Later, Alex came softly into his parents’ bedroom and lay across Bill’s chest.
A DAY OF REST
When Bill awoke the next morning, the tingling and numbness had progressed up his arms. This condition he ignored for the time being, concentrating instead on the pleasant damp of Melissa’s head against his shoulder. She had clung to him in the bed without letting go, dropping off to sleep only after the dawn. For a few moments, he kept his eyes closed, listening to her shallow breathing. His first waking vision was the illuminated dial of the clock on the vanity. In the dim light, he could barely discriminate between the clock and its reverse image, reflected in the mirror beside it, so that he saw two clocks. Sleepily, he watched the two second hands rotating in opposite directions and wondered what the world would be like if it ran backwards, whether progress also would run backwards, with modern automobiles dissassembling themselves into Model T’s, and those into horses and buggies, everyone becoming dumber and dumber. Then he noticed the time. It was 10:26. With a shriek, he leaped out of bed, switched on a lamp, and began pulling drawers from his dresser. A clean shirt.
“What are you doing?” Melissa moaned and sat up. Her eyes were puffy with exhaustion. “Come back to bed.”
“I’ve got meetings,” Bill shouted. He struggled to insert buttons into buttonholes with his numb fingers. In his mind, he was already recalculating his day’s activities based on a late arrival. He would telephone Jenkins immediately. “I’m leaving.”
“You can’t,” said Melissa. She got out of bed and wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her head into the small of his back. “You need to rest,” she mumbled. “You’ve been bashed in the head. And I need to rest. I want you here with me.” Bill pleaded, but she would not release her grip, her fingers dug into his skin. He turned around and kissed her on the forehead, then on the lips. She began sobbing.
“Melissa.”
“Don’t make me beg you.”
“You’re up,” Virginia hollered suddenly, just outside their bedroom door. Bill could hear her heavy body bumping against the closed door. She began knocking brightly. “We’re so relieved that you’re okay. All of us are so relieved.” Then she released her goose-honk laugh, which both Bill and Melissa felt had contributed to the departure of her husband.
The knocking continued and Melissa walked unsteadily to her closet, where she put on the cotton trousers and short-sleeved beige shirt that she wore on days home in the summer. As she dressed, she called out instructions to her sister. Janie would need to be told that Melissa wasn’t opening the shop today. Janie would also need to delay a delivery of cane chairs from an auction in Salem and reschedule an appointment at Friar’s of Boston. Already, Melissa had slipped into the southern drawl that she used with her sister.
“Janie has already called twice,” said Virginia through the door. “She wants to know if she can come by and pick up the keys from you. For just a few minutes. She needs to get something she left at the shop.”
“Ask her to wait until tomorrow. I’ll be going in tomorrow.”
“You have three other messages. A woman at the Concord library wants you to give a talk about eighteenth-century New England furniture. She heard you speak somewhere else. And two messages for Bill.”
“Who called me?” Bill shouted and hurried toward the closed door in his pajama shorts. “Did you write them down?”
“They’re on the tape.”
“Are you sure there were only two?” He began hunting in the writing desk for paper and pen.
“I’m not sure,” said Virginia from the other side of the door. “You’ll have to listen to the tape.”
Melissa, now dressed, glanced at herself in the vanity mirror. “I look awful,” she whispered. “Don’t I.”
“You just need some sleep,” said Bill. He went to the window and pulled back the damask drapes.
For a few seconds, Melissa worked at her face at the vanity. Then, with a weary toss of her arm, she swept the little bottles and jars clattering into the drawer and slammed it shut. Swaying on her feet, she opened the door.
Virginia plunged in immediately, huge and stubby, her loose summer dress lagging behind her. “Give him some warm oatmeal with milk,” she said to her sister, referring to Bill in the third person even though he sat on the edge of the bed. “Do you have any oatmeal? That used to calm Frank down.” She peered behind herself, into the hallway and over the banister. “Remember to be gentle,” she called to her children, Jennifer and Todd, who were downstairs riding Gerty like a horse.
Melissa sighed and sat down on the bed with Bill and clenched his hand. “Virginia, you ought to run on now,” she said. “You’ve been a help. I can make the calls.”
Virginia stood her ground in the doorway. She plucked a handkerchief from under her sleeve and dabbed her damp face. “I don’t know why they don’t have air conditioning up here,” she said. “It’s just as beastly hot as it is in Fayetteville.” She paused and stared at her sister, her eyes moving from Melissa’s face to her slender arms and waist. “But you never sweated that much, Missy.”
Melissa started to say something but began rubbing her swollen eyes. “Before you go,” she said to Virginia, “mum’s the word on all of this. Absolutely mum, and I mean it. You haven’t talked to Janet, have you?”
“Janet is visiting her latest loser in Cincinnati. With her kids.”
The telephones began ringing. By reflex, Bill and Melissa both lunged for the remote phone on the blanket chest. “Hi, Marlene … I’m not feeling too well this morning … No, I can’t do it … Maybe tomorrow … Yes … Tomorrow.” There were screams from downstairs and Gerty came scrambling up the stairs and crept behind the washing machine in the utility room. Melissa suddenly stood up, as if something downstairs demanded her attention, and walked to the doorway. She would not let go of Bill’s hand and pulled him with her.
“When’s Dad getting up?” called Alexander from his room at the other end of the hall. “Isn’t he up by now?” Alexander’s door opened a crack, letting fly a torrent of rap from a Puff Daddy CD. Jennifer and Todd began battling over the TV downstairs, and the door to Alexander’s room slammed shut, sending the red “DANGER” sign crashing to the floor. A few moments later, Alexander threw open his door wide, with a shout of “En garde!” He was outfitted in a steel-mesh face mask, white jacket, white glove, and white shoes, all purchased within the week, and he brandished a foil. “Sir,” he called down the hall to his father. “Would you care to fence with me? You can find an extra weapon and mask in the mud room of the castle.”
“Doesn’t Alex look handsome in his new outfit?” said Melissa. “He’s been waiting to fence with you.”
“You do look very handsome, Alex,” said Bill.
“Sir, appearances do not concern me,” said Alex, who was small like his mother and had the bony, off-center head of his father. “I’m a fighting man. Now, to your weapon. Quarte.” The boy flipped his sword hand over and gripped the foil handle from the top. He retreated a step, advanced down the hallway, leaped into the air, and with a deft thrust of his sword knocked over a stack of the week’s New York Times, still rolled up in their blue plastic wrappers. The telephones began ringing.
“Did the guy who mugged you have a weapon?” asked Alexander. “A knife? Or a pistol?”
“I don’t know,” said Bill. “Maybe a pistol.”
“Then they can get him for assault with a deadly weapon.
What did he look like?”
Unprepared for this line of questioning, Bill shrugged his shoulders.
Alexander had taken off his face mask and was staring steadily at his father. Something was not right about him, Alex seemed to sense that. He hesitated, then went back into his room and closed the door.
There was more screaming downstairs, from the kitchen area this time, and the doorbell rang. From nowhere, Philippe launched himself into the hallway and skittered down the stairs, with Virginia running after him. The musica
l voice of Doris, the cleaning lady, boomed into the house. “Everybody’s home.” Doris stood at the bottom of the steps by her vacuum cleaner, straining to hear what Melissa was saying to the police on the telephone. “It’ll take me an extra two hours today,” said Doris. “You know what I’m saying? You’ve had guests, haven’t you. And everyone is home. What is Bill doing home in the middle of the day? He should at least hide his car. Bill, can you hear me?” She started her vacuum cleaner.
Bill looked at his watch again. It was 10:45. Communications would be coming in from the West Coast. He threw on a bathrobe and hurried down to the kitchen. “Where’s the bread?” he shouted. There was no time for breakfast. He slammed the refrigerator door closed. Notes and memos rained to the floor, notices of meetings, claim slips and receipts, chiropractor and podiatrist appointments, calls to return from the answering machine.
Upstairs, Bill sat at the French country writing desk in his bedroom, eating airline crackers that he had saved from a business trip and staring at the screen of his laptop. Messages from Plymouth were already stacked up and arriving.
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>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: MITRAK at PLYM.COM
====> Received: from BUSTER.INTER.COM by INTER.COM with NIO
id AQ06498; Thur, 26 Jun 9:46:36 EDT
for
[email protected]; Thur, 26 Jun 9:46:42 –0400
Press * for message
>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: MITRAK at PLYM.COM
Dear Bill,
Having learned from Robert this morning of your ordeal, in which, ultimately, that is to say, sometime last night I presume, you got home not too badly bruised, I was overjoyed and gratified to learn the same. Mugged!!!! Where are you? We’ve been worried like hell about you. Regards, George
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To: George Mitrakis
From: Bill Chalmers
Subject: Re: Your message
Hello George. Thannks for your E-mail. I’m working at home today. Melissa insisted. I’m fine. I’m going to reschedule the B & B and the TEM meetings. I’ve already been in touche with Kurt Hendredon and Christine Johnson. Please let Harv know the B & B account is on track. I beleive can get everything I need for the Trague review today.
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>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: Unknown at Unknown.Com
==> Received: from RING.AOL.COM by AOL.COM with GOTP Make Big ### Online, Publishers on Computers [email protected]
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>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: Theroux at PLYM.COM
====> Received: from BUSTER.INTER.COM by INTER.COM with NIO
id AQ06498; Thur, 26 Jun 9:50:12 EDT
for [email protected]; Thur, 26 Jun 9:50:38 –0400
Press * for message
>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: Theroux at PLYM.COM
Dear Bill,
We’re alll glad to herr th at yo’re OK. Robert played your message over the intercom this morning. I’d like you to do me a favor. You know Mike Gaffey better than I do. He was supposed to send me twenty megabytes by 9am today and he sent only ten. that man is a male chauvanist pig and I don;t want to soil myself with him again. Cank you send the asshole a message and tell him he gets 10 more megs to me or I’m cancelling his accoutn. Thanks.
Lisa
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>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: MITRAK at PLYM.COM ====>
Received: from BUSTER.INTER.COM by INTER.COM with NIO
id AQ06498; Thur, 26 Jun 10:52:42 EDT
for [email protected]; Thur, 26 Jun 10:52:52 –0400
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>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: MITRAK at PLYM.COM
Dear Bill,
If I were you, I would not kill one’s self working today. In regard to the Trague review, furthermore, that is not to be worried about. Everything at the office, and with most particularity the Trague review, is here at the office being managed satisfactorily. Take the day off. Regards, George
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To: Robert Jenkins
From: Bill Chalmers Subject: The Trague Group Review
Robert, pleae have Dolores E-mail me Trag.dat1. It may not all fit into my machine here. I think I can hold about 100 megs. Trag.dat1 was 3 gigabytes the last time I checked on Moidnay It may have grown since then. Is there anyway we can swap 100 megs at a time in and out of my machine? Thanks for evrything.
Has Harvey Stumm said anyhng about my missing the B&B appointment yesterday?
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>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: Rossbane at PLYM.COM
====> Received: from BUSTER.INTER.COM by INTER.COM with NIO
id AQ06498; Thur, 26 Jun 10:52:31 EDT
for [email protected]; Thur, 26 Jun 10:52:35 –0400
Press * for message
>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: Rossbane at PLYM.COM
Dear Bill,
I was worried about you. We’re very glad you’re back. You are back, aren’t you? Your office looked dark the last time I passed. Diane
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>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: Jenkins at PLYM.COM
====> Received: from BUSTER.INTER.COM by INTER.COM with NIO
id AQ06498; Thur, 26 Jun 10:53:06 EDT
for [email protected]; Thur, 26 Jun 10:53:17 –0400
Press * for message
>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: Jenkins at PLYM.COM
Dear Mr. Chalmers,
Mr. Stumm hasn’t said anything about your missingi the meeitng yesterday. But then he wouldn’t. I’d be careful. Please delete this message. Robert
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Bill was having difficulty at the keyboard. He could not feel the keys. Two keys at once. Missed keys. Faster, he needed to go faster, he had so much to do. And he was so far behind. How could he go faster? He regarded his numb hands and arms with a strange disconnection, almost a contempt. They were dead limbs protruding from the trunk of a tree. Every few minutes, a wave of tingling would surge down his arms from his shoulders, prickle in his fingertips, and then flow up again. Otherwise, there was no sensation, no heat, no cold, no quivering of blood, no pressure inside or out. He scraped the point of a paperclip across the skin of his forearm, making white lines in his flesh, and felt nothing. What an ugly marvel that his fingers and hands could move without feeling, like remote-control toys on the other side of the room. Press a button here, they jump and twirl there.
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>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: JOLSW at OLS.COM
==> Received: from RING.AOL.COM by AOL.COM with GOTP
id AQ06498; Thur, 26 Jun 10:55:29 EDT
for [email protected]; Thur, 26 Jun 10:55:32 –0400
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>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: Olswanger at OLS.COM
Dear Bill Chalmers,
I’ve been leving you voice-mail messages since yesterday, without any response, so I thought I’d try this. Did you know about the expected merger of Teneco and ChicagoCorp? They’re opening a new products line, but they knowless than nothing about patterns of consumption This could be very lucrative. I know that you’ve had ealings with Teneco in the past. Do you want to play? Plymouth would love you for this, and so would I. We need to make thema proposal by 4 pm EST. (I’m in Los Angeles today.) Jasper Olswanger
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>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: BERT at BAZEN.ATS.COM
==> Received:
from RING.AOL.COM by AOL.COM with GOTP
id AQ06498; Thur, 26 Jun 11:01:19 EDT
for [email protected]; Thur, 26 Jun 11:01:42 –0400
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>>> MAIL 50.02.04 <<< From: Bertolazzi at BAZEN.ATS.COM
Dear Mr. Chalmers,
Regarding that argumant we were having about candy bars last week, I looked it up on the internet
(MarsInc.com). Milky Ways do not have nutts. Almond Joys, Snickers, and Baby Ruths have nuts.
Best wishes, Bruno Bertolazzi
Melissa hurried into the room, closed the door behind her, and went into the bathroom. “Virginia is driving me crazy,” she whispered. “She says she might stay until lunch.” Melissa came out of the bathroom and slumped across the bed. “I just wish I could sleep.” She let out a groan of exhaustion. “Silvia Tournaby came over and asked me for Ralph Turgis’s telephone number. She wanted to know how much he was charging us for the bay windows. She brought some fish that Bob caught last weekend, a present for us. And the Cambridge police called and said that someone can pick up your briefcase at the station. But they need you to fill out a report.”
“Can they e-mail the report to me?”
“I don’t know. Why are you hunching over like that? Do you need more light?” She got up and moved the tin-box lamp closer to the keyboard. “Doris wants to know when she can get in here to vacuum.” Even at that moment, the vacuum cleaner was revving impatiently in the hall. “Bill.”
“I can’t think about that now, Melissa.”
“I’ll tell Doris to hold off a half-hour. A half-hour, okay? That should be eleven-thirty.” Melissa left again and closed the door.