running a bit late," she told me, indicating the closed
door. "Just take a seat and it will be a few minutes."
"Hello yourself, Maggie May," I said. "Who does she have in there?"
I could see Maggie run through the quick calculation of what she could/should tell me,
relaxing when she realized I'd see the person exiting anyway. "Mr. Zu," she informed
me. Interesting, very interesting, I thought.
"Is this good news or bad news?"
Maggie cocked her head in a charming little way she has. Two or three years ago I'm
sure she would have just clamed up, or told me she didn't know. All those times when I'd
taken the time to talk with her on the phone or chat with her when in the area paid off.
"Oh, good news," she said deliberately. She even looked up appraisingly at me. "Good
news for you anyway."
"And bad news for someone else?"
Maggie nodded solemnly.
The door to Margaret's office opened, and Elliot stormed out. I could tell immediately
that he was in a fury, and I wondered what he and Margaret had been talking about that
had done so. Not that it took an awful lot to put Elliot in a fury. Maybe she'd denied his
request for a private helicopter.
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"You!" he spat out. His face was red and his veins were protruding. "This is all your
fault!"
I stepped back slightly at the intensity and volume of his fury. To be honest, I expected
Margaret to hear his yelling and come out to mediate. But she didn't appear.
"Calm down, Elliot," I tried reasoning with him. "What's up?"
He pushed me. That's right -- he put out his hand and shoved me. It was like a little kid
on the playground. I gave ground grudgingly, more out of surprise than force. "You
little sneaky bastard," he growled. "I'll show you."
I took a step back, my hands out in a cautioning gesture. "Elliot, calm down. Stop acting
like an idiot." I kept waiting for Margaret to step out of her office and stop him before he
did anything really stupid. But still she didn't show. I slipped a surreptitious look at
Maggie, who was unobtrusively dialing the phone. Calling Security, I hoped.
"I'll show you who is the idiot!" His face looked like he might explode at any second,
and I started wishing he would. That would certainly solve the situation.
I put on my most soothing expression and started to talk. Before I could get any words
out Elliot took a roundhouse swing at me. Everything happened in slow motion. I
suppose I simply could not believe it was happening to me, that this middle-aged senior
executive of a Fortune 500 company was attacking me right outside the CEO's office. I
could see it coming, and at the same time out of the corner of my eye I could see
Maggie's face slowly gape in astonishment. The punch was moving very slowly, and I
was starting to slide away from it, but even as slowly as it was moving I was moving
slower still. I tried to lean back, moving with the punch and letting the physics work with
me instead of against me. I didn't have quite enough time to actually avoid getting hit but
at least I managed to lessen the force of the blow. Elliot was short but strong, and he
packed a good punch. I got clocked pretty good, and my head rang.
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If we'd been in a real fight, if Elliot had seriously meant to harm me, he'd have followed
up right away, while I was still temporarily dazed from both the surprise and the blow.
But we were in the richly decorated executive suite, right outside the CEO's office, and I
think even Elliot knew he'd gone way overboard. He stepped back.
Things were still moving slowly. Without looking, I could see Maggie's hand at her
mouth, trying to keep the gasp from slipping out like a misdirected sneeze. Off in the
distance, I could see a few heads lean out of their offices, alerted by office telepathy that
something unusual was happening. They were all around me, and in front of me Elliot
remained. He was a bundle of energy, his body pumping massive doses of fight-or-flight
adrenaline as he waited to see how I would react. There was a strange twilight zone of
silence and disbelief that surrounded us. No one else was moving or talking, as they, too,
waited to see what I would do. I was kind of curious myself.
I rubbed my jaw gingerly. There is a certain pride in taking the other guy's best shot and
still be standing. The ball was in my court now. He'd started it. I'd tried to avoid a fight
but if I wanted to hit him back no one could blame me entirely. Elliot must have realized
that he'd started something that he couldn't handle. I was bigger and in better shape than
he was, and if it came to a fight the odds were with me. He watched me anxiously, ready
to bolt if need be, although doing so would certainly ruin any semblance of masculinity.
If I hit him I could probably finish the job, but he might fight back and both of us would
look silly. I knew a better way to quash his macho pretensions.
"Elliot," I said. "You hit like a girl."
Elliot was crestfallen, and I was pretty sure Maggie smiled before she regained her
professional yet concerned appearance. I soon realized why, as Margaret now chose to
appear. Curious timing, I found myself thinking. "What's going on here?" she
demanded in a commanding voice.
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Maggie quickly brought her up to date. None of it seemed to shock Margaret. She
looked at Elliot with steely eyes. "You're finished, Elliot. That's it. Clean out your
office."
"Security is already on their way," Maggie efficiently informed her.
"Make sure they escort Mr. Zu out."
Minutes later I was sitting on a couch in Margaret's office. She sat in the chair next to
me, and solicitously asked if I wanted ice for me jaw. I declined, although I wondered if
I'd regret it later. The aborted fight seemed almost like it never happened, as if it
certainly couldn't have really happened. I hoped I wouldn't get a bruise that I'd have to
explain. "You didn't have to fire Elliot because of me," I said. "I can take care of
myself." To be honest, I was less concerned about Elliot's fate than the effect his sudden
departure might have on our stock.
Margaret shook her head. "Elliot has been digging his own grave for a long time. I don't
have to tell you that. By Monday we'll have a replacement ready to announce."
She brought me up to date on her intentions for Elliot's successor. I knew the woman and
approved of the choice, but wondered how Margaret had done it all without me hearing
any rumors she was on the market for a new CFO. Obviously this had been brewing for
awhile. I had to ask. "Did you fire Elliot before he hit me or after?"
Margaret smiled, appreciating the humor of the situation. "After, but, as you can tell, it
was only a matter of time."
I smiled too, at least on the outside, while internally I was thinking about the fact that
Margaret had made sure I'd be outside her office when Elliot came out, and had
studiously avoided coming out until after he'd swung at me. Was it paranoid to think
she'd be that devious?
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"So what did you tell Elliot that made him so mad?"
Margaret leaned back in her chair. "The same thing I called you here. That Neil Kincaid
is out as CEO of Vista, and I'd like to offer you his job."
I grunted in surprise. This was more out of left field than Elliot's punch, and stunned me
even more. Not the part about Neil, of course, just the last part. Did I hear her right?
"What?" I asked. "You want me to take over at Vista?"
Margaret smiled coolly at me. "Why do you think I've had you spend so much time out
there?" she asked. "You know it better than anyone else at this point."
I stood up and walked over to the window. I shook my head, turned back to her. "What
about Project Alpha?"
Margaret stood up as well, walked over to her desk and sat down. She fiddled with her
pen. "Alpha was a gamble. I was dubious about it from the start, but Neil convinced me
he could get Vista up and back to health again. That he did. Take Alpha away and
they're fine."
She'd been stringing him along, indulging his dream for Alpha while Margaret got what
she really wanted, a steady earnings stream from Vista. Neil had been using her too,
taking her cash to restore Vista to solvency and move his pet project along. They'd both
had their own reasons to play together, but at the end of the day it was Margaret's
sandbox.
"What about my job?"
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Margaret shrugged. "You've done a fine job, but it's time to do something else. I want to
see you run something."
It was too close to what Neil had told me that day last fall. Maybe he'd put the idea of me
as his replacement in her head. More likely she'd had this planned for some time. Now
everything was becoming clearer. I'd been uncharacteristically blind about the politics,
unable to see this move. How could I have missed it? Elliot knew the only way I could
be a real threat to him was if I got the experience in an operating unit; neither Margaret or
the Board could move me up much further without that background. He'd first tried to
support Neil, knowing even then that Margaret was thinking about how I'd fit there.
Then, when it was obvious that wasn't going to dissuade Margaret, he went on the attack.
He hoped to make Margaret have second thoughts, to convince her that Vista needed
more experience than I possessed to run it. He did everything he could to prevent her
from taking this gamble -- a move I wasn't even sure I wanted -- but Margaret was not
going to be dissuaded. I'd been watching the politics revolving around Neil, thinking that
was the game, and totally missed that Vista was the pawn and I was the queen, so to
speak. I was fast on my feet but this was all a bit much for me. Perhaps Elliot had hit
me harder than I'd realized. Margaret was watching me closely, evaluating me with that
hard mind of hers.
"Can I think about it?" I asked.
Chapter 31
I fled.
What I should have done was to quietly go back to my office, close the door, and call
Tracy to tell her the big news. "You're never going to believe what just happened," I
might have said to her. Then we could talk about what these changes might mean for our
lives. Margaret's offer would mean planning and some decisions.
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I could have also used the time to call other people I trusted, and ask what they thought --
about Vista, about my running it, about whether this was the right career choice. There
were lots of people whose opinions I trusted, and I shouldn't make this major decision
without getting their feedback. I suspected they'd all be very positive, if only because
many of them already had similar jobs and thought those were the jobs most worth
having. In any case, they'd have been flattered that I'd consulted with them, and I could
use that, too, at some point.
But I didn't. I went back to my office all right, but only to reconfirm the continuation of
the trip I'd had to abort to return back here. I'd fly out to Kansas City in a couple hours,
spend the next day there, and then fly to Denver, returning home Friday night. I tried to
tell myself that I was just doing my job, but in truth I just wanted to get away. I didn't
want to talk to Tracy or any of my cronies about the Vista situation. There was only one
person I wanted to talk to about it, and she wasn't going to call me here.
Jason caught me within a half an hour of returning to my office. He casually strolled into
my office, catching me between calls, and seated himself in my most comfortable chair.
He looked as unflappable as ever, and I did my best to mach him. He studied my face.
"Doesn't look too bad," he judged. "You must have been right about Zu hitting like a
girl." He smiled slightly at the latter.
He was telling me, without actually saying the words, that he already knew that whole
story, including the climatic putdown. All within a half-hour. I shouldn't be surprised.
So he must know Elliot was out as well. I was wondering what else he knew when he
spared me the speculation. "So, are you going to take the Vista job?" he asked curiously.
"You know?"
He nodded. He put his feet up on the corner of my desk, the bold bastard. "It's a great
job. Stop the Alpha waste and you'll look like a hero. Run Vista for a couple years,
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move up into one of the bigger divisions, and you're on your way. Well played, Zeke.
You got rid of both Zu and Kincaid at one fell swoop."
I bristled at that. "I wasn't trying to get Neil, or even Elliot for that matter. I was trying
to help Neil."
Jason seemed unfazed. "Whatever." He'd just been trying to trigger a response, which I'd
given him. We studied each other across my desk.
"Think I should take it?" I might as well see what he thought.
"Sure."
"I like this job. I like living in Chicago."
Jason smiled and stood up. "Time for something new, Mr. Clarke. Time for some young
buck to take over this job." He walked to the door, then paused in the doorway. He
looked back at me a smiled that smile of his. "Think Ms. Barnes remembers me?"
I flew to Kansas City, where I was greeted warmly at the Westin Crown Center. What it
lacks in character it makes up for in efficiency. "Good evening, Mr. Clarke," the desk
clerk said. "Welcome back to Kansas City." I didn't recognize him individually, but I
knew his type very well. He was a middle-aged man, impeccably dressed and equally
incapable of either sadness or exuberance. Maybe that had been trained out of him along
with any extreme emotions. It wasn't an emotional niche I wanted to inhabit, but I was
glad to have someone like him take care of my lodging needs.
Dinner that night was with a couple of investors. I had a steak, which was excellent.
Kansas City rivals Chicago for red meat, and I grudgingly had to admit this was pretty
good. We dawdled over after-dinner drinks and cigars, but eventually I returned to my
lovely but solitary room. I puttered around with the television mumbling in the
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background. I left all the voice mails I could think of, using my cell phone so as not to
block the line. I kept waiting for Iris to call, but the phone never rang. I fitfully fell
asleep.
The next day was a busy one, with several meetings and an expensive lunch. I flew out
that evening to Denver. I was supposed to fly out that afternoon, but sat in the airport for
a couple hours while a snowstorm swept through the midwest. Denver was on the fringes
of the storm, but flights were delayed anyway as other cities were diverting. I finally
talked to Tracy, calling her from the airport, but found myself not telling her about Vista.
Instead, we made plans to go out Saturday night, and celebrate Valentine's Day a few
days early.
"Valentine's Day dinner," she cooed. "I need a new dress."
"It's not that big a deal."
"It's our first Valentine's. It's a big deal to me."
I didn't arrive in Denver till around eleven, tired and hungry. I checked in at The Brown
Palace, one of my favorite haunts. It's old, but it has character. It looks like a hotel, yet
like no other hotel. It was built back in the day when each hotel was designed to make its
own statement, not just roll off some architectural assembly line. Coming here made me
feel like a celebrity. Once I even stayed in the Eisenhower Suite, where I pretended I was
the President. Given that it was Eisenhower, that didn't take much work.
I recognized the night clerk. Natasha Hendricks was in her early thirties, and she and I
had struck up a late night friendship a couple years ago. A tall western girl, complete
with boots and a short jeans skirt when the occasion called for it, she'd shown me a few
of Denver's after hours clubs, and watched the sunrise with me once. Still, she'd always
had a boyfriend -- not always the same one, mind you -- and our nocturnal excursions had
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ended up in sex only once. Even that was due more to alcohol and curiosity than to
romance.
"My long lost Zeke," she purred, lighting up the area with her smile.
"In the flesh," I confessed, "although that flesh, alas, pales next to your loveliness."
We bantered for a couple minutes.
"Hey, I'm off in an hour. Want company?"
I thought about it. Natasha was definitely way off the cute scale. She looked at me
expectantly. I was looking for things to take my mind off my troubles, or my good
fortune, depending on how you looked at recent events. "I don't know. It's been a long
day…"
Natasha closed the deal. "Ok, how about this. I'll get some food delivered up to your
room, and we'll just have a quiet dinner together."
There was Tracy to consider, of course, but dinner was certainly harmless enough, right?
And we had to eat in my suite given the hour. "Not a late night?"
"Cross my heart," she said solemnly, although it wasn't her heart that her fingers slowly
traced over. I gulped.
True to her word, she arranged for a suite, and a twenty minutes later she arrived with a
cart of food, which looked great. At this hour, anything would have looked great.
We had started eating before I noticed her ring. "Are you engaged?" I asked in surprise.
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"Oh, yeah -- I forgot you didn't know," she said, beaming. She flipped her long black
hair back unconsciously, a gesture I always liked. "A few months ago. The wedding is
in June."
She filled in dinner with details of how they met, courted, and so on. I listened numbly to
yet another person's love story. It was a story, told in different shapes, sizes, and tones,
that I'd heard many times over the years. When she finally paused for a break, I
interjected. "Do you think it's time I settled down?"
Natasha paused, and looked me over very thoughtfully. "You like the life, don't you?"
she asked. I nodded briefly, and she continued. "Still, you need a woman in your life."
"That's not…"
"…a regular woman in your life," she added. "Anyway, you'd miss the travelling if you
settled down."
"Oh, yeah. Not eating till midnight, different city every night, crowded flights sitting on
runways. Lots of fun."
Natasha cocked her head in a bewitching way that was uniquely hers. "You love it. But
get a woman. I'm sure there's no shortage of candidates. Hell, if you'd have been quicker
I might have been one." She flashed me a coy smile.
I was silent a moment too long, and she caught it. "What gives?" she asked playfully.
"Well, there is a girl…"
I told her some about Tracy, omitting some of my more recent serious thoughts but
giving her a good sense of the time we'd spent together. It's never seemed like a good
idea to tell one woman about another, but I figured I should start practicing if I was truly
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interested in Tracy. My description was halting and adolescently lame. Clearly, I was no
Romeo singing the praises of fair Juliet, but somehow my awkwardness made it all the
more real to Natasha. She seemed genuinely touched and interested. Certainly she was
more interested in hearing my romantic stories than the reverse.
We said goodnight around one, and I sent her home to her fiancée with a chaste kiss
goodnight. Once again, someone I'd known from their more free-roaming days was
telling me I should settle down once they had themselves. As with Bill and Sue, it still
wasn't clear to me whether it was because they'd found the right answer or just wanted
company in their new jail.
My room felt a little like a jail. I paced the room, wishing the phone would ring. I really
wanted Iris to call, although I didn't know what she could say that would help, or even
what I'd tell her. It was a nice room, far more spacious and luxurious than I really
needed. This was part of the appeal of the road, I supposed. I get to stay in these fancy
places that I might never see otherwise. I ate in the best restaurants, ordered the most
expensive wines, and TDK picked up the tab with no questions asked. Sure, sometimes
it's the Holiday Inn and McDonalds instead, but more often it was these kinds of upscale
places that most travelers don't get to frequent.
The real appeal of my lifestyle, though, didn't have anything to do with hotels or
restaurants. It had to do with things like running into Natasha and having an unexpected
nice late night dinner with a friendly face in a far off city. It had to do with the clerk in
Kansas City whom I'd never met before but who treated me like a prince anyway. I
almost always got first class seats on planes, and usually had a driver at the airport. I was
treated like I was special, and I became special because of it.
I had hit the road instead of staying in Chicago to face the new opportunities Margaret
and Tracy had each, in their own way, made available to me because here I could travel
in my first class little cocoon, my safe womb where other people took care of my every
need. I didn't have to think about myself or what I wanted to do.
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All this rationalization didn't make my room seem any less confining. I flipped the
television like I was playing the slots, playing those long odds that I'm going to hit a
winner, when in fact all I was doing was distracting myself.
Iris didn't call that night either.
It shouldn't have surprised me. After all, she hadn't called for over a month, despite
numerous opportunities. I don't know why she should pick this one trip, this one night, to
resume our telephonic relationship. I guess I thought that, somehow, I'd been there for
her when she'd needed me, and had just assumed that she'd be there for me when I needed
her. It was silly, it was stupid, but there it was.
I did manage to work up my nerve to call Neil. He'd heard, of course. "Don't worry
about me, Zeke," he said reassuringly. "I got a nice package, and I don't think even
Margaret has the heart to fight me about Alpha. I'll be fine."
"What are you going to do now?"
"I've got a few irons in the fire. What about you?"
"I don't know."
"You should take this job," Neil said firmly. "At least I'd feel good that someone I trust
will take care of the people at Vista."
"Think so?"
"You should be flattered Margaret thinks so highly of you."
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I am," I admitted. It was an honor of the highest magnitude coming from her. It might
be the best compliment she could pay me; it might be the most flattering assessment of
my potential that anyone had ever bestowed. It was a big deal.
Neil continued. "My question is if that's what you really want to do."
"What?" I asked in slight confusion. Run Vista, or take care of the people there? "Run a
company?"
"Yeah."
"You're the one who told me to get a real job." I said. "Doesn't everyone like to be the
boss?"
There was a pause, and I pictured Neil in his office. He'd miss that office, with its links
to his grandfather. Nothing would ever be quite as homey as that great old office of his.
I wondered if he was looking around the office, or if he was looking out the window, his
thoughts already ahead to the future.
"No, no, they don't. That's just the people you know."
"It's not every day I'm going to get a chance like this. Margaret is taking a big chance."
"Maybe," Neil said reflexively. "You're smart enough, and tough enough, to do this job.
I just don't know if your heart is really in it."
I wasn't sure how to take that. I didn't think he meant anything derogatory by it, but there
was some question in his mind about the fit that troubled me. "I'm at the age when I've
got to take some chances, think about moving to the next level."
"You're at the age when you should be doing what love. What do you love, Zeke?"
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There wasn't any answer to that, and Neil didn't really seem to expect one. We chatted
for a few minutes more, but I wasn't feeling any surer about my life. I wrapped up my
business and headed to the airport.
Chapter 32
I sat in United's Red Carpet room, lost to the world. My plane was late, of course, and I
was waiting once again. In my hand was my cell phone, turned on but mute. I should
have been calling in, getting voice mails or making calls, but for once I didn't feel up to
it. I didn't want to talk to anyone right now, or at least no one I could call. My laptop
sat next to me, still in its carrying case. It carried plenty of downloaded emails I could
have been reading, to say nothing of the stack of papers the case also carried. Work was
there to distract me, as always, but for once it failed.
I wish I could claim that I was lost in purposeful thought, deliberating on my choices and
possible consequences, but in truth I was just drifting. My mind had just bailed out on
me, leaving me dumb and tranquil. This must be how couch potatoes feel, sitting there
letting the television preview for them a series of other lives they would never live. Only
I had no television to lull me. All I could do was sit and watch the activity at the airport,
the movement of planes and people and all the assorted vehicles and procedures put in
place to serve them. One of the things that has long fascinated me about airports is the
only-at-the-airport things you see. Those funny little trucks, the odd poles and pipes to
reach the furthest part of the plane, the mysterious doors and conveyor belts leading to
who knows where. It's like visiting an alien city, where evolution has taken a different
and very specialized turn. I could have sat there all day in my newly tranquil mood, or at
least until my flight was called.
"Paging Mr. Clarke," the loudspeaker announced. "Phone call for Mr. Clarke."
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It couldn't be me, I thought, after the announcement had been repeated a couple times
and the sound of my own name finally percolated through my daze. It's funny how that
happens. You can be at a crowded, noisy cocktail party, happily absorbed in your own
conversation, when suddenly from across the room that unique sound of someone saying
your name floats across the room to you amid the conversational clutter and slaps you in
the face.
People rarely paged me at airports. Why call the airport when almost anyone who
needed to get in touch with me could just call me directly on my cell phone? I checked it
quickly to see if I had somehow missed any calls in my vegetative state, but no such calls
appeared. The few people who knew I'd be at the Denver airport had my cell number. It
must be for some other Clark.
The announcement repeated a few minutes later. The other Mr. Clark must have
departed, or was doing business and didn't care to be interrupted. Hell, I wasn't doing
anything else; I might as well take a short walk. I got up and went over to the attendant,
a pleasant looking women in her forties who had a constant smile and air of good cheer
on her face. She seemed happy to see me, happy to see anyone. Hell, she seemed happy
just to be there, greeting visitors and taking messages like the phone she was paging
someone for now. I wondered how much Prozac she was on.
"Excuse me," I said. "What Mr. Clark are you paging?"
She smiled more brightly at me, and briefly checked her notes. "Mr. Zeke Clarke," she
said. "With a 'e. The Clark, not the Zeke. Oh, I guess they both have 'e's'!"
We laughed about that, her more enthusiastically than I, then I admitted that I was he,
still no more in the clear about who might be calling. It pleased her even further to have
found me, and she directed me to a private phone area. "Line 2," she added helpfully.
"Zeke Clarke," I said, picking up the phone. "How can I help you?"
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"I thought we were on more personal terms than that, Zebulon. 'Zeke,' indeed." It was
Iris.
"Iris," I said in surprise. "I-I-I…"
"Cat got your tongue?"
"I wasn't expecting you. I mean, I was expecting you, but last night or the night before. I
was afraid you weren't going to call me."
Iris seemed to think about that for a second. "I haven't wanted to call you at night."
"Why not?"
Iris didn't answer, and then in a flash of insight I got it. Of course. "It's because of
Tracy, isn't it?"
I imagined Iris nodding her head slowly, sadly. "I thought that you two might be
spending the night in the same hotel room these days, and I certainly didn't want to
interrupt."
"Iris, that's silly," I said in mock exasperation. "First, you're a friend of mine, so you
wouldn't be interrupting. If she was there I'd just tell you. And, anyway, it's not like she
travels with me or anything. I've only been with her a couple of times since we talked --
I'm almost always alone. You haven't called me in over a month."
"I know she doesn't travel with you," Iris said. Her tone was measured. "But I don't
know which nights she might have been there. And, Zebulon, I didn't ever want to call
when she's with you."
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I wanted to ask if she was jealous, but refrained. The attendant looked over at me and
smiled again, not flirting but just reassuring herself that all was well. I turned away,
facing the wall and blocking out the existence of everyone else. When you come right
down to it, I didn't want Iris to call when I was with Tracy any more than she did. Tracy
still didn't know about my relationship with Iris, and it had been nagging at me as to how
to tell her -- or even if to tell her -- about it. I couldn't see enjoying my usual rapport
with Iris when Tracy was there in the room with me, nor did I want to have to tell Iris to
call some other time just because she'd happened to call when Tracy was present. I
should have seen all this, and understood this reason for Iris not calling these past few
weeks. Like Margaret's maneuvering with Elliot, I had again been oblivious to the
planning that involved me at the center.
"I really need to talk to you, Iris," I finally said. "I'm glad you called."
"Are you getting married?" she asked. Again, I couldn't tell if there was jealousy,
concern, or happiness in her voice. Maybe all three.
"Married? No, it's not about Tracy at all, although I've got a story to tell you sometime
about that too. No, it's a work thing."
I filled her in about Vista and Neil, about my offers and opportunities. She laughed
about the part with Elliot, and was touched by Neil's understanding and support. "He's a
good friend to you, isn't he?" she asked tenderly. I acknowledged that he was, although
that, too, was really just dawning on me even as I agreed.
"The thing is," I concluded, "if I don't take the Vista job, I may never get a shot at being a
CEO again. I'll have a good career, doing what I'm doing and the jobs it can take me to,
but this probably is my best chance at running something."
"You're just not sure you want to?"
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"You know, I'm not sure I ever really thought about it before. I mean, sure, I'd play with
the idea every once in awhile, but this came kind of as a surprise."
"Good news often does," she said laconically. Bad news too, she might have added.
Instead, she added, "now what was the story about Tracy?"
I was slightly miffed. I mean, this Vista thing was a big deal to me. It was my whole
future. It was a major career change, a huge risk. I'd have to move, I'd have to change
my lifestyle, and I'd have to get used to being the boss, the final word on everything. I
thought it deserved more discussion. But maybe Iris wasn't really interested in business
or my career. Tracy was the thing between her and me for those late night calls, not
Vista. I grudgingly conceded.
"Well, it turns out she's not married…"
I described to her the night in Las Vegas, and how it came out that she'd been keeping
something from me all these months. It was kind of a funny story, if you thought about it
-- both in how the initial defensive pretense got caught up into something she couldn't get
out of, then how the truth finally emerged in Las Vegas, of all places. One could
imagine a screwball comedy with a similar plot line.
"So what makes you think she's telling you the truth now?" Iris asked at long length.
"Excuse me?"
"I mean, really. First she didn't tell you the truth about being married, and you believed
her, so maybe she just wants you to think she's not married now."
"Why would she do that?"
"Maybe she's just trying to make you feel less guilty about sleeping with her."
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"For Christ's sake, she gave me her home number. She invited me to her house. I
suspect she'll invite me to meet her friends and family all too soon. I don't think she's
lying to me about not being married."
"All right, all right," Iris admitted. "I was just trying to cover all the bases. So she's not
married. I guess that puts the ball in your court."
"How so?"
"Are you going to marry her?"
That hung out there like a long ball, high and lost in the lights. I swung a quick glance
around the clubroom for no other reason than to give me something to do. "It's kind of
soon, don't you think?"
"Not for her," Iris shot back quickly. "She's had months to think about it. And you --
you're in love with her."
That was the first time she'd said that. That was the first time anyone had said it. It was
the first time I'd let myself honestly think it. "I don't know about that," I hedged.
"Zebulon, there's nothing wrong with it if you are. Tracy sounds like a great girl, a
lovely woman. You should be in love with her."
I was silent.
"It's all right, Zebulon," she said softly. "It doesn't hurt my feelings."
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"I've missed talking to you these last few weeks," I confessed. "I missed it more than I
missed seeing Tracy. I go in to my room late at night and the person I want to talk to is
you."
Now Iris was silent, but I wasn't going to rush in to fill the space. I checked my watch
and saw that my flight should be leaving in a half-hour. If need be, I was willing to miss
the flight, willing to stay overnight and return tomorrow.
"Zebulon, listen to me. I'm just a distraction to you, someone to take your mind off those
hotel rooms late at night. A distraction and an abstraction. I'm just a voice on the phone
to you."
"No," I tried to interrupt.
"Zebulon, I said listen to me," Iris commanded. "You knew a long time ago that a voice
on the phone was all I was ever going to be with you. You've found a real live woman to
be with you. A woman to come home to; a woman to care about you when you are away.
You cannot -- cannot -- let a voice on the phone come between you and that kind of life."
"Maybe I'm willing to," I said weakly, with some defiance.
"I won't let you."
"You don't have a choice," Iris replied, and I saw tears on her face, the face I couldn't
otherwise picture or imagine. But I knew there were tears.
"Are you saying you won't call me anymore?"
Iris paused. "I'm saying I won't stand between you and this woman of yours. I'm saying
you need to take this chance, not let it get away. I don't want you to look back at her
years from now and regret not having given her your full attention."
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"I told you -- I don't have regrets," I said, trying for a light tone.
"That's right," Iris agreed, similarly attempting to sound jocular. "The man with no
regrets."
"So you see…"
"It's fitting, don't you think?" Iris interrupted. She no longer was trying to be light.
"What?"
"Our first phone call was at an airport too."
I was silent, taking that in. I felt this was on dangerous ground. "Don't say it, Iris. I
need to talk to you. Let's talk about something else," I said, desperately trying to stall, to
not let her end the conversation. "Let's talk about the Vista job."
"Sounds like a great job. What's the problem?"
I thought about it for a second. "What if I don't want to settle down?" I asked. "It seems
so…so mundane."
"Zeb, we're talking about being the head of a big company, marrying a beautiful
stewardess --"
"--Flight attendant," I corrected automatically.
"Whatever. You and the princess, settled in some mansion being lord of the manor.
That's not mundane -- that's a soap opera."
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"It just sounds ordinary," I objected, knowing I was grasping at straws.
"And you never wanted to be ordinary, right?"
"Right," I admitted.
"Only you would call being a CEO ordinary."
"Ha." She had me there; I was being pretty stupid.
"Wouldn't your father want you to run your own business? Doesn't he have a business of
his own?"
She had a point there. I never, ever wanted to work in my father's store, much less take
over from him. I think it always made him a little sad neither of his sons wanted the
business. I saw enough of his life, never really able to stop thinking about work as he
struggled to keep it successful. I guess I hadn't fallen so far from that tree after all, but
at least I wasn't selling hammers. Yeah, I was selling widgets; big difference. He was
proud of being the boss and owning his own business, and never quite understood me
working for other people in some company he just saw as a faceless organization. I kept
telling him that the cool thing about my job was that to me they did have faces, that I
actually knew the people who made all those decisions. He still didn't get it, but this he
could understand. "Maybe," I conceded.
"You know," Iris said, in a tone that was both instructive and sympathetic, "people who
are different don't really need to worry about proving it."
It sounded deep, like something you'd read on a fortune from a fortune cookie, but -- like
those fortunes -- I wasn't really sure what it meant. "Meaning?"
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"I mean they just are who they are. They don't care what people think, and they don't
have to show how different they are."
I looked away, a gesture she surely could not see but perhaps could sense. "Is that what
you think I've been doing with my life?" I finally asked.
"That life you described at Christmas, that homey little Mayberry life you said you never
wanted to live. Maybe that's the life you really want. Here's your chance."
I didn't want to think that she was right, but lacked the necessary agility to dodge her
point. I was sure that in the coming hours I would think of lots of objections that were
both clever and witty, but that was later. I didn't want that life. I'd escaped it long ago,
and every time I went back to visit the wisdom of my choice was confirmed. Iris was
simply wrong. Or was she? What was she getting at? I focused my full attention on the
wall in front of me, as though staring at it would bore through the walls and the miles
into wherever she was. I wanted to see her.
"And where are you in that…ordinary life?"
Iris sighed, a long slow breath of air that seemed to deflate her like a balloon. "I'm not.
You'd have someone in your life who'd be waiting for you to call and tell her how your
day was. Someone who would stay up until you got home. Someone you'd think about
you all day when you were away."
Tracy would do all that, and more. She'd fix our house up to be a real home. She'd
surprise me with little presents; she'd take trips with me. Iris had a point -- it would be a
nice life. "Can't I have all that and still have you call?"
A long pause. "No," she said finally. "I don't think so."
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I began to feel slightly desperate, ridiculous as that sounds. My world narrowed to the
patch of wall in front of me, the sounds of the airport blurred into white background
noise. I strained for those mental images of Iris that had fleetingly come to me, but all
was black. "Why did you pick me to call, that first time? Why me?"
Iris laughed. I hadn't expected that reaction, and it annoyed me. "That's funny?" I asked
peevishly.
"No," Iris replied, the laugh dying away into something else. "It's not funny."
"Then why were you laughing?"
"I didn't choose you, Zeb."
"You didn't?"
"No. You chose me."
That was revisionist history if I'd ever heard it. I made a face. "You're crazy. How
would I choose you? You called me, remember?"
"Yes," Iris said, her voice cool and slightly teasing. "but you picked up the phone."
I took a deep breath, but didn't have any words to say. How could I respond to that
logic? I wasn't getting any closer to solving my little life dilemmas with this semantic
mind puzzle. Iris sensed my hesitation.
"Figure out what you want, Zebulon," she said quietly. "Don't pick now to start having
regrets about your life. You keep worrying about the wrong thing."
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It seemed to me at this point that I had even more things to worry about than I'd started
out the conversation with. "And what is the right thing?"
"You keep worrying about taking that job, or about me stopping calling."
"So what should I worry about?"
There was a smile on her face, I was sure, but so wistful that "smile" wasn't really even
the right category to put it in. I could just make out the sadness of that expression, like
the Cheshire cat, when Iris finished. "Tracy, of course. Figure out what you want to do
about her and everything else will be clear."
I was almost out of cards. Iris was leaving me, wanting to stop talking to me forever. I
didn't want her to stop her calling. I played my last hand.
"That first time, I said, with my voice perilously close to breaking. "You asked me to
save you. You can't stop until I've done that, right?"
I had one last flash of Iris's face, then the picture went black. She was smiling, tenderly
and sadly as only she could. I wished I could see the rest of that face. She spoke, and
then the phone went dead. "You did save me."
Chapter 33
The next morning, safely back at home, I rowed halfway across Lake Michigan. Well, it
felt like it anyway, a hard forty-five minutes on my rowing machine. From how drenched
with sweat I was at the end you'd have thought I had actually been in the water. The
advantage was that I got all that effort without having to turn around and get back. I
could just stand up and walk away.
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I felt restless that morning, and later on went for a walk. I went under the North Avenue
underpass and sat by the stone chessboards by the lake. It was a grey day, with clouds
covering the sky. There was still snow on the ground, but it was slowly starting to give
way to the warmer temperatures. The temperature was almost forty, which seemed like a
heat wave. I was content to sit and watch the lake. There were low waves crashing into
the cement pier that ran between the Oak Street Beach and the North Avenue beach. The
water crashed over the edge of the pier, and slopped over the edge. A few degrees colder
and that would be a sheet of ice. Aside from the occasional person walking their dog,
and the constant steam of cars behind me on Lake Shore Drive, I had the place to myself.
The view never failed to thrill me. Lake Michigan is so much like Chicago -- flat and
generally featureless if you really thought about it, but the sheer size and relentless nature
of each gives them both a character far beyond their actual features. The interplay of the
brooding lake and the city's edge is what made the scene so interesting. Steel canyons in
Chicago or anywhere else soon lost their fascination, and I must confess that if you put
me at the Grand Canyon I'd be interested for about ten minutes before wanting a burger
or something civilized. But this picture, with the bold buildings of Chicago's skyline
sitting daringly along the shore of the fierce lake, was something I could watch for years.
I loved the marquee of The Drake, the best signage in the city. I wondered how long it
would be before some big hotel chain saw more value in their own brand than in the
Drake's, and replaced the sign with something more topical. Give it another twenty
years, and maybe the John Hancock Building or the Sears Tower would be renamed by
some flavor of the decade. Hey, Margaret would slap TDK on them if she got the
chance.
I loved Chicago. I'd hate to leave it. It had everything I could hope to have in a city. But
when you really thought about it, how much time did I really spend here? I was out of
town more than I was here. I knew my way around pretty well, knew the right
restaurants and clubs here, but there were lots of cities about which I could make the
same claim. I barely knew my neighbors, and was about as likely to run into
acquaintances in other cities as I was here. I could go on my little jaunts around the city
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for the rest of my life and still not cover most of its real neighborhoods. I might know
where people lived but not how they lived.
I wasn't from here. I lived here, but I wasn't from here. I didn't grow up here; I didn't
have a history here. Hell, I didn't even have any friends or relatives anywhere on the city
payroll -- no cops, no firemen, not even an alderman or precinct captain. How could I
pretend to be from Chicago?
Dayton would be different. It'd be life in the suburbs, but I'd seen enough of Neil's
neighborhood to know that life wouldn't be so bad. Sure, there'd be no more walking to
the grocery store or a place to eat, no more stepping outside to hail a cab, but there were
compensating advantages. Maybe the winters would be milder.
I could have a life in Dayton. I could see coming home to a wife, and for the sake of
argument I used Tracy as the image. It looked like a nice life. I thought of my childhood
and my dad's life. He was a big man in that town. In a town like Chicago he'd be a tiny
businessman, known only to his clients and a few neighbors. There when he walked
down the street people knew him, stopped him on the street to chat. He was on civic
boards, had served on city council. My life might be like that if I took this job, a big fish
in a smaller pond. Several hundred people would work for me, would look up to me.
Politicians would come to shake my hand, and continue to hold their hand out in hopes
I'd fill it with contributions. I'd belong to the country club. I could come to Little
League games, the way Neil had appeared at the soccer game, to watch my kids play.
People would respect me, and I could enjoy that while I watched my son -- or daughter --
play. I remembered Neil's face, and I remembered my father at my games, and I thought:
that life might not be so bad after all.
I'd missed Jeffrey's growing up. I'd missed his first words, his first report card. I'd been
around when he took his first steps, but had been on the road so much I didn't really even
experience that. He was probably old enough to be playing baseball now, and a man who
was not his father but whom Jeffrey thought of as his father would be the one cheering
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him on with irrational pride. At least, I hoped he would; Jeffrey deserved it from
someone if it wasn't from me. I'd missed those thrills of fatherhood. I could get those in
this new life, this more sedentary but responsible life.
It agitated me to think so seriously about leaving. I was already missing Iris. My

sentimental side refused to believe that our conversations were over, but my rational side
knew it was true. My rarely used heart versus my hard head; it was no contest. I just
wished I could figure out why she lied to me about saving her. I'd done her no good that
I could see. She was now back to where she was when I'd first answered that airport
phone, a good woman alone somewhere looking for someone to talk to. Iris had made a
bigger impact on my life than I had dared admit to myself, and certainly not to her. Hell,
I should have pleaded with her to save me, maybe that would have kept her from sending
me back to my grey little world out here. I could understand her not wanting to interfere
in what seemed to be developing between Tracy and I, but that wasn't her problem. It
was my problem, and I would have gladly taken that heat from Tracy. But I couldn't
shield Iris from whatever feelings she might associate with Tracy's role in my life --
whatever that was or was going to be.
I stood up and started walking south along the lake, keeping my distance from the cold
water that snaked its way up towards me in unpredictable lunges. I was heading
inexorably towards the warmer confines of Michigan Avenue, which reminded me that
tonight was my Valentine's Day celebration, a few days early. I had a date with Tracy
and nothing to bring to it. Walking made me mindful of Iris's admonition to figure out
what I wanted with Tracy first. I needed to figure out if she was a placeholder in my
fantasy, or the real deal.
"Well, Mr. Romeo himself," Patsy's voice said. "Looking for a Valentine's present?" I'd
found myself standing inside her store, my feet having led my here while my mind was in
its reverie. If I needed a Valentine's present, this was as good a place as any.
"I know it's last minute…"
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"You never need an excuse to stop by, Zeke. What can I do for you?"
I didn't really know, and with a practiced air she led me around the store, suggesting a
necklace here, a bracelet there. Earrings to match. "Same girl as the necklace, or new
girl?" she asked along the way, deftly displaying a new piece as she probed.
"Same girl."
Patsy hmmed, and I thought her movements grew a little more forced, although the smile
on her face never faltered. She knew I was normally a quick shopper, with a practiced
eye and definite taste, so this indecisiveness was not typical. Everything was quite nice,
but nothing really appealed to me. I gazed around the store for inspiration.
"Wait a minute," I finally said, as something in a case we had not looked in yet caught
my eye. "What about these?"
Patsy raised her eyebrows and gave me a cockeyed look. "Zeke, those are engagement
rings."
I took a deep breath. The world was suddenly rushing by too quickly. It came to me in a
rush what I needed to do, what I wanted to do. I didn't know why, but this was the time.
"Show me a few," I commanded with more assurance than I felt.
Patsy took several rings from the case, and set them in front of me. We discussed
several, using her lovely hands to model them. It felt weird, slipping an engagement on a
woman's hand, and Patsy's coquettish smile didn't make things easier. She was slowly
and subtly encouraging me towards the more expensive ones. I watched her game, she
watched me watching her, and we both pretended it wasn't happening. But, in the end,
one of the ones she was steering me to did, in fact, look much nicer than the others. It
looked very chic on Patsy's hand, and I could picture it on Tracy's. The ring had a rock
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that would have our future neighbors talking over their fences, with a platinum gold band
that shouted "he loves me," or at least "this is expensive, so he must care about me." I
thought about Tracy's phony wedding band that had kept me fooled for so long, and had
to suppress a smile. There'd be no mistaking this ring.
Patsy was wrapping the ring up. "I must confess, Z, I didn't think you'd go down this
quick."
"What can I say?" I responded gallantly. "The bigger they are…." I shrugged.
She smiled, eyeing me with that calculating eye some women get. "Are you going to
propose on Valentine's Day?"
I hedged, shifting my weight as though that might dodge the question. "We'll see."
Patsy was done wrapping, and we conducted our business. I gave her my credit card and
she ran it through the machine. I wondered if my credit card company would be vigilant.
Hmm, Zeke Clarke is buying an engagement ring? Surely a theft of some sort. Then
again, to them it was just another piece of jewelry on Valentine's Day. They didn't know
what the purchase was for, only that it was expensive. A bit more than on previous
Valentine's, but not off the radar scale.
Patsy handled me my card back, and held on to it a couple seconds after I'd taken it. She
finally released it and pushed the sales receipt towards me for signature. "Are you sure,
Zeke? It's not too late." I thought she was teasing but I wasn't entirely sure.
I paused before signing. "You think I shouldn't get engaged?"
Patsy coyly raised an eyebrow. "There's lots of women in the world, Zeke."
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She was flirting with me. I could tell by the tone of her voice, by the subtle way her
weight shifted slightly towards me, making me aware of her breasts under the sweater.
She had a long, loose shirt on, and I had this flash fantasy of taking her in the back office,
lifting that skirt up and making mad love to her on her desk. It was just a flash, but by
the look in her eyes I suspect that my face betrayed me as her body had betrayed her.
"Are you one of those women, Patsy? I thought you were taken."
I spoke in a light tone, so that no one could be offended if they overheard and so that I'd
have a plausible denial available. Patsy didn't seem offended. She smiled
encouragingly. "Sometimes women like to be fought over."
The bell at the door rang as the door opened, breaking our scene. Timing is everything.
As fate would have it, it was apparently her snooty boyfriend. He gestured with a bag he
was holding. "Lunch, Pat," he said with a proprietary tone.
Patsy winked at me. "Just a minute, love. Take it in the back and I'll be along after I
finish with Mr. Clarke here." I wondered how well she had known when to expect him,
whether her flirting had a built in safety value.
Mike gave me a suspicious look, but he dutifully went on back. I was left with the
unsigned receipt and a pen in my hand. "Where were we?"
"You were about to break the hearts of women everywhere," Patsy said dramatically.
"Most of all in Chicago."
I looked towards the back, where Mike had disappeared. "Your lunch is getting cold."
"So it is." She held my gaze levelly, no smile now.
I looked down at the receipt. The ring really was very nice, and I'd already picked it out.
If I changed my mind now, we'd have to pick something else out, and wouldn't that look
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stupid? Besides, there was probably soup on her desk in the back, to say nothing of
Mike, dashing my fantasy.
I signed it.
Chapter 34
Tracy and I had dinner at Gordon. If you don't know Chicago, or have never been there,
then you may not know about this restaurant. It is an experience; wonderful food in an
atmosphere of unique ambiance. I had to use lots of chips to secure a desirable table on a
Saturday night, and so far it was worth it. The evening was going fine.
I wish I could describe what we had to eat, but it was all a blur. I know we had several
courses, plus a very fine bottle of wine, and I know we sampled each other's plates. I am
quite sure it was all very delicious. But I don't remember ordering or what anything was.
I don't remember seeing anyone I knew. I don't remember exactly where we sat.
I do remember Tracy's face, glowing in the candlelight. Her hair was pinned up with a
clip, and she wore the necklace I'd given her at New Year's. It looked as lovely tonight as
it had on New Year's Eve. She had on a black cocktail dress -- your basic little black
dress, simple yet elegant. It had a high neck, but left the upper part of her back exposed.
It was a sight to walk behind her, watching those muscles move under her smooth skin. I
alternated between admiring her calves and her back, when I wasn't simply enjoying the
sway of her hips. She was one lovely woman.
I wore a suit, and in the pocket of that suit lay the box holding her ring.
It weighed my suit down. The weight of it seemed far in excess of the size. Somehow it
felt reassuring, the weight of a solid life, the life that lay ahead of me with Tracy at my
side. It was a small box, and fit in the palm of my hand, but I worried the bulge would be
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visible to Tracy. It seemed like it must bulge out obscenely, and I half expected people to
stare. I hated to ruin the lines of a good suit, but I needed it close at hand in case the right
opportunity presented itself.
The conversation was animated, Tracy more so than me. Maybe it was the wine, maybe
the celebration, maybe just the mutual pleasure of the company, but her face shown with
pleasure. I could have just watched her mouth move, mesmerized by her lips and white
teeth. I held up my end of the conversation, but I was operating on automatic pilot. The
part of my mind that wasn't gaping at her beauty was thinking ahead, to the look on her
face after I'd proposed, yet also to how Margaret would react. I pictured living with
Tracy, life in our new roles after I took the Vista job. I hadn't quite worked out if Tracy
would keep on working in her current job -- which would be more difficult from there --
or if she'd settle in to be the lady of the house. The idyllic life I'd started to sketch in
while on the lakefront began to get painted with more delicate details. I was past cars and
beginning to think about children when Tracy interrupted me.
"Earth to Zeke," Tracy gently chided me. "I thought I lost you there for a second."
"Sorry."
"Thinking about work, no doubt," she said dryly.
"In a way," I replied mysteriously. We studied the dessert menu and judiciously agreed
to split one. We had some coffee to warm us for our reentry to the outside.
It occurred to me that Tracy never told me she missed me, nor I her. We sometimes
talked at night, but mostly to iron out logistics, not to connect. I guess our pattern had
gotten established early on, when I thought of her as another man's wife whose presence I
was borrowing for a short period of time. I had no rights to her then, and had not
bestowed any on her. The truth is that sometimes I did miss her, and I always was glad to
see her. But I hadn't figured out ways to tell her that; doing so would upset the routine.
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She might miss me terribly when we were apart, but she was one of these strong girls
who would just endure the pain rather than sharing her feeling with me. That might be
some macho violation, some breach of the code we had unwittingly established. I
wondered if we would break out of these habits, or if we would allow them to calcify into
a hardness that we did not now feel but might come to.
"What a wonderful dinner. This is the nicest Valentine's Day present a girl could ask
for," Tracy signed contentedly after we polished of the cake.
I smiled at her, touched by her genuineness. I did miss her when I hadn't seen her in
awhile, and I should tell her. Still, the words would not come. Instead, I said, ''just wait."
Tracy looked impressed. "Hope you can live up to that," she said with what I'd have
called a leer had the genders been reversed. I just smiled, pleased that my little secret lay
safely in the pocket of my suit, growing heavier by the minute in some odd twist to the
laws of physics.
Well, I'd obviously blown my chance to propose in the restaurant. Besides, if I was going
to do that I should have worked something out with the maitre d'. He could have brought
the ring with a bottle of champagne or a piece of cake, something unexpected. The
people around us would have watched in open curiosity, and maybe even applauded
when she'd said yes. I had no doubts that she would say yes.
Proposing in public like that had its merits, but I was not a very public person and I
supposed I'd resisted taking advantage of the romantic dinner to do so. We finished our
coffee, paid our bill, and got our coats. Stepping outside, the valet asked if we had a car
or wished a taxi. I suddenly had a great idea. The grey skies had cleared and the evening
was crisp and clear, with temperatures still above freezing. Tracy had a long coat with
her that looked warm, and was wearing moderately practical shoes.
"Want to go for a walk?" I suggested. "Burn off some of these calories?"
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Tracy looked at me sweetly, then looked out at the sky. "Great idea. Where to?"
We declined the valet's offer, and headed south on Clark. Tracy took my arm and held on
tight, her presence comforting and warm. We soon passed over the Chicago River, and
headed east along Wacker Drive. The sidewalks were clear, the wind wasn't much, and
the air was quite bracing. I hoped it would help shake off some of the effects of the bottle
of wine we'd polished off at dinner. I didn't think I was affected by it, but I was feeling a
little more impetuous than usual. Propose? I'd bought a ring practically on the spur of
the moment and a few hours later I was getting ready to propose! I was way past
impetuous.
A few other hardy couples were also out, the weather kind of a heat wave for this time of
year. Chicagoians know to take advantage of these intermissions while we can. We
nodded our acknowledgements to the passers-by, polite but non-engaged. I felt like we
were strollers from a hundred years ago, out for a civilized promenade, when walking
was considered normal and there was no television to keep most people indoors. It was
very civilized, very sedate, just strolling at night in unexpectedly nice weather. None of
the people we saw knew that, in my raincoat pocket -- I'd transferred it from my suit
jacket for quicker access -- was my little hand grenade, the rock that would rock my
world.
"Ever think about kids?" I asked idly.
Tracy turned her head. "Usually that's the woman's question, isn't it?"
I smiled. "Yeah, I suppose so. A bit early, I suppose. But while we're there…"
"Sure, I think about kids. I think I'd be a good mom."
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"I think you'd be a good mom too." I wasn't smiling, telling her that as sincerely as I
could. I meant it, too.
Tracy gave me an odd look, not sure how to react to this maternal turn of the
conversation. "Why do you ask?"
"Must be the wine," I said, pretending to be flippant.
We reached Michigan Avenue, and I paused at the bridge. One of my favorite sights was
the Tribune Tower and The Wrigley Building, standing guard on opposite sides of the
foot of the Magnificent Mile and illuminated with bright spotlights. No fireworks or
laser show, just distinctive old buildings showing off their character. Michigan Avenue
itself was lit with thousands of tiny white lights supplementing the normal streetlights. It
was well past Christmas but the lights gave the Avenue a festive air. Chicago in the
middle of winter needed all the festive touches it could accumulate. We stopped to
admire the view properly.
"It's beautiful," Tracy said in awed tones. "I never get tired of it." I agreed with her, and
put my hand around the box. It felt warm and square, the shape of my future sitting there
hidden in my pocket. The only thing was, I didn't have the words. I'd thought during
dinner and on the walk over about how people would react after I'd proposed, but had
conveniently skipped over the proposing itself. It wasn't like she'd be expecting it,
making it easy. I was normally quick witted but words weren't coming to me now when I
needed them most. I stood there pretending to take in the lovely sights while I searched
desperately for how to bring up the topic, how to introduce the ring without looking like a
fool.
"Do you ever think of moving?" Tracy asked, breaking my concentration. "I mean, I
know you travel a lot, but do you feel connected to all this?" She indicated the scene
ahead of us, and, by implication, all of Chicago.
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"Funny you should ask," I said, sensing an opportunity.
We'd used the "L" word a couple weeks ago. In prior generations sex equaled marriage,
and that combination was expected to lead to something called love. In these days of
divorce and premarital sex, marriage was out of those equations, and expressions of love
were called upon to replace marriage as the trade-off for sex. People proclaimed love as
quickly as junior high school kids developed crushes, and often felt out of love as quickly
as well. It didn't mean that you actually did feel love, or even really knew what it meant.
It was just expected. Maybe I did really love Tracy. It felt different this time -- but, then
again, it always feels different while you are in it.
We'd now talked about love, we'd talked about moving, we'd even started talking about
kids, and here I was about to introduce the big "M" -- marriage. So why I was suddenly
so concerned about a little "m?" Why was it that we had never said we missed each
other?
The bridge was fairly quiet, with only a few other passers-by sharing the beauty of its
view with us. As Tracy and I stood admiring it, I caught the eye of a woman walking
past us next to an older gentleman, walking side by side without actually touching each
other. She was several years younger than he was, but I wasn't sure if she was a daughter
or a second wife to him. They could have been just friends. There was something
striking about her. Not beautiful in any classic sense but definitely striking. I'd say she
was forty, maybe forty-five, of medium height and slender build, but with unusually clear
skin and animated expressions. Her hair was covered with a hat, and she had on jeans
and a long black leather coat. It was a casual outfit but she looked good in it. Much to
my surprise, she glanced over and we made eye contact.
She held my eye a few seconds, looking at me with frank curiosity. Her companion
didn't seem to notice, spellbound by the same sights Tracy was lost in. It wasn't exactly
flirting, nor was it any kind of obvious invitation. It was more like she knew me, like
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she'd recognized me and was waiting for me to respond. I matched her stare and rapidly
ran through my mental rolodex, but I kept drawing blanks.
She might be an old business acquaintance, or a friend of a friend. Maybe she just
thought I was cute. Normally I might have smiled, or at least tipped my head in artificial
acknowledgement, but I was standing here with my fiancée-to-be and the engagement
ring waiting in my pocket. Nodding to a woman I didn't know on a public street late at
night seemed like a bad idea. The mystery lady seemed to be disappointed. She smiled a
sad little smile, then turned her head and walked away with her friend.
This all happened in the space of a few strides, in the flash of a couple of seconds. My
hand never left the box in my pocket, holding on to it like a talisman to keep me
grounded.
"What is it?" Tracy asked, noticing me watching the couple depart.
"Nothing," I said. I turned to face her, holding her hand and keeping my other in my
pocket. "I thought I knew her."
Tracy watched her cynically. "All these women. Are we going to run into old girlfriends
everywhere we go?"
"Tracy," I started.
It was time. The moment was right. The place was right. I was ready. I clutched the
box tightly, ready to bring it out to seal the deal. For some reason, though, the stranger's
face appeared in my head. She might be the first of many women I'd have to pass on
getting to know better. Patsy was right. There were a lot of women in the world. I
looked over at Tracy's innocent yet lovely face, and was comforted that shrinking my
female universe to just her was a good idea. Did I really think I'd ever do better than
Tracy? The mystery woman was striking, but not that striking. Patsy had her charms,
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but none was enough for me to have made a move on her long before this. Tracy was as
good as I could reasonably expect to get, and better than I deserved. She was beautiful
and fun and easy to talk to. There was no other woman I'd known that I had gotten along
so well with.
It occurred to me that I never did know what Iris looked like. I knew her voice, and
thought I knew her as a person, but I didn't know what she looked like. I didn't know her
age or ethnic background, aside from what I might have deduced from any verbal clues.
I didn't know what color her eyes were or what long her hair was. I knew she was
beautiful, in her own way, but didn't know if physical beauty accompanied her kind of
spiritual beauty. My mental picture of what happened on the other end of those calls
always faded out before I could get those kind of details.
"Tracy," I started again. My palm was sweating slightly as it held the box.
The thing was, Iris could be anyone. She could be anyone walking by me. She might
pass me in the airport, at a restaurant, in a cab on a busy street. She might even walk by
me on a quiet bridge late at night. Would we recognize each other simply by the karma
that had brought us together on the phone? I liked to think so. There was just too
powerful a connection between us to have us be physically near each other without
making some kind of contact. The universe wasn't that cruel a place, was it?
What if the woman I'd just seen had been her, and I'd missed our chance to actually meet?
She'd told me that we would never meet, but sometimes the universe happens in very odd
ways. Look at the odds of us ever connecting in the first place. All those hours in all
those airports, with all those phones, and the one time I took a chance to pick one up like
that it was her. I glanced over the bridge, but this stranger had disappeared. It almost
certainly wasn't Iris, but I'd missed my chance to find out. Fate wasn't going to put her in
my path like this again.
280
"What?" Tracy asked, bringing me back to reality and awakening me of the future that
stood here with me demanding to be created.
I hesitated a second. The box with this precious ring, this ring that would change both of
our lives, sat there like a lump of coal. Its mass now felt overwhelming, an anchor
pulling me down. If I were to jump into the Chicago River below right now, the ring
would surely pull me down to the bottom. Tracy would probably jump in after me, brave
girl that she was, but I feared even her powerful swimmer's strokes would not be able to
lift us up with the weight of this ring drawing us down.
I looked at Tracy ever so carefully, then slowly released the ring's box from my grip. My
hand swam up out of my pocket like an underwater diver coming up for air.
"Nothing," I said. "Shall we walk?" I took her arm and started across the bridge
affectionately. "I want to tell you about a special friend of mine."
Chapter 35
Two months have passed. I'm in a hotel room in Los Angeles, sitting in the semi-dark. It
was late at night, and the flickering television was, again, my only company. I sat there,
unable to sleep and hoping against hope that the phone would ring. When I looked out
the window at the endless array of lights, I was reminded of the fact that I hated most
about LA. Not the smog, not the superficiality, not even the endless sprawl. What I
hated most was that not thirty miles from here Jeffrey was sleeping in a house I'd never
seen. I turned back to the television.
I did not propose to Tracy that February night, nor any night since then. We are still
seeing each other, but standing there on that bridge I realized I'd done exactly what Iris
had warned me against. I'd pictured the life I'd lead if I took the Vista job, then put Tracy
into it to see how she'd fit. The bottom line, though, was that I wasn't ready to get
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married. Tracy and I knew each other well, but not well enough to take that step. I do
believe I love her, but I want to play out the unraveling of the unknowns between us. We
went down a false turn in the road, and got to know people who were like us but who
were not quite actually us. We have some backtracking to do first, and Tracy seems fine
about letting things play out in their own time. She's calm like that, bless her.
I think the end result will still be me standing somewhere proposing to her, with a long
life together after that, but we owe it to each other to enjoy going down the real road at
the same speed. I don't imagine I'll ever fully know her, but, then again, you never do.
Part of love is a leap, after all.
The ring sits on a bookcase in my study, enough out of sight so that she'd not likely to
spot it if she's there, but positioned so that I can see it if I look just right. It sits there as a
beacon, as a symbol of a life I might still lead. Someday -- just not today, or next week.
I didn't take the Vista job either. Margaret took the news thoughtfully that following
Monday, but she didn't try to talk me out of it. ""Really?" she'd said. "If that's what you
think best." That was all she said about it. I'd come prepared for a long discussion, and
perhaps could have been convinced against my better judgement. She didn't even try. A
couple of days later she named someone else as the Vista CEO. In true Margaret fashion,
she'd had a back-up plan all along. A week later I resigned from TDK, and that
engendered more of a reaction. She looked genuinely sorry, and shook my hand warmly
before turning her high performance brain on to next steps.
I didn't resign because I thought she would fire me out of revenge for turning down the
job she'd offered me. I resigned because I knew things would never be the same between
us. She'd never trust me in quite the same way, would never include me in her inner
circle in the same way. I'd had a shot at the brass ring, and I'd not grabbed for it. She
could never understand that.
282
Margaret named Jason as my acting replacement. "Man, thanks," he'd said to me over the
phone when I'd called him to congratulate him. "You're some big shoes to follow, but I'll
do my best." Typically, he didn't sound too intimidated about the prospect. I thought
him too young, but that's what people had thought of me when Margaret had taken a
similar chance on me. Time would tell.
I work for Neil now. He founded Alpha Enterprises, a start-up company that is going to
make Project Alpha commercially successful or kill him trying. I figured he needed help
in raising money, and if there's one thing I know, it is people with money. Besides, I
could still live in Chicago and keep on travelling. So I go around the country and try to
convince venture capitalists to take a chance on us. Matt has pledged a few million from
his company, proving again that you never know when helping people is going to pay off.
We'll be OK. Neil has a great track record, and Alpha will work. We just have to
survive these next few months.
I think Neil likes to believe that I choose to be more loyal to him than to Margaret, and I
kind of hope maybe Margaret sees it that way too. That's better than her thinking I just
don't have the stuff to take a CEO job. Tracy just figures I wanted to keep travelling.
Maybe they are all right, in their own ways. It's like the parable of the three blind men
with the elephant. Each can describe it from their point of view -- all different, all valid,
but none really capturing the essence.
I am a nomad. I like being on the road, meeting new people and going to new places. I
like going back to places I've been too, seeing people I've known there, and moving on.
Those farmer genes for settling may have just passed me by. If I'm going to be mostly
waiting anyway, no matter what I do, I might as well be doing so on my way someplace.
But even desire for travel -- Tracy's best guess at my motive -- still misses the mark.
Travel is no longer an end in itself. It's just a means to an end.
283
Those rats on the treadmill aren't getting anyplace, but they don't seem to mind. It's all
new to them. A more charitable analogy would be a small child, who can play the same
game, hear the same story, watch the same video -- over and over, again and again, until
adults are ready to lose their mind. They see newness in the familiar that we lose as
adults. Traveling is still like that for me. Amidst the travails and the homogenization of
the places I might end up, against the quiet in those late night hotel rooms, there is still
that which is new.
The truth is, I'm not ready to let mystery walk out of my life yet, to have it exit like the
woman walking away from me that night on the Michigan Avenue bridge. The mystery
in my life is coming to these distant hotel rooms not knowing if Iris will call -- not even
knowing who she really is or how she manages to call. The mystery is my wanting her to
call, needing her to call and comfort me that someone out there cares about me. Yeah,
maybe Tracy could or should fill that role, but she didn't, not in the way Iris had. I don't
want to solve the mystery. I just want it to continue. It would be almost as tragic for me
to understand all the facts as it would be to finally concede that I'm in these rooms alone.
I figure if I travel often enough, if I visit enough of these little rooms in enough of these
towns, then Iris will realize that I'm out here alone, and will find me. I refuse to accept
that what we had is going to end in a call at the Denver airport, without her not knowing
what was to become of my life. She'll have to break down and call, don't you think? So I
hit the road and wait, sitting alone in the dark each night hoping the phone will ring and
that it will be her. Someday it will be, I'm sure of it. I hope.
It's funny. Tracy didn't really seem all that surprised about Iris. Once she had
ascertained Iris was not a rival -- at least not in any conventional sense -- she became
solicitous about Iris. I think she was happy I'd befriended her, and kind of curious about
her real story. Still, I wondered if she secretly was envious of that unique connection.
Perhaps she wishes she'd called me more late at night, or that she'd been more vocal
about telling me she missed me. But she's wise enough -- wiser than I would be, if the
situation were reversed -- to know she couldn't expect to be all things to me. I have more
284
than one room in the house of my heart, and Iris should live in it. Like Iris once told me,
in a different context, Zeke and Zebulon each have their own interests here.
Indeed, it has occurred to me that, somehow, maybe Tracy is Iris. Thinking back to all
the clues, I figured that it wouldn't be impossible, just unlikely. Perhaps they are flip
sides of the same person, like Zeke and Zebulon within me. It would make my life
easier, but even if they are I'm not sure I want to know. I like having Iris out there
beyond my reach, outside my everyday life. For once in my life, I like not knowing. I
need the mystery to add the spice to my life.
I finally know how I saved Iris, or at least why she thinks I did. She now knows that,
wherever she is, wherever I am, someone out there is thinking about her, hoping all is
well with her. She knows that I'll be that someone as long as there is a breath in my
body. That's a wonderful feeling, don't you think? It definitely counts as saving for
someone like her -- or me -- who spent too much time alone.
I think she wanted to stop the calls because she was afraid that Tracy would usurp my
caring about her like that. Cutting off the calls meant she'd always be able to believe that,
and never risk seeing a slow loss of interest. She should have known better. The
connection between us -- the closeness, the intensely personal conversations, even the
ability to have those almost telepathic flashes of what was transpiring on her side of the
phone -- didn't have anything to do with Tracy and I. They weren't related to love or sex
or marriage or anything like that. Yes, it's Tracy who warms my heart, and increasingly
it is Tracy who keeps me company or welcomes me home -- but it is Iris who keeps me
from being alone on my long nights away from home.
What I should have asked Iris was to save me. As close as we were, I'm not as confident
that she's out there thinking of me. I hope she is, and I like to think she is, but I don't
know it, not in the way that I believe she knows the reverse about me. She may have
relegated me to her past, as someone she holds in her heart but no longer knows. And I
hate that. I keep believing that she'll feel my need for her and call. That hope of the next
285
phone call is what makes my life on the road bearable. It's what makes the waiting
worthwhile.
There's one thing I can no longer wait for, something I have to do before I can consider a
different life, the kind of life with Tracy that I had started to imagine. I'd told Iris long
ago I didn't believe in regret. Either fix the situation or leave it behind, that was me. It
sounds simple enough, like an extreme self-help philosophy, and I did my best to live up
to it. But there had always been a big hole in my practice of that philosophy, a gap I
didn't admit even to myself until these recent events forced me to realize it.
I have some things from my past to fix. I can't leave them behind and I can't ignore my
obligations. Maybe "obligations" is the wrong word, because these are things I need to
do -- for myself, not because there is anyone who expects them of me any longer. I have
years of neglect to try to make up for. I know it won't be easy, but I'm game to try. I
know Tracy and Iris would both approve if they knew, and I'm wondering if I'll ever tell
them. If Iris called tonight, I'd surely tell her. If all goes well tomorrow, I might try
telling Tracy, but we'll have to see.
It took some detective work to find out what I needed to know, but tonight I'm in LA for
a reason that, for once, doesn't have anything to do with work. I'm as terrified and as
excited about what I'm going to do tomorrow as I've ever been in my life. I have run
through all the possible scenarios, from complete failure or humiliating embarrassment --
to some kind of redemption that I don't deserve but can still hope for. It's out of my
hands. All I can do is try.
You see, there's a certain Little League game that I'm going to go see tomorrow.
THE END
286

Phone Calls Late at Night

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Phone Calls Late at Night

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Phone Calls

Copyright © Kim Bellard 2001

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The ringing of the payphone across the corridor startled me.

"Hello," I answered cautiously, picking the phone up quickly.

"Help me," the woman's voice said simply.

"Excuse me?" I said stupidly, not sure I'd heard correctly.

"-- in the Charlotte airport," she interrupted. "Yes, I know."

"My friends call me 'Zeke' or 'Z,'" I told her somewhat reluctantly.

We both dutifully looked back in the coach section.

"Do you know where 24E is?" she asked nervously.

"Oh, I couldn't do that!" she protested. "That's too much trouble."

But I never got used to the quiet.

sought me out at a conference, and we established a relationship, beginning the pattern of

"What do you think about Vista?" Margaret asked, watching me carefully.

"What do you think of Neil Kincaid?" Neil was Vista's CEO.

"Neil's brainy, all right," Margaret said.

I walked up Clark Street to one of my haunts, an eclectic restaurant just south of

I left some voice mails and fell asleep to Letterman.

"Yes?' I finally prodded, knowing there was more.

"His banker, from Goldman."

"They're brokering a merger," Kathleen gasped, finally grasping it.

"Corporate box," I corrected her. "No big deal."

"Having fun?" I inquired.

The Pacers won, to my small pleasure. Everyone gathered up their things.

She nodded. "And if he's right?"

"Maybe," I conceded, but the wheels were turning in my head.

"It's a free country."

"Easy: Marvin Hamel."

That threw them. "Who the fuck is Marvin Camel?"

"Or like you could even find us," another added.

"That was Wild Bill Hickok, I think."

"I guess that's how a man knows he's getting old."

"Or your car," Tracy offered generously.

Tracy laughed. "I'm no Kelli."

She touched her hair unconsciously. "You think I'm beautiful?"

Tracy surprised me again. "We've met before, you know."

"You were working that flight?"

"Doesn't your husband mind you being gone so much?"

"Dozens. Hundreds. Maybe thousands," I replied deadpan.

"So, those guys in the men's room…"

Now she laughed. "And it's a nice ass!"

"I'm not that kind of guy."

The phone woke me.

”Hello?" I said tentatively.

"Not Kelli. Guess again."

"Of course. Who's Kelli?"

"You think there's a lot of Zebulons in the world?"

"Enough," I said firmly.

"It's not possible…"

"I found you." Her voice brooked no uncertainty.

"Did I wake you?"

"I dozed off."

"Is it dark there?"

"What are you watching?" Her voice was interested.

I watched for a few seconds. "Oh, Katherine Hepburn."

"Is it 'Philadelphia Story'?"

"So what's going on?"

"Oh." She had a pleased tone of recognition. "'Holiday.'"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Hey -- he just did a back-flip," I reported incredulously. I saw no signs of a stunt

"Sure," I responded automatically. I thought for a moment, then conceded. "Maybe

I could sense her nodding in approval again.

"Afraid of what?" Iris asked, not missing a beat.