Bill sighed and looked for a place to sit down. He was mulling over his conversation with Melissa.
“Alex, Alex.” A group of two boys and two girls, all with streaked hair and jammed together in a booth, motioned for Alex to join them. One of the couples was clenched in a kiss.
“Do you want to sit with your friends?” asked Bill as he slid into an empty booth. “I won’t mind.”
Alex shrugged his shoulders. “No, this is okay.” Alex tried to look out the window, but all of the windows had fogged up with the rain, so he contented himself with emptying the little packages of salt on the table.
A man and his two children flew through the door, the bell jingling. “It’s an oven in here,” he said and hurried up to the counter.
At the sound of the voice, Bill looked toward the counter and saw his friend Stephen Roe. “Stephen.”
Stephen, unrecognizable in his raincoat and drooping hat, turned and grinned broadly at Bill. “Caught in the act,” he said. “Don’t tell Maggie you saw me here getting junk food.”
“Maggie out of town?”
“Yep. She’s at some academic convention in San Francisco. You up for tennis on Saturday? I’ve got court time.”
“I’ll give you a call,” said Bill.
Stephen grinned again. On his way out, he said hello to Alex and patted Bill on the shoulder.
As the jingling subsided, Bill thought to himself that he should have been more friendly to Stephen. He turned to his son, his precious Alex, and smiled. “I’m glad we’re sitting together. I enjoy your company.” Alex nodded in acknowledgment and began to run his fingers through the mounds of salt, making designs on the Formica tabletop. Unconsciously, Bill glanced at his watch and looked toward the counter. A light sheen of rain lay on his head like a silk handkerchief and on the collar of his suit jacket, glistening in the fluorescent lights. As he brushed himself off, the rainwater smelled fragrant and cool. He felt relieved to have gotten out of the house, able for a few moments to forget about himself and his problems. “I’ll check on our pizza,” he said and made his way across the scuffed wooden floor to the counter.
“Number 90, small pepperoni and cheese,” shouted one of the sweating workers as he lifted a pizza out of the oven on his paddle.
“Is it still raining, Mr. C.?” asked Katie, the girl who had greeted Bill earlier. She went to the oven to see if his pizza was ready. Bill found himself pleased at the way Katie referred to him and followed her with his eyes. She was a chunky, pretty girl, rosy in complexion, with strands of hay-colored hair that could not be held in by her bandana. The red glow from the ovens and the heat made her face even rosier. Bill had seen her at Marcello’s for over a year, since she wore braces.
“Yes, Katie,” he answered, “and the weatherman says it’ll rain all evening. Which means nobody knows.” It then occurred to Bill that Alex and Katie should get to know each other. They seemed about the same age. He glanced back at Alex, who was sitting alone at their table, and then at Katie. Two other teenaged girls were flying about behind the counter, sectioning pizzas and answering telephone calls, and Bill leaned toward Katie as discreetly as possible. “Tell me, Katie,” he said in a low voice. He hesitated. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Boyfriend! Thanks but no thanks, Mr. C.,” Katie answered bitterly, ignoring the snickers of the other girls. “All the guys want is to see how much they can get off you.”
“Oh, of course,” Bill mumbled in embarrassment. He grimaced, thinking to himself that Alex was worth a dozen of those boys at the other booth. But there was nothing he could do now, for he had clearly stuck his foot in his mouth.
“No problem,” said Katie. “Your pizza will be ready in five minutes.” Bill ducked away quickly and rejoined his son at the table.
“I’m learning Chinese,” said Alex, with a note of pride in his voice. He looked up from his salt drawings as if to make sure his father had heard him.
“Really,” said Bill, smiling. “Really. I’ve never heard of anyone your age learning Chinese.” Bill muttered something about how he regretted his own lack of languages and that he had once known a little French. But Chinese, that was something.
“Brad says that the Chinese will take over the world,” said Alex, “and we should be ready for them.” He shook his rainhat. “I’m not sure I believe him. Brad is such a liar sometimes. What do you think, Dad?”
Bill thought for a moment, grateful to be asked his opinion. “I don’t think the Chinese will take over the world,” he said. “But it’s always good to learn a new language.” He nodded approvingly. “You’re really something, Alex.”
“I saw on the Net that the Chinese have a population of 1.2 billion,” remarked Alex, “and sixty-one attack submarines.”
“Where do you find all of that stuff?” said Bill. “Sixty-one attack submarines.”
Alex nodded and glanced over at the group of two boys and two girls, who were noisily leaving with their pizzas and drinks.
“Number 97, large mushroom and extra cheese,” Katie shouted.
“That’s us.” Bill rose from the table.
“Wait, Dad,” said Alex, catching his father gently by the arm. “Look at this.” He pointed to one of his figures made of salt. “That means man in Chinese. See how it looks like a man. There’re the two legs. There’s the middle.” For a moment they stood together, gazing at the figure in salt, then Alex shrugged and swept it away.
That night, Prozac in his brain, Bill woke up a half-dozen times, with piercing dreams in between. In one, he was receiving a piano lesson from his old music teacher in her dark little room, barely large enough for the piano and the standing brass lamp and her chair. Utter stillness, the smell of camphor and old clothes. The sound of a clock. He could see the thin skin on her temple, throbbing as she bent over him on the bench. “Listen,” she said, smiling with that angelic smile of hers, and she played the Chopin prelude for him, slowly, slowly. Each note was a lifetime. “Do you hear the sorrow?” She said that he should think of a funeral procession. But he had never been to a funeral. “Listen.” He closed his eyes, dreaming within his dream, and listened to the languid notes of the music. Faces appeared, his mother, his father, his grandmother whom he’d never met. “Do you hear the sorrow?” He listened harder, strained to hear the sorrow, and said that he heard it, lying. Certainly, she would know that he had not heard it, she would know. Yet he wanted so much to please her. Her angelic smile, her round face, her bigness beside him.
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>> MAIL 50.02.04 << From: Petrov at MGH.HARVARD.EDU
====> Received: from TAR.HARVARD.EDU by HARVARD.EDU with BFP
id AQ74078; Wed, 6 Aug 9:13:36 EDT
for
[email protected]; Wed, 6 Aug 9:13:52 –0400
Press * for message
>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: Petrov at MGH.HARVARD.EDU
Dear Mr. Chalmers,
Tej attahed file contains an ectremely interesting article from the New England Journal of Medicine that may relate to your illness. Note graph VI in particular.
We proceed on all frontts.
Sincerely, Armand Petrov, M.D.
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>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: ACHALM at AOL.COM
==>Received: from RING.AOL.COM by AOL.COM with GOTP
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MESSAGE LOCK OVERRIDE
>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: Alexander at AOL.COM
Dear Dad,
I figured out that there are 20 possibilities for the first move of each chess player. I almost fogot the knights. That means there are 20 × 20 = 400 different ways the board can be afater the first move on both sies. It’s over 10,000 after the second move. Is that stuff you’re taking working?
Alex
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>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: Fred at Noplace.Com
==> Received: from RING.AOL.COM by AOL.COM with GOTP Orlando Vacation Give Aways,
[email protected] ————————————
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>> MAIL 50.02.04 << From: Petrov at MGH.HARVARD.EDU
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>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: Petrov at
MGH.HARVARD.EDU
Dear Mr. Chalmers,
Your myleogram is back, and I see nothing askew int he reslts. We have a number of options. There is good informatin to be gained by abiopsy, although this is an invasive procedure and contains some risk. Also, more blood workk would not be without reward.
I would also like you to consider a PET scan (Positron Emission Tomography), which is state-of-the-art medicine and a highly sophistaicated uhion of nuclear physics, biiochemistym and advance computer technology. The CT and MRI can only iindicate anatomical structures, while the PET measures metabolic activity. MGH is one of only a handful of medical centers in the world that have a PET facility, and I hav jpersonaaly worked wth the machine. Most insurance companies do nt cover PET, but I recommend it to many of my patients. Of course, the decision must be yours.
There is no reason to come in to my office. I look forward to hearing from you by E-mail, which is the best way to reach me. In the meanwhlke, I atach an intersteing article from Brain. Sincerely, Armand Petrov, M.D.
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>> MAIL 50.02.04 << From: Petrov at MGH.HARVARD.EDU
====> Received: from TAR.HARVARD.EDU by HARVARD.EDU with BFP
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>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: Petrov at
MGH.HARVARD.EDU
Dear Mr. Chalmers,
I thought you ight be intereted in seeing the attched message from Dr. Jeffrey Soames of the Mayo Clinic. I have taken the liberty of consulting withhim about your case and wil kep him apprised of al future developments and new findings.
Sincerely, Armand Petrov, M.D.
Attached file:
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RE: Case MGH 384930
Dear Dr. Petrov,
I have taken a look at the data for the above case and concur with your analysis at this time.
Jeffrey Soames,
[email protected] ————————————
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>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: ETM at MarbENT.COM
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id AQ74078; Sat, 9 Aug 13:02:13 EDT
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>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: ETM at MarbENT.COM
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Chalmers,
You are cordially invited to a party at my house, Marbopolis, on Saturday, August 16, 8pm until midnight. The address is 1 Pastomine, Weston. Regrets only.
I look forward to seeing you.
Sincerely, Ed Marbleworth
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LIFEIMAGES
“What will I wear?” exclaimed Melissa when Bill phoned her that Saturday afternoon. “Marbopolis,” she repeated in disbelief. “I’m going to have to buy a dress.”
“Your closet is full of dresses,” said Bill, clamping the telephone against his head as he sat dazed at his computer. Since midmorning, he had been reading without comprehension the journal articles sent by Petrov over the Internet. A dozen memoranda of his own were waiting in cyberspace.
“I don’t have any summer gowns,” said Melissa. “I’ve got only winter gowns. People will be there from New York. They’ll be wearing summer gowns.”
“Where are you? I can hear honking. It sounds like you’re in your car.”
“I just left Lexington Television and Appliance. I’m on my way to Virginia’s. But I’m going to call and tell her I can’t come. I need to get a haircut immediately. There’s just time for it to grow out. And then I’m going downtown to buy a gown. You need a new suit.”
“I don’t have time to get a new suit,” said Bill. He took a small sip from a glass of ginger ale, which he’d been drinking for intermittent nausea caused by the Prozac. Crumbs of crackers, his only lunch, littered the floor.
“You want to hang up, don’t you,” said Melissa. “Please don’t hang up. I want to talk. I’m on Route 2 now, I can talk.”
Why had they been invited? she asked. She would bet that with one stroke of the key Edward Marbleworth had invited all of the partners at Plymouth. But what did it matter how—they were invited. For years she had wanted to see the inside of the Marbleworth mansion, and at last she could have her wish. But how would she look, compared to all of those glamorous women? They had thousands to spend on maids and face-lifts and Versace gowns. They would think she was one of those ignorant southern women. Maybe she and Bill should stay home. They could say they were ill.
“How can we not go?” Bill said, wincing at the new page of text that had just appeared on his screen. “All the VIPs will be there.” And all the Plymouth people. They would certainly notice if he wasn’t there, George and Harv whispering to themselves and scoring their points. Tick, one for Diane. Tick, one for Nate.
“You’re always worrying about what people think of you,” said Melissa. “You can’t let those guys run your life.”
“You’re right,” said Bill, “they can’t run my life. Why should I let other people run my life? I’ve been letting those jerks run my life. Who are they, to run my life?” He stood up from his desk and began circling the small downstairs study, holding the phone against his ear. The wooden floorboards creaked under his feet. Suddenly, the light emptied from the room as a cloud passed in front of the sun, leaving the dark walls almost invisible and even more confining. He felt like he was inside a closet. “Dr. Kripke said I need to find places to let out my anger.” He paused, recalling his last ambiguous session with the shrink. “I should confront them, George and Harv, confront them at the Marbleworth party. They’d be out of their element.” He was angry, certainly, but exactly at whom he didn’t know.
“Ohhh,” Melissa said. “What do you mean, confront them? You have to be careful.” A confusion of honking and engine noises came through the phone.
“I can’t hear you,” Bill shouted. “What did you say? Speak louder.”
“You have to be careful,” shouted Melissa.
“I’ve already been careful. I haven’t said two words to them at the office.” For weeks, Bill thought to himself, he had been avoiding his colleagues as much as possible. He was fairly certain that his condition was no longer unknown at the office, although he wasn’t sure who knew or precisely what was known. No one had commented, yet the president and vice president surely knew something. Stumm had jabbed at Bill about falling behind, and the secretaries, so acutely aware of the ebb and flow, seemed to be giving him a wide berth in the hallway.
“I think I should let out my anger,” he said loudly. “A man has to respect himself.” He put his ear close to the phone, listening for Melissa’s reply, but heard only a roar.
The evening of the party, Bill came downstairs immediately after dressing, his anxiety clearly making Melissa more nervous and thus delaying their departure. As he paced the entrance hall, checking his watch every few moments, he stopped in front of the mirror and winced. His rented tuxedo fit him as well as could be expected, even making him seem more slender than he actually was, but it could not conceal his nauseous condition. His skin was pale and noticeably green. His face sagged. He knew that he was not
a handsome man, but now he looked positively wretched. In frustration, he stomped the floor, then reeled when a new wave of queasiness washed over him. What he hated more than anything in the world was waste, and tonight he was sure to waste a fine opportunity. Tonight, at such a gathering of the rich and the powerful, he could have made an important impression, raised himself up in the world. But with the bilious reflection he now saw in the glass, that was impossible. However, he did have his anger. His anger would serve a different end. Nauseous or not, he was prepared to confront George Mitrakis, or anyone else. Tomorrow he might even decide to have a word with Dr. Petrov, or dismiss him altogether for his impotent examinations and messages without so much as a provisional diagnosis. And the shrink, Dr. Kripke, whose only comment after the last session was that he would increase the dosage of Prozac from twenty to thirty milligrams per day. Kripke was useless. Again Bill stomped the floor, feeling better with anger. With a last adjustment of his black silk cummerbund, which he imagined he felt despite the deadness in his fingers, he turned away from the glass.
Just then his wife came down the stairs. She was gorgeously dressed in emerald and blue silk, around her neck the double strand of pearls with gold clasp that her mother had given her. Miraculously, all of the wrinkles and worry had vanished from her face, which beamed with a soft pink radiance. Bill could not remember her so lovely. “Melissa …” he exclaimed. She smiled triumphantly.
At that moment, watching her glide down the steps, Bill felt very much in love with his wife, and he wanted to take her in his arms and tell her so. But it was a quarter past eight. Barely stopping to leave Alex a note, they hurried out into the warm evening air and their car. Then, as he sat beside her, watching the lights along Route 128 dart over the shiny hood of the car, Bill forgot the moment on the stairs and began fretting about his intended meeting with George Mitrakis and Harvey Stumm. It would be best to engage them in some small parlor or secluded room, so that any loud noises would not disturb the rest of the guests. What would he say? Possibly, he would ask them to account for themselves. Yes, let them begin, let them attempt explanations, which he would seize upon and demolish. Bill stared again at the flickering lights. In the silence of his thoughts, with only the hum of the engine, he began to feel sad, quite sad, although he had no idea why.