the weight of days to come

TheThe WeightWeight

ofofDays ToDays To ComeCome

by

Kim Bellard

Copyright © Kim Bellard 2011All Rights Reserved

The Weight of Days To Come

Chapter 1

I looked in the bathroom mirror, still bleary from waking up, and I thought my usual

morning thought: “Christ, life is too long.”

My reflection in the mirror was the same man I’d been looking at for decades.

Chronologically I was fifty-five, but I didn’t really feel that old. It was hard to accurately

remember, but I didn’t think I felt much different than the twenty-five year old me that

used to stare back at me. Sure, I had a few more aches and pains, maybe a few wrinkles,

but my hair was still there, and not graying enough so that anyone would notice. Because

I woke up early and worked out several times a week, I was probably actually in better

shape than, say, the thirty-five year old version of me. So I didn’t really have much to

complain about.

I was not a particularly morbid person. I didn’t have any terminal illness that I knew of,

or even any chronic health issues to complain about. My doctor always told me to keep

up the good work at my annual check-ups, and when I looked at his other patients in the

waiting room I did feel mildly virtuous. My parents were aging but, for being in their

eighties, still in fairly good health, although they did have an impressive pill collection in

the kitchen and the occasional trip to the ER or minor procedure. My wife was uber-

healthy, and made my efforts look lame by comparison.

People thought of me – or, at least, I thought of myself – as a cheerful person. I talked all

day to people, and usually enjoyed it. Indeed, my livelihood depended on knowing lots

of people and having those people like and trust me. So if I were a gloomy guy I’d be in

big trouble. And yet at an increasing number of moments of reflection, I found myself

feeling I was ready for my life to be over.

I used to fear my doctor looking at me with a sympathetic expression during one of those

annual visits and telling me we had to talk. Lately, though, it wasn’t so clear if it was

fear or anticipation, stupidly hoping I’d hear that my body had pulled the plug somehow

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and would be calling it quits. So far, I’d always walked out of his office with a generally

clean bill of health, and the small sense of disappointment I felt was something I never

dared admit to anyone. I certainly couldn’t have explained it to them.

My face was wet from the water I’d splashed on it to help me wake up. It was a little

earlier than I normally got up, but my wife Karen had a business trip and was leaving

early, so I wanted to get up before she left. She’d actually gotten up an hour earlier to do

her workout; even when she had flights at the most ungodly hour she made sure she got

her workout done. She usually used a treadmill or the step machine, complemented by

weights and some yoga on alternating days. Karen was a year older than me but was the

most determined person I’d ever met when it came down to slowing the effects of aging.

And she’d done a tremendous job. No one would have guessed she was fifty-six. She

was a beautiful woman, her skin still soft and flawless. She colored her hair, of course,

and periodically varied the tint, length and cut to stay in style. Right now it was of

moderate length, but it has been as long as her shoulders and as short as a pixie cut over

the years we’ve been together. Whenever she went to her stylist I wondered what it

would look like when she came home. It wasn’t usually radically different, mind you;

she said her goal wasn’t to attract attention to her hair, but to make sure her hair didn’t

define her, and especially not to date her. Frankly, it was a little kinky to have these

variations, like having a different version of the same beautiful woman come home to me.

I was pretty sure I’d seen some science fiction show with that same premise, although

those women were probably androids or robots and Karen was 100% human.

“How you doing in there?” Karen asked, leaning on the doorway to my bathroom. She

held out a coffee cup towards me with an amused smile, and I wondered what she’d think

if I told her what I’d been thinking. It would be too hard to explain, I decided once again,

and smiled at her. Karen put the “O” in optimist, and looked on each day as an

adventure; the thought of death probably never crossed her mind, at least not for herself.

I’d started the coffee machine when I got up, and had been looking forward to some

coffee while I performed my morning absolutions. I wiped my face and accepted the cup

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gratefully, taking a long sip. I could feel the caffeine hitting my system, pricking me

further awake.

I didn’t have any particular reason to be wishing for death. It’s not that I longed for

death, not really. I had plenty to live for, including this beautiful woman. It was more, I

didn’t know -- I could see the years ahead, and I didn’t like what I saw.

Take my parents. I saw how my parents were no longer the people they used to be, just

frailer, shrunken versions of them, practically waiting for the next attack, the next

setback. They looked better than most of their peers, but certainly not than most of my

peers. When I was with them I often forgot how much they’d aged; it wasn’t until I

looked at old pictures of them, pictures of them young and vibrant, that I realized how

much they’d lost over the years. It made me wonder how much they realized it, or if the

gradual diminution caused a curious blindness about what had been lost. And that made

me wonder how much of a similar blindness I’d already suffered as well.

It wasn’t just my parents. Look at pictures of famous people from thirty years ago who

were startlingly not as attractive now; Sophia Loren still looked good, but only a fool

would take that version over her in her prime.

I just didn’t want to go through all that. Sure, most of those people still claimed to be

happy, but I had to wonder. Aging caused us all to slide down the hill, with some

people’s fall more precipitous than others, but it was always downhill and it always

ended up at the bottom. Dying young was the only way to avoid it. Weren’t we all glad

we could remember JFK and Marilyn Monroe as they were instead of seeing them totter

out wrinkled and feeble?

“It always cracks me up how you wash your face here when you’re just going to get wet

in the pool anyway,” Karen observed, her arms crossed over her chest. She was already

dressed for her trip, in a very professional pants suit that still managed to make her look

feminine and, if I may say so, sexy. Her low heels made her almost as tall as me, and I

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was six feet. She was pleasantly slim but not too thin, her years of exercising and

watching what she ate still winning the battle, and with enough curves to keep things

interesting.

The thing that distinguished Karen the most was not her physique, not her almost model-

pretty face with her bright blue eyes, but rather the palpable sense of energy she radiated.

It was like the room vibrated with energy, like she was a little generator humming away,

recharging everyone in the room. I’d seen her completely change the mood of a dinner

party or a business meeting, and that made it fun to go out places with her.

Still, I had to admit it was a little harder to take at six in the morning. I was not much of

a morning person, but I’d had to get used to getting up early since we first moved in

together. Even after all these years, I always felt like she was trying to jump-start me

while my body wanted to warm up at its own easy pace. It wasn’t anything I would

really complain about, not to her face anyway, so I just took another jolt of the coffee.

Either I was good at hiding my mood, or it was just something she couldn’t recognize,

like cats can’t see some colors. Karen inquired if I was about ready, letting me know

without saying a word that she was. Standing still this long was hard for her, especially

when she was ready to leave on a trip. I told her I’d be out in a minute, and she left to

finish her preparations.

I was convinced that separate bathrooms are the key to a successful marriage. Well,

maybe not the key, but at least a prerequisite. My first marriage had us enclosed in a one

bedroom, one bathroom apartment, and it blew up after less than five years. I believed

the bathroom situation had as much to do with it as did our relative immaturity, since we

were both in our mid-twenties at the time.

After I quickly brushed my teeth, I padded to the bedroom, only to find Karen had

already moved on to the dining room. I put on a pair of swim trunks and some

sweatpants over them, pulled on a t-shirt, slipped on some slides, and grabbed my gym

bag. I found Karen sitting at the dinner table, tapping away at her iPhone. Her suitcase

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and computer bag/briefcase – both of them sturdily expensive and aimed for the million

mile travelers -- were already neatly set up and ready to go. She looked up at me when I

came into the room. “Well, OK, then,” she said briskly, stowing the iPhone in her purse.

She stood up and gave me a quick kiss, aiming at my cheek instead of my lips.

“Anything big going on today?” she asked.

I wondered why the question hadn’t come up last night, and realized she didn’t have any

expectations about any radical changes in my routine. She knew I’d be here or around

here, plugging away at the usual. “My dealer is coming by around three with some coke

and some hookers,” I told her with a straight face.

“Yeah, sure,” she replied with a flash of a smile. “”You’ll have to call someone else to

bail you out if it comes to that.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I nodded towards her luggage. “Here, I’ll help you get these out

to the car,” I offered gallantly.

She rolled her eyes and smiled tolerantly. “I’m going to be lugging these around for the

next five days. I think I can manage to get to the car all right.”

“Nonetheless,” I retorted. I picked up the computer case and the suitcase, trying not to let

her see how heavy it felt to me. She pursed her lips tolerantly and led me out to her car,

where I dutifully put her luggage in the trunk. “So you’ll be back Friday night?” I

confirmed, not quite ready to have her go.

Karen flashed a quick smile. “If everything goes well.” She shook her head. “You know

the airlines these days. Everything’s a crap shoot.”

“Well, then, I hope everything goes well,” I replied lamely, not quite ready to have her

go. “We’ll talk before then?”

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She nodded. “Talk, text, email,” she agreed, pointing out our various technology options.

“You know how to get in touch with me.”

“Any sexting?” I asked hopefully, not really meaning it. She knew it and gave me a stern

look. “Knock yourself out,” she replied. “Can I show my friends?”

“I kinda saw it the other way around,” I pouted. She patted me on the arm. “I’ll bet you

did, stud.” She allowed a satisfied smile. “Maybe if I get really lonely…”

She looked down expectantly at her bags, ready to go, and suddenly the thought of her

getting lonely enough to send me a naked picture didn’t seem anything I should hold my

breath for. I mentally sighed and resigned myself to her departure. The truth was, in the

early years of our marriage I’d have taken her to the airport, and picked her up when she

returned. I would have known every step of her itinerary, and probably would have

arranged for flowers or a bottle of wine or some other surprise to be delivered at some

point of her trip. Maybe slipped a card into her suitcase so she’d have a reason to think

of me when she got to where she was going. But after almost fifteen years of marriage

and her being away almost two hundred nights a year, I’d grown out of that kind of

attentiveness. Maybe that’s why she thought it odd that I’d insisted on bringing her bags

out to the car. It served more to highlight the smallness of the gesture than to be touching

in itself. She had the traveling down to a science, knowing how to roll with the punches,

how to maximize her time, where to find the best meals, how to deal with TSA and the

airlines. I had her being away almost down to a science too, in some ways more

comfortable being home by myself than I was when she was around. I had my own

routines, my own ways of spending the days, and when she was home I sometimes felt

neither of us knew quite what to do with the other.

“Well, then,” I said awkwardly. “”Remember late afternoon today won’t be a great time

to talk, what with the coke party and all.” This time her smile seemed more embarrassed

than amused. It was kind of a lame joke, I had to admit. I stepped forward and gave her

a hug. I could feel her initially stiffen with surprise, before relaxing and hugging me

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back. We held that for a couple seconds and broke away as guiltily as a couple of young

lovers caught by a security guard. Or maybe it was more like a couple of neighbors

acting frisky at a party before realizing they’d crossed some line.

It was still early morning and Karen looked wide-awake and raring to go. I imagined that

she’d draw looks when she walked through the airport, that men on the plane would be

happy to have her sit next to them, and that she’d have offers of free drinks in any bar she

wandered into on her trip. I tried not to think about such things, but it was hard to banish

those insecure thoughts entirely. She was a very attractive woman. In the right light, and

at the right distance, she could pass for late thirties, or early forties at the worst. All those

workouts, scrupulous attention to what she ate, and her careful skin care had garnered

that. Nonetheless, we each carried ten or so pounds that we hadn’t had when we’d gotten

married, pounds that neither one of us were likely to shed. Her neck might not look like

it was fifty-six, but it was not the neck of a thirty year old woman either. Nor were her

hands aging quite at the same speed as her arms, for example. I thought she looked great

in a swimsuit, and in nothing at all, but even I’d feel uncomfortable if she wore a bikini to

the beach, Helen Mirren notwithstanding. Father Time marches on, and our years of

marriage had given him plenty of time to get a good walk in. We weren’t exactly

youngsters when we got married and I knew I looked back fondly at how young I must

have been then. I wondered what flaws of mine were more evident to her these days too,

physical and otherwise, and I hoped she still loved me the same nonetheless.

“I’ll miss you,” I told her, feeling certain there was some truth in that statement,

somewhere.

“Miss you too, love,” she replied briskly, her eyes bright but her mind already moving

away. She got in the car and pulled out of the garage. I stood and watched her until her

car turned out of our subdivision’s courtyard, wondering if either of us had meant what

we’d just said.

7


Chapter 2

By eight o’clock I was back at the house, at my desk in my home office and ready to get

to work. I’d swum for forty-five minutes, then had come home and gotten cleaned up. I

felt fresh and invigorated. After my nice, long shower I’d put on a fresh t-shirt,

sweatpants and a pair of sandals. Working from home had certain advantages.

I was a matchmaker. At least, that’s what Karen liked to kid me. I was what is known as

an executive recruiter. Companies hired me to find people for their jobs. I tended to

specialize in the pharmaceutical and biotech industry, which was pretty much a function

of where I knew the most people. Usually I only got hired for C-level jobs – CEO, CFO,

CMO, and so on. Executives, almost never anything lower than a Vice President title.

Ideally I got a percentage of the salary as payment, anywhere from twenty percent to a

third, but as salaries got up closer to seven figures the fee tended to get negotiated as a

flat fee. Any way you cut it, though, when I placed someone, it was fairly lucrative, and

that explained why I didn’t handle lower level jobs.

I ended up in the field by happenstance, as was often the case with careers. I worked in

Human Resources for a couple big pharma companies for about fifteen years, and in the

last few years of that I was involved in recruiting. I worked with executive recruiters,

hiring them to help me find external candidates, and along the way got fairly friendly

with several of them. When it looked like the company I was working for was going to

get gobbled up in an acquisition – which it ultimately did – one of the recruiters casually

asked me if I’d be interested in working with him. I liked the guy, I saw the writing on

the wall about my company, so I took a chance, and found I not only enjoyed recruited

but also was good at it. The pharmaceutical industry had a lot of turnover, and the

companies I had worked for were always losing talented people and hiring others, so I’d

ended up knowing a lot of people scattered around the industry. Best of all, I knew a lot

of people who were starting to rise to fairly senior positions in their company, and I was

able to convince a few of them to start using my services. After five years with the firm I

went into business on my own.

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Karen had a lot to do with that. She’d been a candidate for a big sales job at a client of

mine. I’d gotten her contact information from a source of mine, but it had taken the

better part of nine months to recruit her. She’d played coy about her willingness to

change jobs, but it didn’t take much in the way of psychic ability to tell she was

ambitious. And she kept listening, so I’d figured she was either interested in a job or – as

I allowed myself to fantasize -- in me, and either was all right with me. We developed a

nice banter as I’d called her every couple of weeks, getting to know each other better and

getting more comfortable with each other. I could tell she was smart and funny, and

she’d flirted just enough to make me think there was a slight possibility she might be

interested in me as a man, not just as a job source. She’d finally agreed to an in-person

meet, at the Admiral’s Club at O’Hare, and that was all it took. I’d seen her picture, but

as nice as she looked in those, they couldn’t capture her special vitality. That had been it

for me; I was hooked.

Karen did end up taking that job – with a nice bump in pay, some guarantees about

commissions in the first two years -- and a relocation to the Research Triangle. I kept in

touch, and she was friendlier than she had any reason to be. Somehow I ended up finding

a reason to fly into Raleigh a few weeks after she’d moved there, and she took me out to

dinner. Long story short, two months later I quit my job, moved to Cary, and started both

my own firm and getting serious with Karen.

It was something I’d never done before, and for a long time I felt bad about getting

involved with a candidate I’d placed. But mostly I’d figured the means justified the ends,

and it had worked out pretty well for my career too.

I booted up my computer. Once upon a time, recruiting was a paper, telephone, and

airplane business. The size of one’s Rolodex was essential, and it was tough to keep tabs

on what potential candidates were up to. They would change jobs and it could take

months to find out that they’d moved, much less getting their new contact info. The

phone bills were horrific. Nowadays, it’s all through the computer. Most people I kept

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tabs on were on Linkedin and/or Facebook, and my database was fully integrated with

those as well as with my smartphone. I could call from my computer, with video-

conferencing if needed, and bounce incoming calls to or from my mobile if I didn’t feel

like being near my computer.

The flip side of that, of course, was that it was easier for everyone to keep tabs on

everyone else as well. Clients could do their own searches for likely candidates, plus all

the various job sites made it easy for candidates to find jobs without an intermediary. It

was getting tougher and tougher to get assignments, especially exclusive searches.

To make things worse, many of my best customers were themselves getting to the age

where they were retiring, leaving the hiring decisions in the hands of people I might not

know as well or not know at all. It was tough all around.

Lately I’d found myself thinking more about retiring myself, especially at the beginning

of the day when I was first trying to get going. Once I actually started working, I usually

fell into my rhythms, but getting going each day seemed to be getting harder. Stalling, I

pulled up a spreadsheet with my financial accounts on it, and played around with some of

the projections. I debated anew about how long I might live, what kinds of returns I

could expect, and what assumptions I should make about Karen’s future income. I was

pretty sure I couldn’t afford to retire without her assets and income, and I wasn’t too sure

how she would react if I told her I was thinking about retiring. I wasn’t sure she would

ever retire. Or, if she did, she’d probably do something like running a non-profit or

consulting. I was pretty certain she wouldn’t end up sitting around the house, tending a

garden and playing tennis at the club. Me, on the other hand…

Of course, financing retirement would cease to be a worry if I were dead. Karen could

have my assets; she probably didn’t think much about them in whatever retirement

planning she might be doing, but they’d help make her life a little easier. We pretty

much kept our financial affairs separate, with some long-ago agreement about who was

responsible for which shared expenses. We made more money than we spent, by a good

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margin, so saving money wasn’t an issue and hadn’t been for some time. I’d watched

with dismay as my investments plunged during the recent recession, but I was back to

feeling all right about them. I tended to be a fairly conservative, long-term investor, so

I’d been able to ride out the market fluctuations, but I got nervous when I thought about

the days when there would be no new money coming in and I started to take money out.

What if I lived to be a hundred? It wasn’t impossible, not with my family’s genes and

modern medicine. I’d had an aunt go through all of her assets, living her final years on

Medicaid in a nursing home, and everything about that was pretty grim. I’d hated seeing

her slowly dwindle away, hated going there and seeing other residents even worse off,

hated the thought of being broke. She had finally died, of pneumonia, and I sometimes

wondered if she’d ever wished she’d arranged for a quicker demise before things got to

that sorry state, before she became a ward of nursing home employees to whom she was

just another failed body they were warehousing. Maybe that’s unfair to them, since some

of them actually seemed quite nice to the residents, but at the end of the day it was an

institution and the only place she was going from there was the cemetery, and everyone

knew it

That’s the thing of it; you never knew how bad things were going to get, or how long

they’ll go on, but you knew how it was going to end. The only way you could control it

was to make your own end. That is, unless Fate did you a favor and took care of things

for you early, which was the plan I was gravitating towards.

I made myself place a call, using a call list I’d worked on the prior evening. I’ve found it

better to have a definite plan for my cold calls, as I’d never gotten to feeling comfortable

with them, especially since sending emails was so much easier. I couldn’t do my job

without email, but, still, nothing beat actually talking to people. Responses from emails

were often less than satisfactory, especially when looking for new business, since it was

tougher for people to say no on a call than it was via email. If you can get to see a

prospect in person, better yet.

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The people I dealt with were all very busy. They tended to be in meetings a lot, so the

best times to try to get them were first thing in the morning or late in the afternoon. I

tried not to call them on their cell phones or at home, unless I was actively working on a

search with them, but that meant dealing with the assistants who saw it as their job to

filter people like me from their boss. “Hello, Bridget,” I said, reviewing my database.

“How is your day going?”

Bridget worked for the CIO I knew; I’d placed him a few years back and had done jobs

for him since. It had been six months since he and I had chatted, so I wanted to check in.

My database had details not just on when I last talked to him and what we talked about,

but also what his assistant and I had talked about. I liked to think Bridget’s voice perked

up some in friendly recognition when I said hello. “Hey, Marc, how are you?” she

replied. “My day is going great, thanks for asking.”

We chatted for a couple minutes, me trying to pretend I was in no hurry. I asked about

her dogs and her kids, in that order, and she gave me a quick recap, the details of which I

scribbled notes about so that I could input into the database after I got off the phone. She

sounded a lot more excited about the exploits of her dogs, which she exhibited in shows.

Finally I decided it had been a decent interval. “Is Hank around?”

Bridget paused for a second, although I was sure she knew exactly where he was and

where he was scheduled to be at any given time the rest of the week. She had to wonder

– was I calling to try to recruit him away, which could potentially be bad for her, or was I

looking for business from him? She didn’t come right out and say so, of course, but I’d

had this conversation a few thousand times and I knew how it was. I could almost predict

her response. “You just missed him,” she said, managing to sound sorry about it. “You

want me to tell him you called?”

“Nah, I’ll just shoot him an email,” I suggested. Some people I contact have their

assistants read their emails for them, which defeated this tactic, but I knew Hank was

religious about his Blackberry and would eventually see my email. Bridget knew it too,

12


and rather than letting him set up a time to talk on his own she conceded gracefully.

“You know, he’ll have a few minutes around five thirty this afternoon. Want me to put

you down?”

I accepted, having won this small victory, and we quickly wrapped up the details of who

was going to call whom on what number. I hung up the phone feeling good about the

call. I didn’t have a job for Hank, but I was hoping he’d have something for me to recruit

for. Failing that, we could gossip. Gossip was the currency of what I did – who was

going where, whose star was rising and whose was falling, which companies were

reorganizing. All of those helped me find my next contract or my next candidates.

After I hung up the phone and decided to take a break from making calls, I started

listening to a playlist on my computer. Over the years I’d accumulated a lot of music, on

various media – originally 45s and albums, then cassettes, and finally CDs, but by now

most of them had been converted to digital. I stored them on my Google cloud, so I

could play them from my computer or my phone. Karen was keen that I not keep the

physical versions as well, so except for a few treasured old albums – for which I no

longer even had a mechanism to play – I had to get rid of the source once I uploaded the

music. It had been hard to do, as there were lots of memories associated with not just the

music itself but also to the physical object I’d come to know it from. They were, in my

mind, almost one and the same, helping to place me in time to when I’d first listened to

those particular songs, as well as the person I’d mostly listened to them with. Karen was

not much for hoarding things, though, so when we moved in together she had effectively

campaigned to dispose of them. I had to admit that it was very convenient to have access

to all my music with a few keystrokes, and to be able to group any particular combination

of songs together in a playlist.

Still, on occasion I wished I’d hung on to more of the originals, something I could hold

and look at. Memory is a funny thing and tactile reminders do add details that otherwise

can be lost to time. The liner notes, the cover art, the order of songs; these were details

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lost to randomly shuffled digital songs. Call me old-fashioned, but I thought something

was lost there.

This morning I was listening to some lively music from the 1970’s. Guess Who was

playing; now, there was an undeservedly forgotten group, like Blood, Sweat and Tears or

Three Dog Night. I had to admit that the music I listened to most frequently tended to

come from the 1960’s or 1970’s, with some from the 1980’s and very little from later

than that. I didn’t know if the music changed, or if I had. I mean, it was easy to like the

Beatles, Elton John or The Rolling Stones; nowadays even young people knew of them

and listened to them. Lately I read about artists like Adele or Lady Gaga, and felt bad

about listeners who’d never heard, say, Linda Ronstadt in her prime. Artists like Dan

Fogelberg, Jim Croce, or Harry Chapin – all of whom died much too young – had great,

great hits that were more generational, and I felt in some obscure way that my listening to

them and other artists of my youth was a small way of keeping the music alive. The

thought had occurred to me that what I was trying to keep alive was my youth, which was

a lost cause.

Karen was very much the opposite. She didn’t seem too sentimental about the music

from her formative years. She tended to keep current. She listened to people like Jason

Mraz, Ryan Adams, Jack Johnson, even Jay-Z – those were a few I remembered the

names of, from recurring exposure, but she was constantly following new artists and

trying to convince me to get with the times. I always thought, but never dared to tell her,

that she was consciously or unconsciously trying to keep young by discarding music from

earlier days like a snake sheds its skin. My skin was thinner, or thicker, but in any case it

didn’t shed easily; it grew older and more calloused as time went by.

I reviewed my notes and updated my database, as well as marking my calendar for the

afternoon call. Then I noticed what I’d drawn on my notepad. I had this habit of

doodling while I take notes. I’ve done it since, oh, third grade or so. Sometimes the

doodle was very sketchy, nothing decipherable, but sometimes they ended up being very

elaborate, even taking up a full page; it was largely a function of how long I was taking

14


notes, or how distracted I was when I took them. This sketch was of Bridget – how I

imagined her to look, anyway, since I’d never actually seen or met her – having her dogs

jump over a pile of what looked, upon first glance, like logs. Upon closer inspection,

though, the faces of small children could be seen desperately staring out. Bridget’s

children were in their twenties, so the children in the drawing weren’t literally intended to

be them, but I supposed it implied I suspected she had ignored her children for her dogs

while they were growing up. Escher would have smiled at the kids-as-logs trick,

although not so much my technique. It was kind of creepy; I hoped Bridget never saw

this picture.

Sometimes Karen wanted to look at my doodles, which always made me very

uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure if they revealed more about me or the people pictured in

them. I wasn’t sure if she realized I not only often kept them, but also still had plenty of

ones I did during the conversations with her while I was recruiting her. Some of them

were, well, I had a little crush on her long before we actually got involved, so one can

imagine.

Don’t get me wrong: I was no great artist. I could never earn a living as a cartoonist or

even as one of those people who drew caricatures at festivals. I just enjoyed it. I liked

starting with a small nugget of a thought, then building upon it with more detail, more

shading, adding new shapes and people. You might not be able to recognize the subject’s

face, but you’d know it was a person and have a pretty good idea of what was happening

in the drawing. I enjoyed doing it and found it relaxing. It was kind of an art to switch

back and forth between actually taking notes and doodling without losing the thread of

either, and I liked to think that this was, ironically, my best talent. The few times I’d

tried to just sit down and sketch something had proved to be disappointing. It seemed too

pretentious or stilted, like I was taking it way too seriously. Better to do it unconsciously

and see what shows up on the page.

So I had a few hundred of them by now, from over the years. When I thought of it I tried

to date them, so in the future I’d have some idea of when they were done and maybe spur

15


a memory of what had been going on when I’d drawn them. They took up a few folders

in my office, and if I got really bored during the day I might leaf through them. I didn’t

know why I kept them. I didn’t always keep every one. Sometimes the doodles never

developed into anything, and sometimes they were on a dirty napkin or something that

I’d rather just pitch. But more often than one might think I did put them aside in my

“collection.”

It was sort of atypical. I’d never kept many letters even in the days people sent letters,

and had long ago scanned and pitched whatever old photos I’d accumulated. Once I

typed up my notes, I didn’t keep them either, except for whatever doodle might be on one

or more of the pages. Mementos from old girlfriends hadn’t survived the move-in with

Karen, of course, and neither of us was big on adding more memorabilia around the

house. So this collection of stupid doodles, going back to probably college or even high

school days, was out of character, and something I felt curiously guilty about, like a stash

of old Playboys or something. I didn’t exactly hide them, mind you, but either Karen had

never found my collection or had, for her own reasons, chosen never to question me

about them.

My doodle collection was like a lot of the memorabilia of my life. Even though I tried to

discard things, the physical things slowly accumulated, like silt against a dam. I was a

moderate reader, and periodically purged my books by donating them to the local library,

but my study was stuffed with the books I couldn’t bear to part with. As I’d said, my

physical music collection was mostly gone, but those few albums took up more space in

my study. Every so often a candidate or a client would send me a nice letter or a small

gift that I felt sentimental enough to keep around. So my desk, bookshelves, and other

flat surfaces in my study were fairly crowded with memories made solid, and that didn’t

even consider the couple of boxes in the basement I hadn’t looked through in years but

couldn’t get myself to throw away. Moving often helps people slim their processions

down, but we’d been too long in Cary and I’d been inefficient about culling things down.

Live long enough, and one could see how a house could end up like one of those episodes

of Hoarders.

16


I spent the rest of the morning catching up on various things. I had a website for my

business – you really had to these days, clients and candidates didn’t take you seriously

otherwise – and people could upload their resumes on it. I had someone build the thing,

of course, and they hosted and maintained it for a small monthly fee, but I could do

simple things like updating content or downloading resumes. I posted updates on it as

well, which also showed up on Linkedin, Twitter, and Facebook. I kept these pretty

simple – industry news, a little about assignments I was working on, kinds of candidates I

was looking for, trips I was on or had planned, and whatever else struck my fancy. Even

though the cool thing these days seemed to be to talk about stuff from your personal life,

I was too old school. My personal life was my personal life, and my business life was my

business life. The fact that I married someone I met through recruiting, or that a number

of people I considered friends were people I’d placed, well, that was just life over a long

enough period of time. You accumulated people too.

Anyway, I looked over the resumes that had been uploaded, and updated my database.

One or two of them were interesting enough that I sent off emails suggesting we chat on

the phone. Then I took on my email. I’d checked it on my smartphone before and after

my swimming expedition, just to see if anything looked critical, which nothing had. Now

I went to work going through the rest. I had several thousand contacts in my database,

and every day some of them contacted me to let me know they were interested in a

change, had changed jobs, whatever. I didn’t get a lot of “hey, how are you doing, what’s

new in your life?” kinds of emails. It’s a very symbiotic relationship; my contacts and I

used each other for our respective careers, with both sides OK with that.

Some of my contacts I liked more than others, with a very few of them considered

friends. The ones I didn’t like, maybe they didn’t hear about jobs as often as others,

maybe I shaded how I described them to clients, but if something came along that they

were best suited for, I wasn’t going to let my personal feelings get in the way of a

payday. After all, I only got paid when someone I deliver gets hired.

17


So, again, I went through the emails, updating my database with any interesting

information, replying to a couple who might be fits for assignments I was working on,

shooting quick notes back to a few more who seemed anxious to get a response. Not hard

work, and it beat digging ditches, but it was laborious and was a little like swimming

upstream, because the emails never stopped coming in,

None of the emails were from anyone who had an assignment for me.

At the moment, I had three open jobs, which I felt pretty good about. It was pretty

unusual when I didn’t have any project going on, but it had happened, and it was always

scary. In my job like mine, there was never a guarantee there will be another job, so part

of every day was hustling on getting a new assignment.

One assignment was in the final stages; the client was making a decision between a

candidate I’d put forward, a candidate from another recruiter, and an internal candidate. I

wasn’t feeling good about my chances. I hadn’t been happy when I’d first heard I wasn’t

going to have an exclusive, but it was for enough money that I ignored my misgivings.

Now I just hoped I had the best candidate, but I had the feeling they were going to go

with the internal candidate, so both me and my competitor would get screwed.

A second assignment was in the search mode. I was having a tough time coming up with

good candidates for it. It required some very specific experience in recombinant DNA

technology. I knew people in that field, but none with quite the right background for this

position. I’d given my client a couple of candidates with as close to the right background

as I could get, but I had the definite sense he was not enthused about any of them. So I’d

put the word out to a few of my contacts, and was hoping one my emails would be

someone with the name of a great candidate. If I didn’t produce some better candidates

in the next week, my client was likely to waive my exclusivity.

The third assignment I’d just gotten a couple days ago. It was for an old friend, and was

for a job that was in the low six figures, so wouldn’t be a huge payday. But I had an

18


exclusive and thought I knew several possible candidates. I had to finish writing up the

job profile and get it out to people soon.

But that could wait. It had been a good morning’s work. I decided to take a break and

go out to lunch.

Chapter 3

I went to one of the local malls for lunch. We’ve got a couple nice malls around, and I

was willing to drive a few extra miles some days just for a change of pace. I passed lots

of restaurants and fast food places on the way to the malls. Not that I didn’t frequent

those at times too, but I wasn’t in a particular hurry and I felt like going someplace where

there would be a lot of people walking around. The morning had been pretty quiet in

terms of phone calls, so the mall crowd seemed like a more social setting than a stand-

alone restaurant. I didn’t much care about the quality of the food. Karen often teased me

that I was just as happy with a cheap burger and fries as I was with an expensive steak,

and she was probably right. Karen liked to cook, when she had time, and enjoyed going

out to nice restaurants, especially when her company was picking up the tabs. I didn’t

mind going out to restaurants with her, but it was kind of a waste when I was alone. In

the early days of our courtship and marriage we did a lot of both going out and her

cooking big meals for us, but that had sort of petered out. Food was pretty much just fuel

to me, and fortunately my genetics and lifestyle hadn’t penalized me too much for my

dietary habits yet. The swimming probably helped too.

The mall wasn’t very busy, which tended to be the case during the week, at least when

school was in session. There’s a definite cycle to the density, and characteristics, of the

mall’s population. Around Christmas, of course, it was packed, full of shoppers hoping

to find the right thing and secretly hoping someone is out finding them the things they

want. It’s people of all ages, families and solo shoppers, a real cross-section. It’s often

crowded enough that I tended to avoid eating there for lunch; the search for parking and

19


for an open table could be too frustrating. But I liked the spirit, the sense of hope and

anticipation that people have then that they didn’t have most of the rest of the year.

In the late spring and all summer the malls were invaded by kids – junior high, high

school, college kids. They’re not there to shop, not really; it’s all about meeting up with

their peers. I felt like an old geezer, unwanted and invisible, when surrounded by them.

To be honest, the girls wore such skimpy outfits that I felt like a lecher even if I tried to

ignore them. The shorts were too short, the tops were cut too low; they enjoyed their

young skin and proudly wanted to show it off, except they’d be creeped out if someone

noticed a man my age watching them. I couldn’t entirely ignore them, of course, but I

tried to be very discrete about it at least.

After Christmas, the malls were dead until around March. The old couples and the young

mothers desperate to get their pre-school kids out of the house were the big populations,

and one could bowl down the halls without too much risk. From the standpoint of short

lines at the food court or easy parking spaces, it was a great time to go, but the sheer

emptiness of the place depressed me. So spring and fall ended up being my favorite

times at the mall: populous enough for good people watching, but not so busy that I felt

crowded or out of place.

Since it was fall, on this trip there were plenty of people sitting in the food court, and

more wandering around shopping. I always tried to mix up where I had lunch – which

restaurant, which mall, which eatery within a mall’s food court -- just as I tried to vary

what I ordered wherever I went. It’d be easy to fall into habits, getting the same thing at

the same places. Even at that, I supposed a few places considered me a regular, and I

didn’t mind chatting with the workers and remembering their names. I was happy to be

friendly, without needing to be friends.

I decided to get some Chinese food – two entrees, heavy on the rice, diet soda, all for

under ten dollars. There was a young woman standing not quite in line when I got there.

She had a toddler in a stroller and another kid standing impatiently with her, holding her

20


hand. She was trying to describe for him what the options where. She looked at me

apologetically as I walked up. “Go ahead,” she told me. “This could take a while.”

I was raised differently. I held open doors, I waited to get in elevators until everyone else

has gotten on, and I most assuredly did not cut in front of a woman with her two children.

“No hurry,” I assured her. “After you.”

It was a good thing I didn’t have a fixed lunch schedule, because it took a good five

minutes or so for them to negotiate a mutually acceptable choice. I smiled encouragingly

when she looked back at me apologetically. When she’d gotten her order and started to

walk away, balancing her tray unevenly, she thanked me, and I told her it was no

problem. I almost offered to help her with the tray. I wouldn’t have minded, and she

could use the help, but I was afraid she might think I was being too forward, so I just

turned my attention back to my own order.

It always surprised me how little civility there is in the world. People walked through

those doors I held not only without a thank you but also without even an acknowledging

glance. People I allowed to get on in front of me closed the elevator doors before I could

get on. I counted it as a small victory for humanity that this overburdened mother still

took a moment to express her appreciation for not delaying her.

I found a table with prime viewing position in the middle of the food court. The Chinese

food wasn’t great, but I’d had worse. I hated to admit it, but I was always skeptical of

Chinese places that didn’t have many people who didn’t appear at least vaguely Asian

working there. This place had a middle aged Asian man working the cash register and

another working the stove, but the two other helpers were young kids who were

decidedly not of Asian origin. I wondered if either of the two Asians spoke in Chinese,

or whatever their native language was, behind the other two’s backs, and thought it

equally likely that the two natives communicated in ways that excluded the two Asians.

Hell, for all I knew, they all were locals, and viewed me skeptically as a Northern

transplant. In any event, the man at the register recognized me but took my money

21


without any chitchat or a second glance. He looked like he’d been working in the

industry his whole life -- seven days a week, every day of the year except Christmas and

Thanksgiving, and he was probably pissed the mall was closed those days. If he

recognized me, he didn’t show it.

I was always fascinated to see what other kinds of people were here during what is

normally a business day. The retirees were fairly easy to spot, as were the mall stores’

employees, the latter by their generally nicer clothes – except for maybe Hollister

employees -- and their nametags. Then there were the young mothers with their infants

and toddlers, eager for any outing that got them out of the house. I wondered at how

desperate their lives were in their houses to make it worthwhile to load up the strollers,

backpacks, sippy cups, and stuffed animals, get everything into the car, unload everything

again once at the mall, and drag the kids into the mall, only to have to repeat the process

in reverse to go home. It appeared to me that it was inevitable for each parent that, at

some point in the excursion, their child would act out in some way – cry, pout, try to

break away, refuse to eat, or some other bad behavior. I expected that those children

would be doing similar behaviors in their homes as well, but in the safely of one’s own

home one could always scream back at the offending child, sentence him or her to a time

out, or even smack them. I’d certainly been smacked as a child, and Lord knows I’d

deserved it, but these days that kind of physical punishment was frowned upon. Try it in

public and you might be trying to explain it to a stern police officer. So I thought these

young mothers were extremely brave.

Some of them were pretty cute too, and I’d have to admit that watching attractive women

was a nice benefit of going to the malls. It didn’t have to be mothers, of course. There

were plenty of businesswomen and salesgirls on their lunch break to watch as well. I

wasn’t biased; they could be as old as me or as young as college-aged, they could be any

race or ethnic background, they could be smartly dressed or ultra-casual. I prided myself

on being a connoisseur of feminine beauty, able to distinguish beauty from mere

attractiveness and that from those desperately seeking attention, all without any personal

22


stake in the outcome. I wasn’t looking to try to pick any of them up, after all; I was

happily married, to my own beautiful wife. That didn’t mean I couldn’t look.

Still, it bothered me that none of them looked back. There was a time when I might have

expected at least some of them to notice me, or might have to make them notice me, but

those days were gone now. One of the ironies about getting older was that you can look

at women more openly yet have much less chance of being noticed. It made me sad to

think about.

Malls weren’t such a big deal when I was growing up. The early ones tended to be

mostly outdoor collections of stores, and it struck me as funny that within my lifetime,

essentially, malls had been born, evolved to giant enclosed malls, and now were evolving

back to “lifestyle malls” that were a lot like the early outdoor ones I recalled. These

kinds of things go in cycles, and I was old enough to have experienced a full cycle, it

would seem. The younger people at the malls wouldn’t be impressed, and wouldn’t care,

just as they’d be bored if I told them about my history with mobile phones, from the life

without them to the early days of bulky phones, poor reception, and exorbitant pricing to

today’s mobile computers that happen to make phone calls too. Things that had

happened before they were five or so essentially hadn’t happened for them, just stuff for

history books – not that they would read them.

When I was younger I marveled at my grandfather having lived from pre-aviation days to

jets, but there was no doubt I’d thought him old. I’d now seen more change than he had,

at least technological. Even if I didn’t think of myself as old, I’d seen so much that it was

hard to argue the point. I hadn’t just read history; I’d lived some of it. It depressed me.

I wondered how the other patrons of the food court would react if I died here. Could be

food poisoning, or a heart attack, maybe an embolism. I didn’t need to know why I’d die

for this particular fantasy, and I didn’t actually have to die here. I could just pass out.

The question was: would anyone notice? If I just slumped in my seat silently, I feared it

might take some time for anyone to realize anything unusual had happened. The younger

23


people would continue to ignore me, the older patrons might assume I was a husband

napping while his wife was shopping. It might be left to the cleaning people, hours later,

to poke me in order to realize anything was wrong. Maybe it would be better if I

coughed or flailed around, I decided, something to attract a little attention. Then they’d

have to call 911, get an EMS squad here. That would attract a crowd and for once I’d be

the center of attention, even if at that time I might not realize it.

Who would they call, I brooded. If I were conscious, I could tell them to call Karen, of

course. If I were unconscious, it would get trickier. She’d show up on my phone’s call

history and contact list, but that might take them a little time to figure out. And once they

did call her, how long would it take for her to come? She could be anywhere in the

country, or possibly even be out of the country. I hated to admit it, but I wasn’t entirely

sure she’d drop everything and rush home. Oh, sure, if I was close to death she’d make it

a priority to come, but if I was just very sick or going to be laid up for a while, I wasn’t

quite as sure. She’d certainly call, and make arrangements if necessary, but she didn’t

like hospitals and she didn’t like sick people. Nursing me back to health wasn’t

something she would relish, not if she could delegate it.

No, I thought glumly, if something was going to happen to me, best if it took me out

cleanly. No point in prolonging anything and putting Karen through tests that I wasn’t

sure I’d like the results of. My will was done, my affairs were pretty much in order.

Karen would have to meet with the funeral home and suffer through the services, but I

had no doubt she’d be the gallant widow and earn everyone’s admiration for how well

she was taking it. There would be discrete tears at the appropriate times.

Then she’d be off again, and make herself a new life. I’d be doing her a favor, really.

I shook my head to clear my head of these morbid thoughts, but I was only able to shift

the focus, not the tone. The other thing that bothered me about sitting in the mall at lunch

was that in the old days I wouldn’t have been here. I’d have been at my desk, working –

making another call, sending another email, planning how I was going to get that next

24


assignment or do a better job on the ones I had. I’d have been eating at my desk; if I’d

have gone out for lunch, it would have been with someone that I was building a business

relationship with. I used to be hungry to be successful. I liked to think I still wanted to

be successful, and that I still was, but I had to admit that I wasn’t as totally focused on it

as I used to be. Maybe success had made me soft, maybe age had slowed me down. Or,

some might say I’d become more balanced, not letting work consume me so much. As

much as I loved her, Karen wouldn’t have been one of those people seeking more balance

in her life. If she were at home she wouldn’t be at the mall having lunch.

My seat faced the interior of the mall. A few tables to my left two mothers were trying to

hold a conversation as their collection of small children played with each other,

interspersing their discussion with feedback to the children. Neither mother rated very

high on the attractive meter, so I didn’t pay too much attention to them. Slightly ahead of

me to my right were two women and a man, all of whom had ten or fifteen years on me.

The two women were deeply involved in the discussion, while the man was silent and

looked like he wished he was anywhere else. I wondered if he lacked a smartphone with

which he could preoccupy himself, or if he’d been forbidden to use it. Maybe he had no

one else he could text or email with, or hadn’t learned those functions. He ate his food

methodically, keeping his head down, and I felt sorry for the guy. This probably wasn’t

what he’d signed up for when he’d retired. He’d probably envisioned spending the day

playing golf or watching his big screen TV with a beer at his side. His wife had probably

told him it would be a short shopping expedition. Judging from the bags at their feet, the

two women probably had been here a while already and weren’t nearly done. The man

bore his disappointment stoically, and I wondered if she’d done this enough times that

she’d worn him down to the point where he no longer had higher expectations. Still, I

hoped his wife was going to let him play golf or something as a reward for accompanying

her. Maybe she’d have sex with him, although by looking at her I suspected he’d rather

play golf.

The trio that attracted my attention was a mother with her young son and daughter. The

girl was maybe seven, the boy a year or two younger. The kids were chattering away

25


happily, dividing their attention between their food, their mom, and what looked like

puzzles. The mom kept trying to get them to just eat their macaroni and cheese, but that

task wasn’t sufficient to hold their attention. Both kids were cute, with bright smiles and

high spirits. The mother was modestly attractive, as best I could tell. She looked to be of

Northern African origin, more Arabic than African, with fine features and coffee-colored

skin. None of this would have been at all memorable except for the scarf that covered her

hair and neck, and left just her face exposed. She wore a loose dress that came almost to

her knees, as well as pants. It didn’t take too much deduction to realize that they must be

Muslims. At least she wasn’t wearing a chador.

The mother seemed to be perfectly at ease with the way she was dressed, but I could tell

that I wasn’t the only person in the food court giving them second glances. The children

were uninhibited, and stared openly at other children in the area. A couple times I had

the sense that they wanted to go up to some of the other children they saw, but quiet

words from their mother kept them seated at their table.

I wondered if the children realized how differently from their mother they were dressed.

The boy had on long pants with a short-sleeved shirt and tennis shoes, while the girl had

on a dress that ended around her knees. She was wearing sandals. I didn’t know enough

about Islam to know when the little girl would stop dressing like modern western girls

and start following the Islamic modesty code. I wondered how she would feel about the

change. Maybe she’d be excited, seeing it as a transition to becoming a woman, being

treated like an adult. Or maybe she’d be rebellious, not wanting to stop having the

options that any of her non-Islamic friends would have. Perhaps her parents tried to

avoid her developing those kinds of friends – sending her to a Muslim school, not letting

her play with kids in the neighborhood, not letting her try out for sports. Maybe I wasn’t

giving them enough credit. I read once that among the Amish many adolescents get to

rebel against the normal rules, and at some point have to decide if they want to formally

become baptized within the religion or go join the outside world. Surprisingly, as I

understood it, few seem to take the “escape.” Maybe this young girl’s parents would

26


allow her to try out a Western lifestyle, hoping that her upbringing and sense of family

ties would prevail.

Right now, the girl was taller and bigger than her brother, and probably was ahead on

reading, writing and math skills. I imagined she was like most older sisters, enjoying

bossing her younger sibling around whenever possible. At some point in her life I feared

this was not going to be possible. Maybe her family would be fine sending her to

college, would support her choice of career, and would accept her choices of husbands.

But maybe not.

I discovered that I’d started drawing them on my napkin. In my drawing, the mother and

the daughter were about the same size, and the boy was now their equal. He was

standing while they sat looking up at him. The little girl was dressed as her mother was,

only exposing her face and hands, with the daughter’s right hand covering a smile.

Looming over all of them was the face of a man I assumed was the husband and father.

He watched over his family with a look that conveyed both pride and authority. In his

world, whatever restrictions his wife and daughter underwent were for their own

protection. One could hardly fault a man for not wanting other men to leer at or make

improper advances at his wife and daughter. I never understood men who liked their

wives to wear ultra-short skirts or to expose a lot of cleavage, much less men who

married actresses who did nude love scenes. My wife dressed pretty appropriately, but

sometimes she wore things I thought were more revealing than I’d prefer. I’d learned to

keep my mouth shut, unless it was to compliment her on how nice she looked. As I

looked around the food court, there were a couple of young women who were dressed

somewhat daringly. I was not the only person who noticed and enjoyed the view, but that

same style on girls just a few years younger – which I was sure I could see somewhere

else in the mall -- would have made me feel sorry for their parents, who must go crazy

with their daughters flaunting their new woman’s skin and curves.

There was no absolute right or wrong here. I didn’t know much about Islam, in the way I

didn’t know much about Hinduism, and it didn’t really matter much to me. If I was just

27


hearing stories about Christianity for the first time it’d sound pretty wild; I supposed

every religion sounds kind of crazy to people not raised in it. Cultural relativity has a lot

going for it. When it came to not letting women have the same educational, reproductive,

or career choices as men, I had more problem being neutral, and when it came to stonings

or honor killings I started to burn. Part of me wanted to go up to the mother and talk to

her, see where on the line her family and her mosque fell. But I was afraid I’d make

trouble, and still not come away with any answers.

I threw the napkin away with the remains of my lunch.

Chapter 4

Karen got home late Friday night.

I stayed up until she got home from the airport. She’d kept me updated during her trip,

and we’d talked at least once a day, but I didn’t drive out to the airport to meet her. In

fact, I fell asleep in front of the TV, dozing off and not waking until I heard the garage

door opening. It was something that happened more often these days; gone were the days

I could stay up to all hours and still hit the morning fresh. Lately I was lucky to stay

awake for the ten o’clock news. I managed to totter to my feet before Karen got in the

house, but she saw through my efforts to disguise what I’d been doing. “Taking a little

nap?” she said, with a smile that might have had a little ice behind it. I just shrugged and

asked about her flights. We pecked a quick kiss while I grabbed one of her bags and

helped get them upstairs. “Man, I’m glad to be home,” she exclaimed with relief. “I’m

beat.”

I allowed with a modest smile as to being happy to have her home, and she gave me

another quick kiss. I sat in the bedroom and watched as she efficiently unpacked, all the

while keeping up a running commentary about her trip, although her recap centered more

28


on flight woes than any results of her meetings. I sort of zoned out on what she was

saying, just happy to have her home and to watch her move around.

We didn’t make love that night, another change from years past. We used to always

make it a point to make love after being separated for more than a couple of days, and we

hadn’t always made it to the bedroom before our passion got the better of us. She took a

quick shower while I was getting ready for bed, just to clean the grime of the road off. I

stood at the door of her bathroom, feeling like a voyeur. I could see her murky form

through the semi-transparent glass walls of the shower, and I had a brief stirring of desire

to surprise her by joining her in the shower. It was very tempting, but somehow I waited

too long and suddenly lost my nerve. I had lots of excuses – I was tired, she was

probably tired, I didn’t want to get wet at this time of night, and so on – but no good

reasons. Just the usual excuses of a long married couple. With a sigh, I turned and went

to the bed, clicking on the TV. She came out of the bathroom a few minutes later,

dressed in a nightgown and drying her hair with a towel. If I had still been holding out

hope she’d initiate something, she killed it when she glanced at the television and asked

what was on, then got into bed and started checking her emails on her phone.

I fell asleep twenty minutes later, and dreamt of beautiful women on the beach.

We played tennis with Trevor and Laura Kreiss the next day, at Trevor’s house. I’d

known Trevor for twenty years. He’d founded a very successful biotech company called

Aeson. The official story was that the name came because Trevor’s first son was named

Jason -- Aeson was the father of Jason in Greek mythology -- but to people he knew well

Trevor would admit with a smile that things weren’t necessarily quite that simple. Aeson

committed suicide, but was brought back to life by Jason’s wife, so perhaps that reflected

his real hopes for the company. His son was now the CEO; with Trevor acting as

Chairman but he largely spent his days just enjoying his second wife Laura. She was

indeed a beauty, and much younger; Trevor had met her at Jason’s wedding. She’d been

a bridesmaid.

29


Laura was blond and petite, a natural athlete who worked at staying trim. She was a heck

of a tennis player, and I’d have been happy just to watch her running around in her tennis

dress. She was the kind of woman that oozed sex appeal, and her glow was even more

pronounced when she was exercising. She looked great in an evening dress too, which

she wore to good effect at the many formal functions they hosted or attended, but for my

money I preferred to see her like this. Trevor didn’t seem to prefer one over the other.

Trevor was in his early sixties and moved a slight bit little slower than I did, so Karen

and I usually managed to hold our own. We didn’t play much tennis anymore, but the

muscle memory persisted. After each session I’d be sore for days, my body teaching me

a lesson about little used muscles. I was pretty sure Laura and Trevor played more

regularly, so Karen’s and my game was gradually worsening, our age not helping. We

tried to play once a month as a foursome, but lately that was more of a guideline than a

rule. In the winter we usually played them indoors at Trevor’s country club, feeling like

wannabes, but on this day the weather was good, so we were out behind their huge

McMansion, as Karen liked to call it. They had a pool too, as well as a putting green, just

in case.

We lost the first set six to three, and Karen was not pleased. “You missed some easy

shots there, boyfriend,” she pointed out briskly to me during the break. “At least I didn’t

hit you in the back with any of my serves,” I offered meekly, not wanting to get into a

discussion about whose play was more responsible for our loss. I wisely didn’t bring up

that one of her returns had grazed my shoulder when I was at the net.

The second set didn’t go much better. “Fault!” Karen yelled as Laura’s serve came

slamming in. If it had been to my side, I might have given it the benefit of the doubt, but

Karen cut no slack and neither Laura nor Trevor felt like arguing the point, although I

thought Laura shot Karen a skeptical glance. She got the second serve in and we

volleyed a while, trying to keep Trevor away from the net, where his reach made it hard

to dislodge him. They won the point and, a few serves later, the game.

30


In the end, they won the second set six-two, and we conceded the match. Karen nabbed

at her face with a towel in obvious frustration. “Good match, you guys,” she told them

graciously, giving each a quick hug. She gave me the eye. “I guess I need to get Marc

out of the house more to practice.”

“I’ve been practicing on the Wii,” I protested playfully. She was not amused.

“Well, I thought Marc did great,” Laura exclaimed, grabbing my arm with both hands

and squeezing it. She hooked one arm in mine. “Do you guys still feel like lunch?”

We sat ourselves out on the patio, under a large umbrella. The view was impressive, with

their manicured lawn spread out in front of us, the swimming pool in one direction and

the tennis court fifty yards away in the other, behind some neatly kept shrubs. I

wondered how much their gardener cost them to keep things so nice; hell, I wondered

how much it cost to water the damn yard.

Their maid, a pretty young woman who appeared to be Filipino, brought us some iced

tea, then went back in the house to get the lunch. Laura sat to my right, Karen to my left,

with Trevor across the table. Laura almost always seemed to be smiling, which I liked

about her but which Karen distrusted. Karen and I had been friends with Trevor’s first

wife, who had taken her considerable divorce settlement and headed to South Beach.

Karen kept in touch with her, and I suspected that she kept her apprised of how Trevor’s

trophy wife was doing.

Trevor had a distinguished head of grey hair on top of an undistinguished face and body,

but one could tell from his sharp gaze that he didn’t miss much. He’d started out as a

Ph.D. molecular biologist, and was a fine researcher, but early in his career he’d decided

was not cut out for either academia or the lab. He was even more proficient in the

boardroom as he was in the lab, and struck out on his own in his early thirties. Aeson had

made him his fortune, but he’d worked for it. One could argue if Laura would have given

31


him a chance without his wealth, but they seemed happy enough, from the outside. I

always wondered how well she and Jason truly got along, but I assumed Trevor had a

tight prenup that protected his children’s interests and Aeson itself. Trevor might or

might not be a fool for love, but when it came to money he was certainly no fool.

Lunch was some club sandwiches and salad, both very fancy and delivered with a just-so

presentation that made me reluctant to eat either. The other three had no such qualms, so

I attacked it too. I always felt bad about being served by their maid, and I at least tried to

make sure I made eye contact and told her thanks. I didn’t know if she cared – for all I

knew, she thought I was being self-righteous – but it helped me feel less like an imperial

capitalist. Laura started telling us about some volunteer work she was doing; well, not so

much volunteer work per se, as serving on the board of a local food bank. “Once a month

she goes down to the warehouse and packs food kits,” Trevor offered, and I couldn’t tell

if he was proud or amused. Maybe both. “She makes me come along too.”

“You guys should join us!” Laura exclaimed, her eyes bright. She seemed excited about

the possibility of us hanging out at the food bank’s warehouse. Maybe she wanted to see

what Karen might wear, hoping to see her in ratty jeans and sneakers. For all I knew,

Laura had special outfits for her volunteer work, perhaps unique sets for each charity and

each more expensive than the last. But that was unkind of me.

Karen shot me a warning glance. “We’ll have to do that,” I agreed tentatively, keeping

my face serious.

“We need to find a date that works, that’s all,” Karen clarified, and everyone but Laura

knew that there wasn’t going to be such a date.

“How’s work, Karen?” Trevor asked, his eyes twinkling. He was changing the subject on

purpose, and I winked gratefully at him when I caught his eye. Karen launched into a

quick recap of her recent sales calls. She’d never worked directly with Trevor, but they

knew lots of people in common, and he certainly understood her job and its challenges.

32


He asked her some insightful questions about some of her clients, which she sat back and

gave thoughtful responses to,

Laura followed the discussion as best she could, but her own business experience had

been limited. She’d been working in a PR firm doing event planning when they’d met, so

she was on firm ground talking about parties, press conferences, media events and the

like. Trevor had liked that she hadn’t been awed by high profile executives or celebrities;

a cynic might have said she’d targeted them and had, in fact, landed one, but I liked to

give her the benefit of the doubt. Trevor was a nice guy, not a George Clooney but he

treated her well and, as far as I knew, didn’t cheat on her. It wasn’t like she’d stolen him

away from his first wife; they’d been separated for a couple years before Laura had made

her appearance.

“How about you, Marc?” Trevor asked.

I’d been watching Laura gamely try to follow Trevor and Karen’s conversation rather

than paying attention to that conversation, so I was caught slightly off guard. “How

about me what?” I asked, hoping he was asking if I wanted some more food.

“How’s business?” he clarified, suppressing a smile. I had the sense that he realized

Laura wasn’t enjoying trying to follow his discussion with Karen, and thought she’d have

a better time asking about my work. Everyone understands a matchmaker.

“Oh, not bad,” I allowed. “Not great, but I’ve pretty much recovered from the impact of

the recession.”

“I don’t know what he does all day,” Karen announced archly.

“Usually making calls to people like you,” I replied with equal archness. “You get

enough calls from recruiters to know what its like.”

33


“I’d have thought other recruiters wouldn’t call you,” Laura said to Karen, tip-toeing in

the conversation. She nodded towards me. “Professional courtesy and all.”

The three of us had a laugh at that, which I felt bad about when I saw the cloud of

confusion pass over Laura’s face. “It’s just business,” I explained. “If another recruiter

has something she’s right for, he’s not going to go through me.”

“Plus Karen isn’t about to let Marc screen her job opportunities,” Trevor added.

It sounded somewhat more harsh than he probably intended, and I saw both Karen and

Laura glance my way to see if I was offended. To be honest, I wasn’t quite sure what he

meant either, but I smiled and put my palms out facing upwards. “Hey, I’d never do

anything to stand in Karen’s way.”

Now it was Karen’s turn to seem slightly uncertain. “Professionally, you mean?” she

asked, raising an eyebrow. I stared at her for a long moment, wondering why she’d felt

the need to make a distinction between protecting her professional life from her personal

life. Maybe she thought I’d been drawing the distinction.

This had gotten weird all of a sudden, and I felt the need to change the mood. “The only

thing I want to get between is Karen and her clothes,” I said in best Groucho Marx leer,

putting my hand on her arm. She blushed, then put her other hand to her mouth in mock

embarrassment while pretending to scowl at me. At least, I hoped she was pretending.

“You’re terrible,” Laura teased, lightly slapping my arm with her hand. Trevor smiled

but didn’t say anything.

Chapter 5

34


The rest of the weekend was pretty quiet. Saturday night we went out to a restaurant we

liked in Durham – a local place, not a chain. The food was pretty good, and we liked to

eat in the bar, where they had some live music. This week it was a duo, a man on the

drums and a woman on the guitar. They covered a lot of songs from the sixties and

seventies, which probably accounted for the amount of baby boomers like us hanging out

in the bar. One of the best things, or maybe one of the worst, about technology has been

that no music ever seemed to disappear anymore. Not only could people our age hear

songs from our youth anytime we wanted, but younger people seemed to find them too.

Kids seemed to know as much or more about the Beatles or the Rolling Stones as I did.

But it doesn’t belong as uniquely the generation in which it originally happened as it used

to, and in some way that made it less special. Still, when I listened to these covers of old

songs, I had memories that the younger listeners couldn’t match.

Sunday morning we both got up early; I went to the gym for a long swim, while Karen

worked out at home. I used to ask her about that, why she’d rather stay at home instead

of going to the gym. It wasn’t like she wasn’t used to working out in gyms – she did it all

the time on the road – or had anything to worry about in terms of how good she looked.

She just told me she’d rather stay at home and work out on her own, and after a while I

stopped asking and we amicably did our own things.

I kind of liked getting out of the house for my exercise. I was in the house a lot as it was,

since I worked from home, so the swims and the lunches out were my breaks. Over time

the pool had become a little social meeting place too, with some of the other regulars.

Marty Epstein was the unofficial, unelected mayor of the pool. In his seventies, Marty

was a widower who spent more time chatting with the other swimmers than he did

swimming, although he faithfully put his time in the pool. He never came out and said

so, but I always thought that the pool was his social club. I imagined him going home to

a house too quiet, his wife dead and his friends dead or dispersed as well. Maybe kids

living too far away. But he never had told me any of that, it was all in my head; he could

have just been a social guy, always chatting up everyone around.

35


If Marty was the social king, Mary was the opposite. I didn’t even know her last name.

She was a younger woman, in her late twenties, but she had not been genetically blessed

with either good looks or a nice figure. She was stocky from head to toe, and doggedly

swam her laps in the pool. “Swam” wasn’t quite the right word; she used a kickboard to

kick her way through her laps, and I had my doubts that that she could swim without it.

As for being social, she’d nod at the rest of us and attempt a smile, but it was clear that

she enjoyed no part of this experience.

Sue Martin was a retired high school teacher, older than me but not quite as old as Marty.

She wasn’t quite old enough to be my mother, but she always had what I thought of as a

maternal interest in me, always seeming pleased to see me and giving me little

compliments. She was very pleasant to everyone and invariably cheerful. I figured that if

the wave after wave of snotty high school kids hadn’t broken her spirits, nothing was ever

going to. Perhaps the lure of retirement was what had kept her going all those years. The

exercise and what I imagined to be her healthy diet had done a good job fighting the

effects of age, as she looked, if not trim, then at least not doughy. Her hair was grey but

nicely coiffed. Sue wore a different suit every day of the week, with a matching

swimming cap and goggles. I supposed they were more accurately called swimdresses

instead of suits, and they certainly didn’t do anything to streamline her resistance in the

water. She liked pastels and outfits with floral designs, but I didn’t hold it against her.

She and Marty always ending up chatting, making me sometimes wonder if there was

something between them.

The last member of our informal crew of quasi-regulars was Carson Ward. Carson was

in his mid-thirties. He once told me he used to be a runner until his knees had had

enough. Carson admitted that he didn’t really enjoy the swimming, and that if biking

didn’t bother his knees as well he’d have been doing that. Swimming, it seemed, was a

distant third in his exercise preference, but he was determined to keep at it. He was a

good looking guy, a little on the thin side, with balding hair. He sold office equipment

for a living, and had a wife at home. She also worked out at the gym, although not in the

36


pool and usually alternating her workout time with Carson; she came at the end of the day

so one of them could be at home with their two young children.

It wasn’t like the group worked out together, or had parties at our houses together. We

didn’t really know much about each other outside the gym. But we had all had been

seeing each other at the pool long enough to earn a familiarity. There were occasional

other swimmers who came to the pool, but either they varied their schedule more or

worked out for a while and gave it up, and in either case never earned inclusion in our

little club. As dissimilar as we were – demographically, swimming ability, and so on –

we shared a bond, one not of shared pleasure but of shared discipline. It wasn’t much but

it was enough.

I liked being at the pool, more than at the gym itself. I liked the smell of chlorine, and

the sudden humidity I felt as soon as I walked in the door. I liked the sounds of the pool

– the gentle echoes sounds made, the noise of the small waves swimmers caused (some

more than others). Later in the day it got different, overrun by noisy kids, splashing and

goofing around. They were there for fun, which was fine, but I liked the time when the

pool was for other purposes, respecting effort and persistence. That’s what our little

social group had in common, what bonded us together.

Only Marty and Sue were at the pool on this particular morning. Marty was at the edge

of the pool resting. His regime appeared to be only ten or fifteen minutes at a time,

shorter if a newcomer arrived, but he repeated the interval several times. He once told

me he’d been swimming since he was a teenager, but you couldn’t tell by watching him

in the pool. He swam with a dog paddle that would make a dog embarrassed; even Mary

could outspeed him. Sue was in the pool, doing her laps with a measured stroke, but

Marty shouted his hello. “Look who’s here! On a Sunday, no less.” He put his wet

hand out for a hearty handshake.

37


I put down my towel and slipped off my flip-flops. I was already achy from the tennis,

and was hoping the swim would loosen me up. “I might have guessed I’d find you here.

Are you done or just getting going?”

He waved his hand to indicate something rather more uncertain. “A few more laps, I

guess. Is Karen out of town?”

I explained that, no, she was at home, and working out on her own. He shook his head in

disappointment. “A woman like that, out of town all week – you should stay with her

over the weekend when she’s home.” He frowned in disapproval.

Marty had never met Karen, and I’d only told him the bare minimum, yet somehow he’d

gloomed on to the idea of her as the perfect wife. I suspected it had to do more with the

loss of his own wife than to anything about her, or me. “Maybe I was trying to get away

from her,” I joked.

Marty gave me a look. “I doubt that.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

Marty gave me an enigmatic smile. “Because I pay attention.”

I didn’t know what to make of that, so I just let it go. We chatted a couple more minutes,

and I finally told him I needed to get going on my workout so I could get back to Karen.

Marty would have kept talking indefinitely otherwise, but this was an excuse for which

he had no counter. I jumped in the pool, adjusted my goggles and nose plug, and started

my laps. When I finished, both Marty and Sue were gone.

Karen went shopping in the afternoon, first the mall and then the grocery store. She

asked me if I wanted to come, as she usually did, but her invitation was perfunctory.

38


We’d long ago gotten out of the habit of me tagging along while she shopped. I’d tried

bringing my laptop to the mall, working or surfing while she shopped, but after a while it

seemed silly to do there what I could do at home. Perhaps it was the same thing she

thought about going to the gym to workout. I stayed home and half-watched a football

game while I did a little work, mixed with random Web surfing. When Karen got back I

helped her unload the car and put the groceries away. She pretty much pushed me out of

the kitchen so she could cook dinner. Karen loved to cook, making elaborate meals with

recipes she discovered. To me, cooking was just a waste of time, leaving too many pots

and pans – which I felt compelled to clean up for her. The food was, I had to admit,

pretty good, but the cost-benefit didn’t work out for me. But it made her happy.

At least we had dinner together.

Yes, it was a pleasant weekend. When I said “pleasant,” though, I supposed I really

meant “comfortable. No fights, no tension, no uneasiness about being together. As much

as Karen was away, it wouldn’t have been so strange if we’d found it at least modestly

awkward to spend time together, especially when it was just the two of us. The fact of

the matter was that we didn’t spend so much time actually together. Each of us had solo

outings – like me to the gym or her out shopping – and even when in the house we

weren’t necessarily in the same room together and weren’t spending much time talking

when we were together. We didn’t smile and gaze into each other’s eyes like young

lovers. Television or computer screens tend to keep one’s eye focused away from other

humans who might be present, even when that human was as easy on the eyes as Karen

was.

Still, I liked knowing she was there. I was as good as anyone I knew at being alone, and

between working at home and Karen being away so much I had lots of time by myself,

even if I did spend most of my days talking to people on the phone or emailing with

them; I wasn’t a hermit. Still, I liked Karen being home. The house seemed livelier with

her there, as did I. I liked hearing noises in the house that demonstrated her presence, and

when she was doing something elsewhere in the house I made sure to stop by every so

39


often just to check in with her. That chance to look at her, maybe give her a quick hug or

a kiss, always cheered me up yet also made me think about the long periods of time she

wasn’t there. Still, if I were being honest, I had to admit that it was much more often the

case that I was the one checking on her, not the other way around.

The only conversation of real note, oddly enough, was about Laura and Trevor, as we

were getting ready for bed. I was in bed reading and she was in her bathroom doing her

nightly ministrations, but with the door open. “That Laura is a pretty one,” she

commented out of the blue.

Even I knew enough about women to recognize what a dangerous statement that was.

“Uh-huh,” I replied as noncommittally as I could, keeping my eyes on my book. Out of

the corner of my eye I could tell she stopped what she was doing long enough to glance

over at me.

“You don’t think she’s attractive?” she pressed.

I looked up. Laura was, in fact, exceptionally pretty. I knew I enjoyed seeing her, and

when she wore revealing clothes I particularly enjoyed the view. If I’d discovered that

nude pictures of her existed I’d definitely be scouring the Internet for them. But if we’d

both been single she’d have been out of my league; even if I’d been her age and we were

both single I probably wouldn’t ask her out. My imagination wasn’t even good enough

for me to come up with a scenario plausible enough for me to even fantasize about being

with her, which is pretty sad indeed. “She’s pretty, sure,” I agreed neutrally. I looked up

at Karen and smiled broadly. “Not like you, of course.”

Karen held my gaze for a long second, ensuring I wasn’t going to blow my line by

laughing, then turned her attention back to her mirror. “You know she’s going to want

kids,” she offered, wiping her face with some tissues. .

40


I’d never thought about it. I figured Trevor had done the father thing, done the working

thing, and now was ready to enjoy life with his young wife. “Why do you say that?”

Karen rolled her eyes. “It’s been a couple years, she’s not really working, and she’ll

want the extra protection. Her hand is better if she has a child with Trevor.”

“Her hand?” I put my book down in my lap.

She shrugged matter-of-factly. “In case things don’t work out.”

I shook my head. “Why wouldn’t it work out? I think they love each other.”

Karen took a considered look at herself in the mirror, making faces to check out different

views of her face. “Maybe, “ she said at last, dabbing at her face. “I hope so. But trophy

wives like Laura have to watch out for their own interests. He’s got the prenup, so a

child gives her some additional leverage.”

I frowned. “That’s awfully practical of you, isn’t it? What about being soul mates and

all that?” I asked. I smiled at her. “You know, like us.”

She gave me a look that might have been a smile, or might have just been a tolerant

glance, neither confirming nor refuting my statement. “I may be your second wife, but

I’m no trophy wife, dear. You married up in years, not down like Trevor.”

“Maybe you should have married a rich guy like Trevor.” I tried to make my note light

and teasing, but I wasn’t entirely sure I pulled it off.

Karen laughed. “Yeah, but he’d have to be like eighty if I’m going to compete with the

Laura’s of the world. Thank you, no.” She pretended to give me a thoughtful look,

evaluating me. At least I hoped she was pretending. “I’m happy with what I got,” she

decided.

41


“Thank goodness for that, dear.” I paused a moment. “I think you could score someone

younger than eighty.”

Karen made a face at me and went back to work at the mirror, applying her cream

regime. “Anyway, I think Trevor is getting bored, so a kid might be good.”

That analysis surprised me. “Bored? Why would he be bored?”

Karen shook her head. “He’s used to working, to building something. He’s either got to

start a new company, have a kid, or have an affair.”

“I guess having a kid is the easiest to start, although it probably ends up being the most

work,” I observed, tongue only slightly in cheek. I shook my head. “Anyway, why

would he cheat on Laura? You were just saying how beautiful she was.”

Karen gave me a look that suggested she pitied my naivety, and looked back in the

mirror. “Hey, Brad Pitt had Jennifer Anniston and cheated on her. Men are always

attracted to the next woman, the woman they haven’t had yet.”

“That’s pretty cynical, don’t you think?” I objected.

“Pretty realistic, I’d say,” Karen countered.

I got up and walked over to her. I stood behind her and put my arms around her, so we

could see both of us in the mirror. I kissed her softly at the nape of her neck. “Hey,

pretty lady, the only woman I’m interested in is you.” I squeezed her slightly for

emphasis. Either that added pressure or the sentiment of the words forced a small smile

out of her. She patted my arm.

42


I didn’t want to think about Trevor cheating on Laura, and if I did start to wonder about

that I’d have to start thinking about Laura preemptively cheating on him. That was the

stereotype of the young wife, after all. Now that I considered it, getting her pregnant

might be a smart thing for Trevor to do.

Children had never been high on either of our agendas. If my first wife had been quite

keen about children, I wouldn’t have protested, but when things started crumbling I’d

been glad there hadn’t been any kids to suffer the aftermath. I’d gathered that Karen had

been quite clear to her first husband that kids were not on her life plan, and by the time

we got together it wasn’t an issue for us. We both had nieces and nephews, whom we

enjoyed at a safe distance and occasional visit, but sometimes I wondered if I’d really

regret the lack of children when I got older. It was too bad one couldn’t go straight to

having adult children, established in their lives and with kids of their own to spoil. When

I thought about this topic, which wasn’t often, I usually ended up calling my folks just to

let them know it all hadn’t been a waste, for them anyway. When I got to their age -- if I

got to their age -- there’d be no such phone calls.

We went to bed with a tender kiss goodnight. In the morning she went into the office,

and that afternoon she left again for the week, off to places unknown.

Chapter 6

The thing about swimming is that you really can’t do much except try not to drown.

People always talk about how hard running is, but when you’re running you can still look

around, check out the flowers or the leaves or the houses around you, even talk to people.

Runners sometimes even listen to music, so, all in all, there was lots of potential for

distractions. The same goes for most other forms of exercise: you’re not typically fully

committed, there’s usually some possibility of making the exercise social or fun – or at

least shared misery.

43


With swimming, though, you can’t talk, you can’t listen to music, you can’t look around.

Well, perhaps you can, but not if you’re putting any kind of effort into the swimming. I

wasn’t a great swimmer but I worked at it, and I had to say that I rather enjoyed the

isolation it brought me, blotting everything else in the world around me. There was

water, there was me, and there were periodic gulps of air, and that was it. Oh, and the

walls; the bad part about swimming laps was that I had to keep anticipating the walls and

making the turns. Sometimes I got so into the swimming that I’d forget to turn in time,

banging my head into the wall and feeling foolish.

I didn’t think drowning was a way I particularly wanted to die. I’d heard about people

jumping in a pool, settling to the bottom, and calmly letting their breath out, to be

replaced by the water. Or they go to the ocean, get caught up by a wave, then struggle

until they are exhausted and sink below the surface, never to be heard from again. I

could even hit my head against the wall, stunning myself long enough to breath in that

deadly water. Any way it happened, it wasn’t pretty.

It’s funny; water consists largely of oxygen, but in it’s liquid form it becomes useless for

purposes of staying alive. We all come from creatures whose homes were in the sea, and

we all start our lives in the womb completely surrounded by liquid. You’d think we

could thus handle breathing water better, like Ed Harris in The Abyss. All I knew was

that the times I’d inadvertently swallowed water instead of air, it felt terrible, and my

lungs convulsed themselves to evict the invading water, so I couldn’t imagine that dying

by drowning would be easy. I’d rather die gradually slipping away, making my peace

with life. Not fighting for one last breath, one last second of sweet air.

The water was like a pet tiger; as nice as it might be most of the time, one never knew

when it would suddenly turn and kill. It helped me by keeping me afloat, but it

relentlessly tried to get inside me, seeping into the easy targets of my ears and nose and

looking for every opportunity to get into the motherlode that were my lungs.

44


I dutifully did my laps. The pleasure in it, if there was any pleasure, was largely in the

satisfaction in having it done, knowing I’d forced myself to plod along for my allotted

time. No, that wouldn’t be entirely true. There was a subtle satisfaction in the oblivion

of the swimming itself, in how it shut off all other considerations except that next stroke,

the next breath. I didn’t think about candidates or jobs or Karen or what I’d eat at my

next meal. I had to stay focused on pulling myself along in the water. That focus was a

relief, a gift that was all the better because it was hard earned.

I was toweling myself off when I first noticed her.

She was swimming in one of the inner lanes, and what struck me was how comfortable

she appeared doing so. She swam like the water was her home – smooth, no wasted

motions, her turns so integrated into her strokes that it was almost like an optical illusion

that she’d changed direction. Still, she wasn’t at home in the water like a seal or a

dolphin. Those creatures make swimming look joyful, playing in the water like a child

running in the grass. She moved more like a shark, relentless and moving not for the joy

of it but because it was necessary, although I didn’t understand in what way it might be

necessary.

All I knew was that it mesmerized me. She hadn’t been swimming when I’d started, and

I hadn’t been aware of her starting, so I couldn’t judge how long she’d been at it. All I

knew was that I couldn’t pull myself away from the sight of her. Carson was swimming

a few lanes away from her. He wasn’t a bad swimmer -- certainly better than me -- but

he looked sluggish and awkward compared to her.

I couldn’t see her face, and all I could tell about her body was that she was sleek in the

water, with long arms and legs. Her face, on the split seconds it came out of the water,

was mostly masked by her goggles. I was sure it was a woman, I suspected she was

young, and that was really all I could tell about her as a human being. Otherwise, she

might as well have been a mermaid, materializing in this pool just to bewitch me.

45


She swam for another thirty minutes, moving at a speed and level of effort I could only

dream of, yet showing no signs of the exertion I always demonstrated. I’d never swum

that well, but at least I could remember my limbs being limber like that, long ago. The

contrast between what this swimmer was doing and what I was hobbled into doing made

me feel doubly ancient. Marty came out of the locker room at some point, made his way

over to me, but quickly realized where my attention was. Carson made his way over to

us as well. “New blood, eh?” he observed in a softer voice than usual.

“I haven’t seen any blood but I suspect she’s using it pretty efficiently,” I replied, without

taking my eyes off her.

“Efficient,” Marty repeated, testing out the word. He carefully watched her move. “Yes,

that would describe her very well.”

For once, even Marty didn’t have much to say. We watched her finish her workout in

respectful silence. “I knew there was someone in the pool with me, but I assumed it was

a man,” he said in that same low tone. He’d assumed that, of course, because she was

swimming faster than he was. Carson was the fastest of our little bunch, but he was no

match at all for her. “Who is she?’ he asked rhetorically. “Wow, she’s good.” Marty

and I both just nodded in agreement.

When she stopped and grabbed the wall I was initially dumbstruck, not able to accept her

not being in motion. She took the goggles off, and I saw that there was justice in the

world; she was attractive. Somehow it would have seemed unfair if such a graceful

athlete wasn’t attractive. After a couple of seconds of breathing deeply, she effortlessly

pulled herself up and padded over to a chair, where she retrieved her towel and started to

dry off un-self-consciously. It was only then that I realized how creepy it might seem

that three men were standing there just watching her, especially if she realized how long

we’d been watching her. Marty, Carson and I broke up our conversational circle as

smoothly as if we’d practiced it; Marty got in the water, and Carson and I walked to the

46


men’s locker room. The newcomer seemed as oblivious to Marty as she was to Carson

and me.

The last I saw of her as I went into the locker room was a glimpse of her face as she

gathered up her bag and headed towards the women’s locker room, her face as serious as

her swimming had been. It was a face I’d never forget, and one I knew I needed to try to

draw as soon as I could get something to draw on.

Chapter 7

I stopped at the front desk to ask Rick about my mystery swimmer. Rick manned the

desk in the morning, acting as the greeter/gatekeeper for the health club. He had an

exuberant personality, even at these early morning hours, and seemed to know everyone.

“Hey, Rick,” I said in a casual tone. “Who was the Olympic swimmer in the pool with

me today?”

He gave me a look with a smile that suggested he thought I was starting a joke. “What do

you mean, Mr. Wheeler?”

I’d told him countless times to call me Marc, but it had failed to take. I had some thirty

years on him, so no matter how familiar he was to club members closer to him in age, I

always got the feeling he thought of me as being someone whom his parents might be

friends with. “There was this great woman swimmer doing laps while I was swimming.

I thought you might have noticed her.”

Rick had a set of monitors in front of him that allowed him to keep tabs on the key areas

of the gym. I sometimes wondered if somewhere they had cameras in the women’s

locker room, but if so the front desk personnel did a good job of keeping the views

hidden from members like me. For all I knew, Rick was gay and liked to watch men

change clothes, but I somehow doubted it. He had too much fun bantering with the omen

47


members. Rick glanced at the monitor that had the view of the pool, which now showed

Mary kicking along slowly. He frowned and looked back at me skeptically. “Not Mary,

Rick,” I chided him mildly. “The one I’m talking about finished up a few minutes after I

did.”

Rick regained his smile and focused on the task. “What’d she look like?” he asked, after

managing to shout out greetings to two members coming in at the same time.

I thought for a moment. “I don’t really know,” I confessed. “She had goggles and a

swim cap on while she was swimming, and I didn’t get a good look at her when she got

out of the pool. Kind of tall, maybe late twenties. Kind of pretty, I think.” I paused.

“But I’d recognized her stroke anywhere.”

“Hmm,” he considered thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. He nodded his head. “Yeah, I

think I know who you are talking about. She’s fairly new here, but I’ve seen her a couple

other mornings.” He gave me a meaningful look, man-to-man. “You want her name, Mr.

Wheeler?” he asked, knowing it was against the rules but understanding how these things

worked.

I honestly hadn’t thought my goals through very well. I didn’t actually have any prurient

interests, at least not consciously. I couldn’t say she was unusually pretty, and her body

didn’t resemble a “Baywatch” babe by any means, as best I could tell in her very

functional suit. It was just that, well, she was so graceful. She swam better than I did

anything. I wished I was that graceful, at anything. For all I knew, she was a terrible

person, was a complete failure at everything else in her life, littered from her car window,

and kicked any dogs or small children within reach. It didn’t matter. I’d have given a

great deal to have her grace in some part of my life.

“No, I wasn’t really looking for her name,” I said at last, looking away from Rick. “I was

just curious why she was so good.”

48


Rick’s smile didn’t dim at all. “Probably took swimming lessons as a kid,” he said

blithely. “I think she must have been a fish as a kid then,” I replied, only half-joking. He

chuckled and I left, wondering if I’d run into her again.

Later that day I had a call with a candidate for my open recombinant DNA search. “Hey,

Ken, thanks for agreeing to talk to me,” I started our call.

“No problem,” he replied.

“He” was Ken Swanson, an M.D. with a Ph.D. in biochemistry as well as an MBA. From

looking at his C.V., one suspected that he was the kind of kid everyone either hated or

resented in school, and that he probably didn’t care in the least. In his late thirties, he’d

already had an impressive career. I’d come across him at a conference a few years ago,

had been tracking him since then, and finally had a position I thought he might be

interested in. We traded gossip about a few people I knew we knew in common, then

launched into my pitch. “Did you get a chance to look at the position description I

emailed you?” I asked.

“I did,” he admitted, without revealing any reaction to it. The job was as Chief Scientist

for a start-up biotech company focusing on a line of research that was very close to his

own. “I did notice, though, that it didn’t include the location.”

That had been a tactical omission on my part. Ken was currently working in the Seattle

area, and reportedly he and his wife were very enamored of the area and its lifestyle.

Typically I would have included location in the job description, and I had done so in the

version I’d sent to other candidates for this job, but I wanted Ken to focus on the job first

and save his location concerns for later. “I’ll get to that,” I promised. “What did you

think of the opportunity?”

“Interesting,” he conceded. “Walk me through it.”

49


I spent the next ten minutes telling him about the job and as much as I could disclose

about the company without revealing enough details that he would deduce what company

it was. His field was a small enough world that it wouldn’t take many clues to tip him

off. He asked several good questions, especially about the position’s span of control and

the company’s short term viability, and I gradually felt that he was intrigued. It was a

smaller company than where he was, but he’d have more control, more promise of

funding for his research, and a bigger stake in the company. “All right,” he said at last in

a grudging tone of voice. “It sounds promising. So who is it with and where would it

be?”

“I’m glad you’re interested and I can’t wait for you to meet with them, Ken,” I replied.

“I think you’ll really hit it off with the leadership team.”

Ken wasn’t so easily deterred. “First things first.”

I told him the name of the company, and I knew he was googling them as I spoke. It took

a couple of seconds as he scanned his results. “OK, yeah, I wondered if it was them.

I’ve met a couple of those guys.” He paused for a second. “Not too bad.”

“Yes, they were pretty excited when I suggested your name.”

“But they’re in Indianapolis.” He made it sound like a deal-breaker, like I was

suggesting he go to prison or Siberia. Or prison in Siberia.

“Hey, Indianapolis is a great town,” I told him, revving up my sales pitch. “You know,

you’ve got Lilly and the medical school there that gives you a bunch of good people in

town to work with. You have an NFL team and an NBA team, plus of course the Indy

500 if you’re into auto racing. There’s a fine symphony and a very active theater

community. Lots going on.”

50


“Uh-huh,” he replied, utterly unconvinced. “It’s so…Midwestern.”

I knew he was originally from Oregon, had gone to school on the West Coast, and had

worked in San Francisco, Portland, and now Seattle, which is why I’d wanted to defer

this particular conversation until I could get him a little interested. “It is,” I asserted

cheerfully. “In the best sense. Nice people, low cost of living, easy access to Chicago

and the East Coast.”

There’s always something that is a barrier. Candidates who are too eager to jump usually

didn’t take too long before they started looking again. Sometimes the job wasn’t quite

right, sometimes the people weren’t a good fit, and sometimes it boiled down to location.

In the end, though, it was usually money that drove the decision. Money and ego.

There was a rumble of thunder outside. I took a quick glance outside and saw the

ominous storm clouds. I wondered how far away the lightening was. I’d always heard

about people getting killed when lightening struck a telephone line while they were on

the phone. I wondered if the same could apply to being on the computer. Of course, my

Internet service was through the cable company, and I doubted the lightening was going

to get to the computer, plus, of course, I had a surge protector. Maybe the lightening

would strike the house. Unless it came through the window and hit me directly, though, a

lightening strike on the house would mean fire, and burning alive was not in my top ten

list of preferred ways to go. Oh, well.

“I don’t know,” Ken said dubiously. “We like it out here pretty well. Got a great house

on the water. Lots of great restaurants.”

I pulled myself away from thinking about the remote prospects of death by lightening.

“You should come out and take a visit,” I urged him, getting back into my game. “Indy

has a really revitalized downtown, several great neighborhoods, or great suburbs if you

prefer that. Even a couple big reservoirs for sailing, if you’re into that.”

51


Truth be told, and I was glad he didn’t think to ask, I’d never been to Indianapolis and

didn’t have it on my must-see list of cities. That was true about a lot of the locations I

recruited for. It wasn’t my job to personally testify to the livability of various cities. I

did my research, talked to people I knew there if I thought I needed some additional

insights, but the location was sort of like the jobs themselves: these were just things I was

trying to put other people into, not things I could or would do myself. A matchmaker

doesn’t need to love or even like the two people he was trying to put together; all that

mattered was making the match. So I’d talk up Indianapolis as much as I could without

outright lying, but it didn’t mean I’d live there either.

He exhaled heavily, and I knew the hook was in. He was envisioning how he would

explain to his wife that he was thinking about uprooting them to Indianapolis. The fact

that he was thinking of how he might do it told me he was considering the job. “Let’s

talk a little about compensation.” I told him the ballpark salary and bonus, plus how

much ownership he’d have.

“Huh,” he responded thoughtfully. “That’s…that’s not too bad.”

I pressed the small advantage. “They really want you. Let’s schedule you and your wife

to come out for a visit. They’d like to show you around, let you see their facilities,

maybe look at a few neighborhoods if you want. And, of course, listen to your vision of

how you could take their research to the next level.” The last was, in some ways, the

biggest hook. For Dr. Ken Swanson was the kind of guy who thought he’d have a

clearer, better vision of the future than most anyone, and if this was the place he could

best prove it, all the coffee in Seattle wouldn’t hold him there. Like I said, money and

ego. “Give me a couple dates you and your wife could come out and I’ll work it out

with them.”

He was silent a second, and I was afraid I might have lost him. “I’d have to talk to my

wife, of course.”

52


I smiled to myself, knowing now he was going to have to be the advocate for the move as

he pitched his wife. Sometimes the candidates wanted me to talk to their spouse, which I

would do, but which almost never was successful. That kind of delegation meant their

heart wasn’t in it and they were letting the spouse’s reluctance make their decision. As

I’d suspected, Ken wasn’t the kind of person to delegate his career decisions. “Of course.

Go ahead and talk to her. I’ll send you some information about Indianapolis that might

help.” I had a set of links ready that best bragged about lifestyle in the Hoosier capital.

“Yeah, OK,” he agreed distractedly, and again I thought he was already planning how

he’d bring it up. “She’s got a career too, you know, so that’s a factor.”

It often was, these days, and if it wasn’t the spouse’s career it was kids in school. The

spouse’s career was usually easier to deal with. I assured him the company would help

her find something good, plus a generous relocation package would give them some time

before she needed to work again from a financial standpoint.

I’d been accused, over time, of luring people away from jobs they liked, had even been

blamed for the break-ups or divorces that had sometimes followed a candidate’s

placement. I always felt slightly guilty about those situations, but I rationalized that no

one can force someone else into a new job. I’d learned that people who are happy in their

jobs don’t suddenly start looking for – or listening seriously about – new jobs. It’s only

when they are already itchy, already starting to look to the next thing, that people like me

can do any luring. It’s a hard skill to know when people are ripe for a change, but I’d

gotten good at it. As for the broken marriages, well, I suspected it was much like with

the jobs; if there wasn’t already an itch, wasn’t already a crack, then a new job wasn’t

going to harm the marriage. So I didn’t feel too responsible for any damage that

happened in the candidate’s old life. Just a little.

We hung up with Ken promising to email me some dates after he’d talked things over

with his wife. I didn’t know his wife, although I’d done a little research on her, and I

knew she was still a wild card. Her job wasn’t something so unique that finding a

53


comparable one in Indianapolis would be impossible, but I didn’t know enough about her

personal attachment to Seattle. Maybe she loved her house and her friends too much to

consider leaving, in which case I’d try to convince Ken to still consider something that

involved a commuting or telecommuting arrangement. It wasn’t ideal but I really wanted

to get him in front of my client. He was one of my top two candidates, and I was a little

afraid that my other candidate was going to end up too pricey.

I stood up, my body badly needing a stretch, feeling a sense of accomplishment. If I was

more demonstrative I might have shaken my fist in victory, but of course I hadn’t won

anything yet. I rated it only maybe sixty percent he’d end up interviewing, and even if he

did it was fifty-fifty he’d get the offer and if he did get the offer only fifty-fifty he’d take

it. Work through all the math and the resulting probability didn’t come out too likely. I

settled for a few half-hearted stretches and a walk downstairs to get a can of soda, just as

a break before settling back in at my desk.

I stared at the doodle from the call. It had started out with some clouds, then I’d filled in

some impressive lightening bolts. Most were just for show, but a couple hit some trees,

splitting one in two. And one particularly nasty bolt chased a scared-looking man, whom

I assumed was me, and striking him in the back. He had an exaggerated look of panic

and terror on his – or my – face. It would certainly be a story that Karen could tell, I

thought glumly, but it didn’t seem too likely to happen. Sighing, I settled down in front

of the computer to start looking for more candidates.

Chapter 8

I supposed I shouldn’t really have felt that much satisfaction in persuading Ken to

consider the position. It was a job that would undoubtedly look like a step up on his

resume, but it wasn’t likely to be as ideal as I might have led him to believe. I’d known

Brian Culpepper, the CEO, for many years. He was a fine biochemist in his own right

and had done wonders in several companies’ research departments. Brian had gotten it in

54


his head that he should start his own company, convinced some investors he had some

solid ideas for breakthroughs, and had, indeed, come up with some very promising ideas.

He’d been wearing the dual hats of CEO and Chief Scientist, and now his Board wanted

him to split those duties. He’d chosen to remain CEO, out of ego and desire for control,

which led to this search to take over as Chief Scientist.

The trouble was that Brian was unlikely to be able to keep his hands away from the

research, since that was what he was best at and loved the most. It was going to cause

trouble for whomever took the Chief Scientist position, and ran the risk that it could end

up interfering with his CEO duties. I figured it was only a matter of time – perhaps six

months or a year – before either the Board booted him or he fired his new Chief Scientist.

Maybe both would happen, although not necessarily in that order. If the new Chief

Scientist survived him, the next CEO might bring his own favorites and he still might fire

him. No, it really didn’t look likely that the job would end up being something with long

tenure.

One might argue that I had some obligation, moral or professional, to disclose these risks.

I didn’t see it that way. Start-ups always had risks; hell, pretty much any company had

risks these days. I rationalized that it was the candidates’ business to vet the prospective

company and personnel. Interviews should be two-way streets, especially at this level. If

Ken didn’t use his interviews to get a sense of the true measure of his independence from

Brian, then he wouldn’t have asked the right questions or taken the full measure of the

man.

And who was to say that I wasn’t being overly pessimistic? Perhaps Ken and Brian

would hit it off, become a great team, and build the next Genentech or Amgen. My job

wasn’t to foresee the future. My job was to put the candidates in front of the company

that had hired me and get it to hire one of them. Like a romantic matchmaker, if they

ended up eventually getting a divorce or going bankrupt, that wasn’t my concern, so long

as it happened after my guarantee period.

55


It also wasn’t my problem if the new job caused friction in the candidates’ home lives. I

tried not to keep track of these things, but my suspicion was that the divorce rates were

higher for my relocated executives than in the normal population. A fairer comparison

group would be in the executive population, but so many of them also had relocations

that even they weren’t much of a control population. Some relocated candidates’ spouses

didn’t like the new location or their spouse’s new workload. Some candidates’ spouses

stayed where they were, typically due to children in school or to nearby family, and

sometimes one or both of the long distance spouses drifted into affairs that cooled or

killed their marriage. Most times the children proved resilient to the new situations, but

every so often I’d hear about someone’s kid getting into drugs or other trouble after a

relocation, and I’d have vague feelings of guilt about it. As with divorces, though, who’s

to say it wouldn’t have happened had their parent not taken the new job? It was out of

my hands.

The trouble was that I found myself thinking more about the ripples I caused in people’s

lives more than I used to. I’d placed a lot of executives and had a long time during which

to observe their lives. The great part of my job was that I was responsible for getting

people better jobs, with more money, more prestige, and more opportunity for them to

make their name. Observing that over the years gave me a strong sense of

accomplishment, feeling practically paternalistic over their successes.

The burnouts and the failures were harder to take, and when I heard about them I tried to

analyze if I’d guessed wrong about their caliber, talking up a candidate who really wasn’t

ready for a job. In most cases I’d concluded that the signs hadn’t been there, that I’d

correctly matched qualifications to the job and they’d simply not lived up to the

challenges. In a few cases I hadn’t had the “right” candidate and had suggested a “good”

candidate, and if it didn’t work out I did feel bad.

Over the years I’d placed a lot of people. Many of them I liked, and most of them

worked out fine. Some of them I didn’t like, and a few of them I quite disliked. You

can’t let personal feelings interfere too much in a job like mine, but you can find ways of

56


making sure the ones you like hear about more options and maybe get presented a little

better – not at the cost of throwing an assignment, but maybe tilting the odds a little. It

didn’t bother me when I’d helped ensure a candidate I didn’t like didn’t get the job, but I

sometimes thought about the times where I got too emotionally invested in a particular

candidate’s success. When they didn’t get chosen, or when they proved unsuccessful in

the role I’d placed them in, or when their personal life suffered because of that new job,

well, those were the ones I thought of late at night or at times when the day was going too

slowly. I always reminded myself to think of all the success stories, but it was the

failures that stuck with me the most. They might be a small percentage, but I’d placed

enough candidates that even a small percentage meant there had been a good number of

those failures.

The bad outcomes in their personal lives should have been easier for me to absolve

myself of, but it didn’t work out that way. No candidate had ever pointed fingers at or

blamed me after the fact when things turned out badly, at least not that I was aware of.

Still, those were the ones I found myself thinking about in quiet times or late at night.

I hoped Ken Swanson wasn’t going to be one of them.

It was about two weeks later that Karen brought home a surprise. We were having dinner

at home that night. She was in town mid-week, for a change, although she was headed

out again in the morning. She’d even cooked dinner for us, using a new recipe she’d

picked up over the past few days that she was quite keen on. She’d fussed over it in the

kitchen for an hour, and was quite eager to see how well I liked it. It was good, but, to be

honest, I couldn’t really describe what all was in it, although I was pretty sure that it

involved some sort of poultry – or perhaps fish. There was a lot of sauce covering it.

“You like it?” she asked, looking at me skeptically.

“Great, honey,” I assured her, chewing methodically. I smiled at her. “I’ve never had

anything like it.” That was true.

57


She seemed pleased. “It is pretty good, isn’t it?”

We ate in the kitchen, as we usually did when we ate at the house. The kitchen was more

expensively equipped than we really needed, and, I had to admit, never felt quite as

homey as I might have liked. Then, again, my cooking didn’t really require that level of

sophistication, so perhaps it was me who didn’t fit. I knew I ate better – certainly

healthier fare – when Karen was around, and I was starting to have to worry more about

what I ate. I couldn’t eat like a twenty year-old any more, or even a thirty year old, and I

missed those days. While we ate this more age-appropriate meal, Karen caught me up on

her latest trip. She’d been to Miami and Atlanta already this week, and tomorrow was off

to Dallas. I was a little surprised, and a little touched, that she hadn’t gone straight to

Dallas, but she explained she’d had to meet her boss in the morning before heading out.

“How is Raj?’ I asked. I’d known Raj Jha for even longer than Karen had, but hadn’t

talked to him in a few weeks, not since he’d hosted a cocktail party at his house.

She shrugged and smiled curiously. “Same as ever. Lots of balls in the air.”

But juggling them well, I suspected. I’d never seen him ruffled or angry, and had

sometimes wondered what it might take to accomplish that. Perhaps he beat his dog

behind closed doors. More likely he meditated.

I told Karen about the status of my current searches, and she asked a few good questions.

As I had suspected, Ken Swanson had agreed to put his name in consideration. He’d

passed one phone interview, and we were finalizing a date for him to come to

Indianapolis for an in-person visit. He’d casually – too casually, I’d judged – mentioned

that he’d come alone the first time, and his wife could always come for a visit later in the

process. It would have been better if she’d have been excited enough to come this time,

but I already knew Ken was going to call the shots.

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Karen didn’t know Ken Swanson, which I thought she was slightly miffed at, but brought

up the names of a couple other people she thought I should consider. I knew them both,

but hadn’t seen either as a fit for this job, one of them because I liked him too well and

the other because I didn’t like him well enough.

“I got a call from Tondo Halid today,” she mentioned carefully as we were clearing the

dishes.

As usual when she cooked, clean-up was my job, although she helped out. I started

rinsing the dishes off and putting things in the dishwasher. “Is that so?” I asked, trying

for a casual tone of voice. I knew Tondo only by reputation; he was head of a big venture

capital firm that focused heavily on pharma and biotech companies. “What did he

want?”

Karen took a moment before responding, neatly storing some of the leftovers in plastic

containers headed for the refrigerator, although I’d probably never eat them. I didn’t

really like leftovers, and usually threw any away while Karen was out of town. “Well,

he’s got a job he wants to talk to me about.”

That surprised me. “A job? What kind of job?”

Karen pursed her lips. “A pretty good one. CMO for a pharma company he’s thinking of

taking a position in. Genetic medicine.” CMO in this case being Chief Marketing

Officer.

“Really,” I commented neutrally.

“We didn’t really talk long, but he’s going to fly to Dallas while I’m there. We’ll have

dinner tomorrow night.”

59


“Really,” I said again, straightening up and looking at her. “Is this something you might

actually be interested in?”

Karen sighed and looked away for a second, then looked back at me resolutely. “I don’t

know,” she temporized. “Maybe. Probably not. But like you always say…”

“…it never hurts to talk,” I finished for her, knowing from experience that getting

someone to listen was half the battle, especially if you got them to meet about it. If

Tondo was doing his own recruiting, he was pretty serious about Karen as a candidate,

and he had plenty of money to throw at her. I cocked my head at her. “Are you unhappy

where you are? Is something going on there?”

She shook her head. “No, of course not. Things are going great, and you know I think

the world of Raj.” She hesitated, and looked away, but didn’t continue.

“Still…” I prompted. I felt funny holding a dish towel in my hand, so I threw it over my

shoulder just for something to do with it. This wasn’t a conversation I had expected or

imagined, at least not for years. Karen got calls all the time from people like Tondo or

me, but it had been several years before she’d taken any of them seriously. At least, that

had been my impression.

She forced a smile and looked back at me, shrugging. “Still, I’ve been there a long time

now. Maybe it’s time to do something different.”

It was funny. At this point in my life, different meant maybe retiring, slowing my life

down. Different meant finding a relaxing hobby. Different even meant maybe not

wanting to be around any more. But it did not mean a new job, with all the stress and

transition it brought. “Huh,” I said, nodding stupidly. “Where would it be?” I asked this

already knowing the answer wasn’t going to be anywhere close to here.

Karen’s face grew serious, but she didn’t look away. “San Diego,” she told me.

60


Chapter 9

I almost didn’t recognize her at first.

I went to the food court at one of the malls for lunch. I decided to get a grilled sandwich.

“What do you want?” asked the bored teenager behind the counter. He was a young guy,

maybe high school or college, with bad skin and uneven hair that made me think of the

70’s. I didn’t recognize him from prior visits, but the turnover at most of the fast food

places was pretty high.

“Surprise me,” I told him. That stopped him in his tracks and he gave me a closer look of

annoyance. “You have to pick something.” He nodded his head towards the menu on the

wall.

I debated playing this out a little longer; had he shown any signs of a sense of humor I

might have, but he was already appearing impatient. “Grilled chicken, no lettuce, light

mayo, and Swiss cheese,” I specified. He narrowed his eyes and worked inputting my

order into the computer. “And fries and a drink,” I added. Before he could ask, I

clarified. “Large fries.” I’d really only ordered here because of the fries; the sandwiches

themselves were mediocre at best, especially the chicken. They cooked the fries fresh

and whatever kind of oil and seasoning they used made them delicious, if undoubtedly

unhealthy. But Karen would like that I’d made some attempt to eat healthy, should she

inquire. I’d just mention the chicken, of course; no need to bring up the fries.

After few minutes, during which I subtly kept an eye on the grill to make sure my sullen

new friend didn’t spit in my chicken, my food was ready. I thanked him politely for my

food and found a seat in the food court, sitting off to the side but close enough to the

mall’s concourse to have a good view of the passersby. No one took notice of me.

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Karen was still in Dallas, or so I assumed. She might have gone on to Houston or

Phoenix, or other parts unknown; I honestly hadn’t studied her itinerary very closely.

She’d called after her dinner with Tondo last night, but between a long dinner and the

time difference it was too late for a long conversation. She’d admitted that the

conversation had been “interesting,” but had begged off on further details until we could

talk at more length. Then I’d had a text this morning indicating she had an early start and

would be busy most of the day, so I figured it would be the evening before we had a

chance to talk. For all I knew, though, she might have another dinner, and it might be

another day – or two – before we had that opportunity.

Normally I was used to these kinds of intermittent communications on her trips, but I

thought this felt different. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she had job interviews or

prospects every day, and I just never heard about them because they hadn’t gone

anywhere. Maybe this would be a false alarm too.

Somehow, though, this felt different. I ate a couple of fries while I pondered this. It felt

like her head was somewhere else. I wasn’t sure if she was bored with her job, bored

with living in Cary, bored with me, or maybe all three. The first two I could deal with,

but I wasn’t sure I could survive her getting over me. The possibility that scared me was

that there was someone else. Maybe she hadn’t had more time to talk because she had

another man there with her. Someone, perhaps, she’d met on the road. It happened,

especially to people on the road so much. They might already have an established routine

of comparing schedules to figure out when they could coordinate cities, then hooking up

in distant hotels or airport clubs while I was sitting at home waiting for her to call. Did

she think me a cuckold, despise me for not figuring out what was going on? I wondered

if she’d given me warning signs that I’d missed, choosing not to see them because I was

OK with life as it was and fearing anything that might pose change.

Or maybe this was all just in my head and I was acting like a foolish kid, afraid of anyone

who talked to my woman for fear she’d find them better than I was. Where had this

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insecurity come from? It wasn’t like me. Karen had never given me any reason to worry

and I’d never felt threatened prior to this. I shook my head in disgust.

It was funny. I remembered traveling in the pre-cell phone days, when being in touch

with someone meant a quick call from the airport or a hotel room. I remembered the days

before answering machines, and being thrilled when those came along, as they allowed

messages that might have never happened without them. Karen and I had only known

each other in the cell phone era, so we’d never had big issues being in touch, but during

our time together Blackberries broke the mobile email barrier and texting had become the

dominant form of mobile communication. Throw in mobile video and, no doubt about it,

we didn’t lack the technology options for essentially on-demand communication. That

didn’t, however, mean that communication was always good, and I thought back to the

sweetness of those treasured late night hotel room phone calls. Sometimes making things

easier didn’t make it more valuable.

The food court had a good crowd today. Maybe it was a school holiday of some sort, or

maybe I was a little earlier than usual and I’d hit the peak of the office worker lunch

break. Whatever the reason, most of the tables were filled, and I’d been lucky to have

landed a table by myself. I sometimes wondered how I’d react if someone wanted to sit

with me, citing lack of tables elsewhere. Maybe it would be a cute young woman with a

bright smile, or an attractive middle-aged divorcee interested in some companionship…

I had to shake my head out of that silly fantasy. In the first place, it was never going to

happen. No pretty woman was going to approach me. In the second place, even if it did

I’d be too reserved to encourage anything improper. Face it; I was a not-even middle-

aged guy who was, frankly, invisible to most women and certainly to any woman more

than five or ten years younger than me. The thing with Karen and this job, though, felt

real. She had pretended it wasn’t a big deal, but I’d known her long enough to tell when

she was bluffing. I didn’t always, or even usually, know what cards she was holding, but

I had a decent track record for knowing when she was trying to hide them from me.

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For all I knew, she’d already accepted the damn job. Tondo could have told her it could

be done from here; since she was pretty much on the road most of the time anyway the

new job might not even be noticeable to me. That probably wouldn’t be so bad, I had to

admit, but it hurt my feelings to think that my wife might change her job without even

consulting me on the decision.

What made it worse yet was to think that maybe she’d have taken it knowing she would

have to move after all, across the country. She might feel confident that she could talk

me into the move; after all, we had no family here, most of our friends lived elsewhere

anyway, and my job certainly could be done from anywhere. From her perspective, if

this new job, whatever it was, really was a great opportunity for her, it would be petty for

me to refuse her. Still, I wanted to at least be asked.

Deep down, though, what I really feared was that she might make such a move and not

care if I could – or might have planed that I wouldn’t. She might be ready for a new life

without me. If there was a lover already in place, it was no doubt someone younger,

better looking, and more successful than I was. I had no evidence of any of this, of

course, but somehow it didn’t seem implausible. The time apart, the fleeting

communications we had during those absences, and a certain distance between us even

when we were together that I hadn’t realized had happened until it had. We’d been like

two boats on the ocean, bobbing close together and believing we were connected, but

which slowly had bobbed apart until suddenly we were barely in sight of each other. In

the course of this fast food lunch, surrounded by a crowd of chattering strangers, I’d gone

from believing I was happily married to feeling dejected that my marriage had come

apart.

I didn’t want to move. San Diego was a hell of a nice place, and if this job was the kind

of thing I thought it probably was, we probably could afford a pretty nice life there. I

truly didn’t have strong connections to Cary; it was nice enough, but I wasn’t rooted here

by anything more than habit, and that habit was only a few years old.

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Once upon a time I had moved several times, and had enjoyed getting to know new

places. My career had had stops in Chicago, Atlanta, northern New Jersey, and Phoenix,

and had enjoyed each of them. I couldn’t say I liked Cary any better or worse than any of

those. It was fun to get to know a new city, have new restaurants and other attractions to

discover and get used to. So, in theory, moving to the San Diego area should have been

all right with me.

But it wasn’t.

I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I wanted to stay here. Cary wasn’t heaven on earth, not

by any means, and it wasn’t necessarily the place I’d advise a younger person to move to.

It was full of planned communities, little pockets of designed neighborhoods. They were

all very nice, but hardly organic, and someone from, say, New England or Chicago might

decry them as utterly lacking in character. Maybe, but at this point in my life nice went a

long way, and I didn’t mind the artificiality of it much at all.

Karen and I hadn’t gotten to the point of talking about where we might retire, aside from

late at night flights of fancy about living on some tropical island, but somehow I thought

we’d both assumed we wouldn’t be spending the rest of our lives here. Many people

moved to the area, including people coming to retire, but, I now realized, we’d always

lived here with one foot on the floor, ready to bolt.

I’d moved to Cary on a whim, just to be close to Karen. All the reasons that should have

made it easy to leave had made it easy to come: no roots elsewhere, a job that was

mobile, and it would be where the woman I loved was. I didn’t think I loved Karen any

less now, nor Cary any more, yet my metaphorical foot on the floor had become stuck in

place. That place, like it or not, was in Cary.

The wheel of fate had gone round and had stopped on Cary. It was where I was, and the

inertia of that weighted on me. I hadn’t realized how firmly that inertia had rooted me

until I had this notion that Karen might try to move us. I liked my life well enough here;

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I was comfortable living here. And somehow I had become old enough that I didn’t want

to disrupt that.

Maybe that was the flaw that Karen had realized, coming to that conclusion before I had.

Maybe she didn’t feel that way, felt that she still had a move or two left in her, wanted to

prove herself anew. My career was slowing down. I wasn’t going to change jobs and I

was unlikely to get much busier. The technological and social forces worked against

what I did for a living, and I simply wasn’t willing to work harder to swim against those

tides. I’d keep doing it for a while, but at some point in the next few years I would

probably drift to ground, run out of searches and/or good candidates, and be out of

business. And that would be all right with me, but I didn’t think it would be with Karen.

She moved at a different tempo, and it wasn’t at all unreasonable that she’d want to be

with someone who could keep up, or at least was willing to try. I wasn’t that guy, not

any more, if indeed I ever had been.

Hell, I used to like to travel too. I used to fly around to conferences, as a way to keep

networked. I used to routinely meet with candidates in airport clubs. When I was single,

I thought nothing of flying somewhere for a weekend away, just to see a new place or a

fun place that I liked or had friends in. Even in the early days of our marriage I used to

travel more; sometimes I’d meet Karen in some of her stops, sometimes we’d just take

long weekends or mini-vacations away. We used her frequent flier points liberally. It

was all fun, but somehow that had all dwindled down. Technology had made the

business travel less essential, and the more we got settled – the more I got settled – in

Cary, the less I found reasons to travel with Karen. Over time, our travels together

lessened – a vacation every year, some long weekends. Maybe it was that she traveled so

much for work, maybe it was the post-9/11 security…or maybe it was me, maybe I’d

changed.

I looked back fondly on my many trips, on our many trips, yet rather than memories they

seemed like stories about the life of someone else, a younger and much different person

than the person I now was. I wasn’t sure how it happened, didn’t necessarily like that it

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had happened, yet it didn’t seem like anything I was prepared to do anything about. I’d

become rooted in place, not by choice but by happenstance. Happenstance and getting

old. .

Given this weight upon my conscious mind, it was not too surprising that it took me a

few minutes for that mind to get the message that my subconscious mind had been

sending. Somehow my gaze had settled upon a young woman eating a salad a few tables

over. It should have just been random that I’d let her be the center of my attention as I

pondered my marriage’s fate. She wasn’t the closest person to me, nor the prettiest

young woman in the food court. Nor was her outfit particularly noteworthy. There was

nothing provocative about what she was wearing, no excess skin in view. There were

plenty of other more salacious candidates in view, unless my subconscious hadn’t wanted

to look at anything too distracting while I brooded over my wife and what had become of

my life.

She ate her salad very delicately, I noticed. Each forkful was precisely chosen, each bite

was meticulously chewed, all with no hurry and done with a sureness that made the table

manners of everyone around her looked like a bunch of sloppy two year-olds, myself

included. She kept her head down, not taking in the human carnival around her. I

usually ate while watching the people around me, without being blatant about it, but she

seemed oblivious to everything and everyone around her. She didn’t seem obsessed with

her food, and, in fact, didn’t seem to be taking any visible pleasure from it. Eating was

more like a task, but one she was going to perform well. It was fascinating to watch her;

part of me thought she moved as though she had to think carefully about every movement

to make them just right, and the other part of me argued that her motions were entirely

natural, that she just did everything effortlessly as a matter of course. It was an argument

I had no stake in and no way of resolving, so I just watched her, fascinated.

To be fair, I did think she was pretty. Not gorgeous, but definitely attractive. She had

thick black hair, cut moderately short but just long enough to be held back with a hair

band. Her face had clean lines, with a pert nose and a broad mouth that didn’t show any

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amusement. It made me wonder what a smile would look like on that face, so serious

that she might have been performing heart surgery. She had perfect posture, to the point

it was hard to tell if she was actually tall or just sat so upright that she just looked tall.

Most pretty girls know they are pretty to others. They have been conditioned from a

young age that people look at them, and they take great pride in this effect, but I could

detect no such awareness in her. Her world seemed to be herself, her salad, and her table,

and everyone else in the mall might well have been statues for all she seemed to notice.

Without realizing it, I started sketching her on my napkin, a few doodled lines quickly

turning into a more realized portrait. It forced me to concentrate and to try to understand

exactly what had drawn my attention to the extent she had. There was something familiar

about her, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it for a long while. At first I dismissed

the notion, but after watching her for a little bit I did distinctly get the feeling I’d seen her

before. It wasn’t that unlikely; I came to the food court often, and it wasn’t unreasonable

to assume that I might have seen her as well before. Perhaps she worked in one of the

stores in the mall. But I could just have well noticed her somewhere else in the area, and

she was striking enough that I’d recognized her face upon seeing her here. These things

do happen, the daily coincidences that help make life surprising, and I normally would

have mentally shrugged and turned my attention to other denizens of the mall, to the

other pretty girls and interesting creatures around me. But I didn’t; I kept watching her,

and kept tinkering with my doodle.

In the end it wasn’t her face or her body shape that made me realize where I’d seen her.

Had I seen her walk I would have recognized her right away, but in relative repose it was

harder to place her uniqueness. It was that economical grace in how she ate. She wasn’t

showing off in any way and didn’t appear to care at all whether anyone was noticing her,

and that made it all the more fascinating. Just watching her do this simple thing so well

gave me a strange pleasure. And that’s how I recognized her.

It was the woman from the pool.

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Chapter 10

From where I was sitting, I could only see her in profile, just the left half of her face, and

even that was looking down as she concentrated on her lunch. I’d never seen her face

straight on, as even at the pool I only caught glimpses of her face from the side and from

afar. Still, I was sure it was her.

I’d seen her a few times at the pool over the past few weeks. Speculating about her had

become a cottage industry between Marty, Carson, Sue, and I, with none of us having any

hard facts, of course. At least we didn’t gawk so obviously or at such length; we’d gotten

used to admiring her without being quite as blatant about it. It did give us something to

talk about, and connected us in an odd sort of way.

Mary didn’t take part in our little huddles and pretended to not be interested in the

newcomer, yet I saw her casting a few envious glances her way as well.

Ever since that first time I’d seen her, I’d been a little more dedicated in my own efforts

at the pool. A generous soul might have said she had inspired me, but I wasn’t fooling

myself: I’d wanted to see her again, and again. It wasn’t anything romantic or even

lustful, I assured myself; I just was fascinated by how she moved, especially in the water.

I tailored my own workout times to best match up with when she tended to be there,

although sometimes I found it embarrassing to swim when she was there, because I was

so awkward and floundering by comparison. I needn’t have worried, though; she paid no

attention to me or to any of the other swimmers. She might as well have been alone in

the pool, such was her focus.

That same focus, now applied to eating her meal instead of to propelling her through the

water, clinched it for me. Other women might physically resemble my mermaid, but I

truly believed that only she had that focus and that grace, with her careful precision of

movement. I was fascinated to watch her simply put lettuce into her mouth and chew it.

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I found myself wishing she would eat even slower, to prolong the time I could watch her.

I wanted to go up to her and introduce myself, but I didn’t have the foggiest idea of what

I might say that would be a plausible icebreaker. I dreaded making a fool of myself and

risking the possibility that I’d no longer be blessed to watch her at the pool either; she

might think me a lecherous old man stalker and stop coming.

She paid no attention to me or to anyone else in the food court, even people passing by

her table. Had she looked up at these passer-bys, I might have tried to walk by as well,

hoping to have her look up at me. I could give her a smile, hoping she’d see something

in that smile that she liked and smile in return. I’d never seen her smile; in fact, I’d never

seen any expression other than that serious look of concentration she wore like a mask. I

wondered what her smile would look like. Would it flash over her face like a burst of

sunshine? Would it be as otherworldly as her swimming? Or would it seem out of place,

like a clown’s face on a Rodin statute? Part of me was desperate to find out, and the rest

of me was terrified to learn the answer. She was perfect the way she was. It was too

much to expect that she smiled or laughed as well as she concentrated. I’d rather she

remained a goddess of graceful serious beauty.

Her meal ended too soon. There was only a finite amount of salad, after all, and

presumably she had to return to work – as did I, I had to remind myself. When she

gathered up her things, I found myself with an unexpected desire to follow her. I knew it

was creepy at best and wrong at worst, but I gobbled down a few remaining fries,

gathered up the remnants of my own meal, and stood up, making sure the napkin with my

small portrait was safely tucked away to add to my collection of doodles at home. I let

myself drift into an innocuous path behind her, depositing my trash in the same waste

receptacle she did, and followed her at a respectful twenty yards. She took no notice of

me.

She walked in that same way she walked from the pool to the locker room – holding

herself tightly, like an angel keeping her wings tucked in so no one would recognize her.

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It was like she was keeping a secret that only I shared, which delighted me in a curious

and no doubt wildly inappropriate way. Anyone just watching her walk, without having

seen her swim, would think she was just another pretty woman with long legs. They

might enjoy the view, but they’d miss what made her special.

I debated with myself about where she would go. She dressed nicely, albeit somewhat

conservative for a woman of her age and beauty. She wore a blue skirt that was a couple

inches below her knees, and a yellow long sleeved light sweater. Her shoes were flats,

which added to her unpretentious walk. She could have added a couple inches to her

height even with some low heels, but her shoes made it seem like she neither wanted to

call attention to her height nor to make her seem at all sexy. Still, her outfit was stylish

enough that it wouldn’t have surprised me had she worked in a high-end clothing store in

the mall. Her outfit was bright without being too bright, crisp and well tailored. She

looked like a model in a high-end catalog, more LL Bean than Victoria’s Secret, too

perfect to be normal. She gave me the impression that she never got wrinkled.

Instead of returning to one of the stores, as I might have suspected, she headed towards

the nearest exit, fortunately the same direction where my own car was parked. I had to

hurry to keep up with her pace; my legs didn’t like to move as quickly as they used to,

and what for her seemed to be a leisurely stroll took some effort on my part. I headed

towards my car while keeping her in view. I reached my car before she found hers. I

remained standing and watched her get in a grey Accord. I hurriedly got in my car,

starting it and pulling out, scanning the lot until I spotted her car.

It was easier to follow her than I might have thought. Then again, to her I was just

another car in the traffic, and she couldn’t have been expecting anyone to be trailing her.

She didn’t drive far; she pulled into the parking lot of an office building in a nearby

office park. I pulled into the parking lot and watched her walk into the building, enjoying

the last few moments of my little surveillance session and feeling extremely silly.

This was not something I was going to tell Karen about.

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There was several companies listed on the sign outside the building, and there was no

telling which one she worked in. For that matter, she might work for a firm not listed on

the external sign. For a half-second I thought about going inside and studying the

directory, as if the list might allow me to deduce which company she worked for. I had

to laugh at that point; I was being entirely ridiculous. I deserved to be thought of as an

old fool. I shook my head and headed my car towards home and an afternoon of cold

calls.

I wondered how I could introduce myself to her.

Chapter 11

It wasn’t until later that evening that Karen and I had a chance to talk at more length.

“Hi, honey,” she sang out. “Switch to video.”

Both our phones allowed for streaming video chat, so I changed from talk only to live

video. It looked like Karen was in her hotel room, and she was still in her work outfit,

although she’d taken the jacket off. I had on sweatpants and a t-shirt; I wasn’t expecting

any more calls, and had been considering my range of entertainment options for the rest

of the evening. Something on TV, a movie on-demand, poking around the Internet? If I

were younger I could have killed the evening playing video games, but I had to confess

that I had never really gotten into any of them, just Madden on occasion. They all

seemed to require much more time, and hand-eye coordination, that I seemed to have.

Perhaps when I was retired and had even more hours to fill…

“Where are you? Still in Dallas?” I asked. I had been watching a movie, which I paused

when I saw it was Karen calling. The TV screen froze on Lee Marvin’s craggy face. I’d

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been watching “The Professionals,” which was almost over. Not a great movie, but, hey

– Marvin, Burt Lancaster, Robert Ryan, Jack Palance – what’s not to like?

Karen laughed. “No, I’m in Vegas – I gave you my schedule.” She raised her eyebrows

at me. “Don’t you keep track of where I am any more?”

I smiled tightly, not recalling her actually having given her schedule to me, but unable to

argue the point, since, if she hadn’t, neither had I asked her about it. “It’s so hard,” I

temporized. “Vegas, huh?”

“There’s a conference here I wanted to network at. You should have come. There

probably are lots of people you know or should meet here.” She started to fuss with

something in front of her, out of the camera’s range, and her eyes kept glancing down.

“Yeah, maybe I should have,” I agreed with a shrug. I wasn’t sure what conference she

was at. There was always a conference somewhere I could be at, and they were often in

Las Vegas. I’d certainly gone to my share of them over the years, especially as I had

been building up my network of candidates and prospective clients. The fact was that I

didn’t like to travel as much anymore, and only part of that could be blamed on the TSA

or the airline’s efforts to crowd more people on their flights. Karen used to kid me about

it, teasing me about coasting on my network, but she didn’t do that so much lately. It

was too true to make fun of.

“Listen, I don’t have very long,” Karen told me, shuffling some papers in front of her and

returning more – although I couldn’t say all -- of her attention towards me. “I’m meeting

up with some people in a few minutes.”

It was still early evening there. Knowing her, Karen had scheduled a couple sets of

drinks, plus at least a dinner, and maybe a post-dinner meeting over cocktails. She didn’t

drink much, but she knew how to make her drink last while the people she was with got

relaxed and sometimes a little loose (or tight, as it were). I asked if we should talk later,

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and wasn’t surprised when she told me no, that it would be late before she got back to her

room. “Hey, maybe there’s a magic act you could see,” I offered.

“Yeah, right,” she responded sarcastically. “Or maybe a ventriloquist.”

We both laughed; shorthand for old jokes, told with familiarity bred by a long time

together. I let my smile fade out. “So this thing with Tondo. Is it for real?”

Karen had been expecting this, and I thought her smile was a little too practiced, a little

too easy. “It sounds very…intriguing,” she admitted, searching for the right word while

trying to temper her enthusiasm. She looked away for a second, and I frowned slightly

while she wasn’t looking. My face was neutral when she looked back. “Intriguing

how?”

She nodded slowly. “Oh, the company is going bonkers, and this would be a key role.

CMO, of course, with both sales and Marketing. Potential for great money plus great

options. Plus, well – you know Tondo.” She smiled brighter. “He’s a force of nature.”

He was indeed. I respected Tondo, maybe even liked what I knew about him, but he was

not someone who’d ever given me any business. “So I’ve heard,” I said lightly, feeling a

sense of uneasiness that I couldn’t quite explain. The house suddenly seemed a little too

dark and a little too quiet. I definitely was turning off the TV once we got off the phone,

I vowed. After the movie. I wanted to see if Lee and Burt gave Claudia Cardinale back

to her rich husband, played by Ralph Bellamy. They didn’t make actors like Lee and

Burt anymore; throw in Robert Mitchum and Kirk Douglas, all actors who had a real

presence to them, not pretty boys like most movie stars these days. Those were guys one

could imagine sitting in a bar, working on an assembly line, or taking a punch, before

giving an even better one back. I liked Michael Douglas just fine, but he was a pale

imitation of his dad in his prime, and he’d probably be the first to admit it. They were all

actors whose prime was somewhat before my time, but I’d watched enough old movies

on TV in my youth that they formed an idealized image of what a man should act like.

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“You’ll find out,” she told me in a teasing tone.

I didn’t try to disguise my frown this time. Was she admitting she’d already taken the

job, changed both our lives without even talking to me? “What do you mean?’ I asked

civilly.

“He’s going to call you.” She grinned broadly.

My frown came back in force. “He’s going to call me? What for?”

“You’ll see,” she assured me. She seemed to be enjoying my confusion. She glanced

down at her watch ostentatiously, although I was sure she knew exactly what time it was.

“I’ll tell him tonight to call you. Say, nine tomorrow morning?”

True to Karen’s promise, Tondo called at nine sharp the next morning. I’d been

swimming already, wanting to make sure my brain had plenty of oxygen for our

conversation. “Hello, Marc,” Tondo started the conversation cheerfully. “May I call you

Marc?” He had a slight accent, and always sounded full of energy. I wasn’t sure where

in the world he physically was at the moment, but glumly thought that, even if it was four

in the morning where he was he would still sound more chipper than I did.

“If I can call you Tondo,” I suggested, and he agreed with a laugh. “Good to hear from

you.”

“Karen told you I would be calling, yes?” he confirmed.

Karen had texted me later the prior evening to confirm that he would be calling at her

suggested time, signing off with a long string of xoxo’s. “Yes, she did. How have you

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been?” We made small talk for the smallest polite amount of time before Tondo shifted

into a more formal mode. “Karen has told you about the job she and I discussed, yes?”

“She told me a little about it,” I clarified, “but she kind of left it to you to fill in the

details. What can I do for you, Tondo?” I found myself wanting to make a joke about

his name, perhaps involving Tonto, but I didn’t feel on comfortable ground doing so and

I wasn’t sure he’d get the cultural reference anyway.

He laughed cheerfully. “Ahh, leave it to Karen to create a little mystery.” He laughed

again, enjoying the joke more than I did.

Tondo Halid was very well known in the industry. He was what one might call a serial

entrepreneur. He was about my age, but he’d founded and subsequently sold several very

successful companies. He didn’t have Warren Buffet kind of money, but he hadn’t

needed to work since he was in his thirties. Nonetheless, he stayed busy, leading a very

successful venture capital firm that had made him even more money. Tondo was

smallish and stout, with an ever-present smile, judging by his photographs. I didn’t recall

offhand when I’d first come across his name or when I first tried to contact him –

although I could have checked my database for details if I needed to – but I’d at least

been aware of him for most of the last twenty years. Rumor had it that people found him

impenetrable, behind that smile and forceful good nature. The proof was in the eating; he

had never hired me for an assignment in all those years, nor took any of my periodic

calls. I’d almost stopped trying.

He continued. “So, Marc, I have a very exciting job in a very interesting company.”

“So I gathered.”

“Yes, yes. I think Karen would be perfect to head up our sales, marketing, and business

development.”

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“I see. How can I help you? Are you looking for me to talk Karen into it?” I made a

little laugh at that.

Tondo ignored the humor. “That would be most excellent, Marc, but Karen had another

suggestion.”

Now I was really confused. “What’s that?” I asked slowly.

“Karen said she would consider the job, but taking it would, unfortunately, require

relocation to the San Diego area,” he explained, with a small tone of regret about that

inconvenience. “She was not sure how you might feel about that, and told me her

decision would require more discussion with you on the matter.”

Well, thank you for that, Karen, I thought to myself. Yet, of course, we hadn’t had such

a conversation. Maybe he wanted to get to me first to let me know what a great thing it

would be for her. “OK, I’m still not sure why you’re telling me all this, Tondo. It sounds

like Karen and I need to have more discussion about it.”

Tondo sighed. “Yes, yes, of course. I can see your confusion. You see, Karen was not

entirely sure she would take the position, and thought you might be able to assist me.”

Now I truly was lost. Was he going to bribe me to talk Karen into taking the job? If so,

what would he be willing to offer? More to the point, I found myself wondering what

would it take to make me willing to try? “Assist you how?”

“Well, Marc, in the event Karen does not take the position, I would be disappointed but I

would still need to fill the position. It was Karen’s thought that you could be my

contingency plan, as it were.”

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It dawned on me why Tondo was calling. “You want to hire me to find other candidates

for the job?” It was a good thing we weren’t using video, because the surprised smile on

my face would have given him a lot of bargaining position on my fee.

“Yes, indeed, Marc. I wish to hire you,” he confirmed solemnly. “And, Marc – if you

did manage to talk Karen into accepting the position, I would be willing to still pay your

fee. So you see, you win either way.”

Chapter 12

She was at the pool the next morning.

I got there after she was already in the pool, and I stood at the end of the pool for a couple

minutes just watching her. Honestly, I could have stayed there for as long as she was in

the water, but I thought that would be too strange. With a sigh, I put my stuff by the wall,

waved at Sue, got in the water, pulled my goggles on, and started my workout.

As I swam, I was mindful of her presence three lanes over. Every once in a while I’d

catch a glimpse of her – taking a stroke, pushing off from a turn, and so on. She was

much faster than I was, and it was hard enough to concentrate on my own swimming as it

was, so those occasional sightings of her threw me off.

I swam for my usual forty-five minutes, perhaps working a little harder than usual out of

unconscious pressure about her much faster efforts, and finally stopped at the end of the

pool to catch my breath. She was still swimming, grinding her laps out methodically and

with no apparent effort, although she had to have been feeling it. I watched her do

several more laps, feeling stupid just standing there in the water, but it was fascinating. I

felt silly even calling what I did swimming, compared to her. What she did was more

like gliding in the water, more like the natural setting for an aquatic creature, not a human

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being. We’d supposedly evolved away from the sea and lost that kind of grace, but

evidently some humans hadn’t, and she was one of those special ones.

While I was still marveling at her, she finished up. She took her goggles off, wiped the

water from her hair with a hand, then smoothly hoisted herself out of the water. She

walked over to a chair by the wall, picked up her towel, and quickly dried off. She

wrapped the towel around her shoulders and slipped on her sandals, then set off for the

locker room, moving quickly without appearing to hurry in the least.

I took the opportunity to finally get out of the water, not escaping the water as gracefully

as she had; fortunately, she paid me no mind. Marty was bobbing at the edge of the pool,

watching everyone else, but I made my excuses and didn’t let him slow my departure. I

similarly quickly toweled off and went to the men’s locker room, where I took a quick

shower and changed into some dry clothes, all the while calculating the time in my head

and trying to decide if I was ahead or behind her.

I figured she’d take longer to get ready than I did, assuming she got ready for work here

instead of going home. I knew that might not be a valid assumption on my part, but just

in case I stopped at the café. “Coffee,” I asked the cute young woman behind the

counter, who looked too young to serve anything alcoholic, not that it would have

mattered. Her nametag said she was Brandi. I’d seen her before, but she didn’t seem to

recognize me, which didn’t stop her from giving me a dazzling smile. She was blond and

in terribly good shape, as were all the people who worked at the club, walking

advertisements for the club, as if being associated with it would translate into their youth

and vitality. Judging from me and many other members, that was false advertising.

“How about a latte or a cappuccino?” Brandi suggested, going for the upsell. “Maybe a

juice blend?

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“No, thank you,” I told her with a smile. “But I will have one of those cinnamon rolls.”

They had plenty of muffins, whole grain breads, oatmeal parfaits and the like, but stocked

a few unhealthy but delicious items like the cinnamon rolls for the slackers like me.

She sighed as if disappointed in me but gave a conspiratorial wink at me. “They are

good,” she confirmed sotto voce. I gave her my club card so she could swipe it, and

proceeded to get my coffee and roll. “Enjoy!” she encouraged me brightly, which I

assured her I would. I took them over to a small table from which I could see the lobby,

intending to watch for my new idol.

I’d spent most of the prior day working on my new assignment. Tondo had told me to

call Patrick Farrell, who was the President of the new company, which they were calling

AD DX; I figured the first priority for Karen or whomever took that job would be to

change the name. Patrick and I had talked for almost two hours late in the morning, as he

filled me in about the company, their niche, what he and Tondo saw for the job, and

various other things I needed to know in order to develop my job specifications. “So,” he

had asked eagerly, “do you think your wife will take the job? We’re really hoping she

will.”

I’d told him the truth – that I didn’t really know, but I was going to try to find him some

other good candidates so he’d have some options. “Yes, well, I still hope your wife will

take it,” he had responded skeptically. “Tondo told me a lot of good things about her.”

He’d tried to pitch me about how much we’d like living out there and I’d had to cut him

off, pointing out that I knew all that and would make sure it was part of the story all the

candidates got.

I picked out a small table with a good view of the locker room exits and the lobby, and

sent Karen a text: “Survived being healthy.” I’d never really gotten into or learned many

texting abbreviations, and had to admit I treated texts more as short emails than true texts.

As I drank my coffee, keeping my eyes open for my mystery swimmer to walk out into

the lobby, I thought more about moving. Cary had pretty good weather – sure, it got hot

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in the summer, and sometimes got a little actual winter weather, but it really was pretty

good. San Diego, of course, was the land of sunshine and pleasant weather, plus the

ocean. Much better college basketball in the Raleigh-Durham area, of course, but none

of the schools was my alma mater so it wasn’t that important to me. Of course, San

Diego sometimes had mudslides and fires, and someday would slide into the ocean after

an earthquake, but, hey, nothing was perfect.

The job actually did sound like a great opportunity. If half of what Tondo and Patrick

had told me panned out – and it was unlikely that more than half of their plans would

actually pan out – then people on the ground floor could very well get rich, at least “fuck

you” kind of money. It would be a lot of work, and a lot of travel, of course, but the

candidates I’d recommend would find nothing new in that. And, of course, the travel

wouldn’t be anything new for Karen.

The cinnamon roll was indeed very good, with plenty of gooey icing. There was a steady

flow of other gym members at the counter, most of them getting their treats to go. Some

of the men stopped to flirt with Brandi; she played her part, acting pleasantly surprised by

their attentions but not quite showing enough in return to get her in trouble. I wondered

how often guys were persistent enough to ask her out anyway, and how often that was

successful. I’d never have the nerve, I knew. Maybe once upon a time, but probably not

even then. These days I was definitely too old, too out of practice, and too used to being

married. I thought about the possibility that Karen might take this job and head off

without me, either outright leaving me or pretending that we’d carry on long distance.

Then I’d be on the market, maybe feel the need to take shots at obviously inappropriate

women like Brandi. I didn’t like the prospect.

Karen texted back: “Me 2. Miss u.” So I replied that I missed her, and suggested we

talk later, to which she almost immediately replied “sure!” I wondered when that would

be.

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I almost missed my target. I was facing the lobby, but I was distracted by my own

worries, and had stopped paying much attention to it. I’d started doodling while I was

having my coffee, just some lines at first, which gradually morphed into the front desk of

the lobby and gradually expanded to include Rick at the desk a couple of gym members

passing through.

When I happened to glance over, there she was, at the café’s counter. She’d changed into

a business suit, although she was carrying the jacket. Her skirt was again just below her

knees, and she wasn’t wearing hose, something I only deduced because she was wearing

dressy sandals. She had a large bag slung over her should that presumably carried her

gear. I kicked myself for not having seen her walk up, nor heard her voice when she

ordered. She waited patiently at the counter, stepping aside so the person behind her

could order. No small talk for her.

She was facing away from me, and I could only catch the slightest edge of her profile.

But it was her, I was sure. There was her height, of course, but she wasn’t the only tall

woman in the world or even at this gym. No, it was the unique way she held herself

outside the water, like a superhero trying to disguise her powers by acting ordinary and

overdoing it just by a hair. I knew she’d just worked out, yet she looked as perfectly put

together as if she had teams of stylists working on her for hours. Karen could learn a few

things from her, I thought darkly.

She was oblivious to me and the few other patrons in the café. She picked up her coffee

– which may have been the latte or cappuccino that Brandi had wanted me to order, and

turned to walk out. In passing, her eyes swept mine, and I felt kind of an electric shock

when, just for a millisecond, our eyes met. If she paused, it was done too quickly for me

to notice, and she walked out of the café and through the lobby.

I watched her leave, and modified my doodle to include her striding purposefully through

the lobby. What I didn’t realize until I’d gotten home and looked again at the drawing

was that I’d drawn her expression as being somewhat apprehensive.

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Chapter 13

The next two weeks passed quickly. If someone had asked me at the beginning of that

period, I’d have thought it likely that the time would have brought major changes to my

life. From experience I knew that once these things start happening, they happened

quickly, like a snowball rolling downhill faster and faster. I’d assumed that within those

two weeks Karen and I would have talked about Tondo’s job, and that she’d decide to go.

She’d be leaving our life here, and it was an open question to me as to whether she’d be

leaving our marriage as well. At best, she’d ask me to move with her and I’d somehow

agree, forcing major disruptions that would steamroll my life. At worst, I’d be left

behind, literally and emotionally. Either way, I’d expected a tumultuous couple of

weeks.

None of that happened. Karen proved to not be ready to make a decision, or to talk much

about the opportunity. “Sure I’m interested,” she admitted when she got home for the

weekend and I had a chance to corner her. “It’s flattering that Tondo wants me, and it

sounds like a great opportunity.”

“But?”

She’d smiled at me in a way that suggested I was being naïve. “But I think they’re not

quite sure they know what they want yet. She’d patted my arm reassuringly. “I figured I

better wait until you get through your process. Then we’ll see what the job really is and

if I’m the right person for it.”

Karen never doubted her abilities, so I’d figured what she really meant was she wasn’t

sure Tondo and Patrick were really ready to take AD DX places she’d want to go.

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In fact, it had proved very difficult to pin them down on various aspects of the job. It

took me a week to get a job description that they were satisfied with, which was long for

me. Every time I’d press Patrick on something he’d fumble with his response, say he had

to talk to Tondo, and then it would take some time for one of them to get back to me. It

appeared they were still working out organizational structures, target markets, amount of

stock options, and staffing plans, all of which my candidates were going to be interested

in. Had this been my first search I would have just drafted something generic and trolled

my candidate list for some people to throw at them, but I’d learned from painful

experience that the more specific I was, the more serious prospects would be about the

job and the higher caliber they’d be. So I kept prodding Patrick and Tondo until I had a

version I felt satisfied talking to people about.

Karen had read my final position description, of course, and had laughed. “So that’s how

they describe it now?” She was on the phone at the time, but I could picture her shaking

her head in amusement. “I’m glad I waited.”

By the end of the second week I’d talked to several potential candidates, and had passed

on two names for Patrick to consider. I always tried to not send too many options, as at

some point it becomes counterproductive and makes decisions more difficult. I also tried

not to get emotionally attached to any particular candidate, as I’d learned my customers

didn’t always share my enthusiasms. I didn’t always know why people didn’t get chosen,

either for interviews or for the actual job. Those decisions sometimes came down to

personal chemistry or other factors that were anything but objective. Still, I had to admit

that Karen matched up as well as anyone I’d thought of for the job, which weighed on

me. I started to wonder if Tondo’s goal in hiring me was to find someone else to take the

job, or to convince myself she was the best candidate. He was that kind of devious.

I managed to get to the gym ten times over those two weeks, which was a little above

average for me. I told myself it was just how things happened, but I’d be lying if I didn’t

admit that when I was there I felt a surge of excitement if I saw my mystery swimmer

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there as well. As it happened, she overlapped with me seven out of those ten times, not

that I was keeping count. I got into the habit of getting coffee and something to eat after

my swims if I finished before she did, to the point Brandi or her coworker Tony started to

recognize me and tried to anticipate my order before I had time to make it. They always

pretended to be disappointed that I wanted plain coffee, and teased me whenever I

wanted the cinnamon roll instead of a scone or a muffin. It was kind of fun to joke

around with them, making me feel as though they liked me. Of course, the fact that they

worked for tips wasn’t lost on me, and I had to admit that my tips reflected my gratitude

that I wasn’t invisible to them.

She didn’t always stop at the café, but after that first time I saw her three times there.

She always got dressed for work, in a manner I might call elegant but for the fact that

term implied a desire for attention that she did not display. Other women just looked too

casual compared to her, even when they were trying to dress professionally, yet on her it

didn’t come across as stuffy or overdressed. She dressed as though she lived on a planet

where everyone was like her, and hadn’t realized she was now living in a sloppier world.

I observed that she never bantered with Brandi or Tony. She smiled cursorily at them,

and they her, but she was very no-nonsense about her order. I rationalized that she was

always recovering from her workout, or mentally preparing for her long day ahead, but

other café patrons could cite the same reasons yet still managed to be charmed by

Brandi’s good looks and by Tony’s infectious good humor.

She’d gradually become aware of my presence, in the way that a gazelle might spot a

lurking cheetah. She wouldn’t look at me directly – that would be too obvious and might

spur a response from me. As long as I didn’t make a move she would behave normally,

but I had the sense that she was prepared to bolt on a moment’s notice. I tried to not

obviously pay any more attention to her than to anyone else, but when she was in the

immediate area I was very much aware of her every move.

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I’d have been better at this in my single days. I was never what anyone would call a

player, but I had my fair share, and maybe then some, of girlfriends. After my divorce, in

my thirties, it seemed like women were falling across my path at every opportunity. It

wasn’t any special talent, and certainly not great looks, it was just that time of life when

dating was easy. Sure, most of my girlfriends hadn’t really been people I ever saw

getting married to, but a couple of them were, and the fact that it hadn’t turned out that

way was bad luck, bad timing, or stupidity on my part. I supposed I’d been in love with a

few of my former girlfriends – and not necessarily the ones I could have been married to

– but my understanding of being in love changed when I met Karen. Fortunately, she felt

the same, or close enough. I married well, thank goodness, but when I looked back I

couldn’t say that none of the women I’d been involved with wouldn’t have made good

wives either and called it love too. My life probably would have had a much different

trajectory in that case, and it didn’t really bear much thinking about what those might

have looked like. It was nostalgic to look back sometimes, to marvel at the good times

I’d stumbled across during that period, but right now it made me feel stupid while I sat

and kept an eye out for one particular young woman, a woman who was not only age-

inappropriate but also someone I had no intentions toward. I was a toothless old lion who

liked to watch the gazelles run. This one sure ran pretty.

I was always struck by the dichotomy between her in the water and her on land. In the

water she was the lion, if you will; totally comfortable with herself, the top of the food

chain, completely natural and graceful in her every move. Out in the real world, out here

on land, she was a little stilted – truly, like a fish out of water. Or someone used to

heavier gravity and having to move carefully to not bound away.

There was nothing special about the occasion when I spoke to her for the first time. I was

at my table with my coffee and scone, surreptitiously watching her order some coffee.

Something about her seemed even more precarious than usual. I didn’t know why.

Maybe she was having boyfriend trouble or was facing too much stress at work. Maybe

it was her time of the month. Maybe she was just tired. Whatever the reason, the

expression on her face was, today, not her standard guarded look but downright paranoid.

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If anything, that should have made me more wary, but it had the opposite effect. I felt for

her; I wanted to make her feel better. As she started to leave the café she had to pass

within a few feet of my table, and I blurted out, “You’re really a wonderful swimmer.”

At first I was afraid it hadn’t registered with her, or that she assumed someone else was

being addressed. Somehow she worked it out in her head, replaying the tape to screen

out the various scenarios, and evidently concluding that she was, indeed, the recipient of

the compliment. Instead of ignoring me or rushing away without dignifying my

unwanted comment, she surprised me by pausing and looking over at me. “Excuse me?”

she asked cautiously.

Having her look at me, actually meet my eyes, see me, was electric. Her eyes were dark

and, in some indefinable way, deep; I felt like I was falling into them as she gave me her

full attention, if only briefly. They were watchful, but guarded; there was something

behind them, something smart, something, mysterious and perhaps frightened, that made

me want to get past her reserve. I almost wasn’t able to respond, and had to quickly

regain enough of my wits to respond. “I watched you swim today,” I clarified.

“Actually, I’ve seen you several times now. You’re the best swimmer I’ve ever seen.”

She looked at me uneasily, shifting her weight without realizing she was doing it. Her

face showed no reaction at first, as if I was speaking a foreign language that she had to

process and translate. “Oh. Thank you,” she responded at last, sounding very formal.

She thought for a moment, perhaps gauging what kind of further response might be

expected from her. “I think I’ve seen you a few times too.”

I had to hide my surprise. “I’m nothing to see,” I demurred, smiling at the joke of my

swimming prowess, or lack thereof. “I just try to stay afloat. You, on the other hand,

look like you belong in the water.” I broadened my smile, trying to get across the idea

that I was at worst harmless and perhaps even friendly.

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She didn’t smile in return. She might have furrowed her brow slightly as she processed

my comments. “Well. Thank you, I guess.” She looked away, as if checking to see if

anyone was paying attention to our exchange, which I suspected Brandi was. Or maybe

she was simply measuring how far to the door to the parking lot. She looked back at me,

her expression neutral again. “Just keep working at it and you’ll get better.”

I probably should have been insulted by her comment. I was never going to get any

better. I’d been swimming a long time, and this was as good as my aging body was going

to perform. But I nodded at her advice with a serious expression anyway.

She looked almost longingly out towards the lobby, and then back at me decisively. “I

have to go now,” she announced curtly. Without waiting for my response, she headed

out, and I didn’t think it was my imagination that her stride was quicker than usual. I

watched her until she was out of sight in the parking lot. She never looked back.

When my attention came back to the café, I noticed Brandi was regarding me with a

bemused look. “It looks like you have a new friend.”

Chapter 14

Trevor and I had arranged to have lunch, at The Pit in the Warehouse District. I didn’t

usually have much occasion to go to downtown Raleigh, but Trevor’s office was

downtown and he had proposed The Pit, knowing I was a sucker for good barbeque. The

place was busy, but Trevor had arranged for a good table by a window, and I arrived

before he did.

The clientele was well-to-do; a lot of businessmen, some ladies who lunch, a few well-

heeled tourist types. Maybe some of them were job candidates getting the tour from

prospective employers or from people like me. While I waited for Trevor I looked

around the room to see if I could spot the ones there looking for a job, and thought I’d

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identified at least two tables where some professional pursuing was going on. I hadn’t

been at the table long before I spotted Trevor coming in. He waved and headed in my

direction.

I’d cleaned up a little – slacks, a shirt with a collar, and a sports jacket – but Trevor

effortlessly topped me, looking elegant in an expensive suit. He took a quick inventory

of the room as he walked up to the table, checking to see whom he knew and if there was

anyone he needed to say hello to. He stopped briefly at a couple tables before reaching

ours, exchanging greetings and firm handshakes or pats on the shoulder with people he

knew.

“What, you were meeting with bankers?” I said as he took his seat, indicating his suit.

He pretended to brush something off his lapel. “This old thing?” he protested modestly.

Trevor explained that he was serving on a Governor’s Task Force on Competitiveness.

“These days I spend more time on this kind of stuff and on Boards of non-profits than I

do at Aeson,” he told me with a bemused expression. “Ah, hell, Laura likes going to all

the fund raisers, getting all dressed up and hobnobbing. It gets damned expensive,

though – once you are on a Board the pleading never stops.” He shook his head in

amusement.

“Shit, Trevor, what do you care – you’ve got more money than God,” I teased him.

“Hell, I’m not even the richest guy in my development,” he protested with a smile. “But

I do all right, I guess.” He gave my clothes a once-over. “Looks like today would be a

good day for some video calls, eh?”

We broke off our fashion bantering as the young, pretty waitress came by for our drink

order. Her nametag claimed she was Emily; she was blonde, curvy, and cheerful. Trevor

sighed and ordered an iced tea, while I asked for a diet soda. He watched her as she

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walked away. “I don’t know which I miss more – flirting with pretty waitresses or

having a drink at lunch.”

I knew what he meant; those days were long gone now. “At least you can still look at the

waitress,” I noted, watching her myself. I suspected she knew we’d watch her, and she

walked with good effect, a sway to her hips. It was a nice view.

“No harm in looking,” he agreed, turning back towards me and smiling. “If you drank I

could take a sip, but, no, you have to be healthy today.” He sighed and made a sad face.

“Yeah, your life is pretty tough,” I said, picking up the menu to scan it. He noticed that

and told me to put it down, we knew what we were having. When Emily returned with

our drinks, Trevor told her he wanted a salad, and she gave him an odd look but smiled

gamely. He laughed. “Just busting your chops, Emily. I’ll have the half rack. And

some fried okra.”

Her face brightened in relief, and I added my order of a pulled pork sandwich, with some

collard greens, the latter a habit I’d picked up living in Cary. She smiled at us and said

they’d be right up. Apparently she didn’t need to write anything down. We watched her

walk away and munched on some delicious hush puppies.

“Anyway,” he said. “Glad you could make it. Things busy?”

“Not too bad,” I admitted. “It’s been busier, but it’s been slower.” I shrugged. “It is

what it is.”

Trevor watched me closely. He didn’t miss much, and he’d known me a long time. “Uh-

huh. You all right with that?”

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I looked out the window to buy some time before replying. I took a breath and played

with my glass. “I guess so. I know what I need to do to get more business, and I could

do more, but I don’t seem to be.” I shrugged again.

I thought for a moment about the prospects of sudden death here. This food was the right

kind to kick off a heart attack, but as far as I knew my heart was good for another couple

of decades. Armed robbers could burst in – this was a fairly affluent crowd, after all –

but they might find the patrons were better armed than they were, which made it a less

likely target. So I wasn’t likely to get caught in a crossfire. There was always the chance

of food poisoning, but The Pit had a pretty good reputation on that score. I supposed it

wasn’t likely that Trevor had suggested it on that basis, but The Pit was not someplace I

was likely to meet an early demise. At least the food was good.

Trevor nodded, and used an extra half-second to scan the room again. “I know the

feeling,” he agreed in a voice that sounded almost weary.

“We’re getting old.” It came out wearier than I’d intended, although still not as weary as

I felt at that moment.

He gave me a wan smile. “Some days more than others. Today is not so bad,” he said,

gesturing at his suit. I inferred from that that he still enjoyed the wheeling and dealing

and having other businesspeople take him seriously.

“You should start another company, Trevor,” I suggested sincerely.

He pursed his lips briefly. “Maybe. Maybe I will.” He drank some of his tea. “Ah,

here’s sweet Emily with our food,” he announced grandly, giving her an appreciative

smile. She served us each with a flourish and an even bigger smile, and I found myself

straightening up slightly and hoping nothing was caught in my teeth. “We all good

here?” she inquired.

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“We’d be better if you could join us, darling,” Trevor told her gallantly, but in a way that

let her know that, while we’d be thrilled if she accepted, we weren’t expecting it. I

marveled at the subtlety of how he managed that distinction, and Emily took a second to

smile with genuine amusement at his skill. I rolled my eyes and told her to just ignore

him, that he didn’t see many pretty girls in the asylum, which made her smile impishly.

She patted him on the shoulder. “If only I could, handsome, if only I could.” She took

her hand away and left us to our food.

“Now there’s a girl who knows how to get tips,” I proclaimed. We both laughed, and got

to the work – if you could call it that – of attacking our food.

After a decent interval and a few wipes of our napkins, we came up for air. I asked after

his kids. It was funny; I’d known his children longer than his current wife, and I

sometimes wondered what they thought about her. They had to know that his second

marriage meant less inheritance for them, but maybe they didn’t care. Hopefully they

didn’t let their feelings for their mother cloud seeing how happy Trevor was with Laura.

Jason was successful at Aeson, of course. His daughter Maggie was finishing up a

surgical residency at Duke. Trevor’s youngest child, Phillip, was finishing his Ph.D. in

archeology at Harvard. Jason and Maggie took after their father in terms of their laser-

like focus, and there never had been any doubt they’d end up financially successful. Phil

was the odd kid out. He was very bright and outgoing, but had never cared much about

money. He’d had several different majors, and had started out his graduate studies in

anthropology, before discovering archeology. Trevor had given up worrying about how

Phil was going to make a living, after he’d seen the joy in Phil’s face as he described

some of his digs.

It seemed impossible to me that I’d known Trevor so long, that an entire generation had

grown up in the meantime. We didn’t seem old enough that it could be true, but the facts

of the matter said otherwise. I didn’t have my own kids, but I’d seen lots of friends’ kids

grow up and start leading their lives. When they are little you think they’ll always be

little, and at each moment when they are growing up it seems to pass so slowly, then in

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the blink of an eye they are out of college and wondering who this old guy that their

parents know is. Or they remember you but feel sorry for your advanced age, certain that

your life has nothing of value for them. The trips, the concerts, the professional

accomplishments that you might have had – to them all that was just the past, and not

many young people enjoy hearing about old people’s pasts. When I was around my

friends’ kids I’d learned to be polite, to listen to them brag, and to try to keep away from

them, huddling with the other envious and ignored adults.

I was never quite sure why Trevor and I were friends. I’d worked with him on one of my

first searches, and we’d sort of hit it off. My move to Cary had roughly coincided with

his moving here to start Aeson, so he and his ex-wife and Karen and I bonded further as

we got to know the area. Trevor wasn’t the richest guy I knew, or even with whom I was

friendly, but he was the richest one I was actually friends with. I had to admit that I

always had the uneasy sense that I was kind of a pet project for him, that he thought of

himself as somewhat of a mentor to me, or an uncle. He had a lot more money and

possessions than I did, but he never put on airs about it. He treated having money like he

treated being tall or being bright – both of which he was – i.e., something he was entitled

to, except in the case of money hadn’t been born with it. He’d made every dime he had.

I couldn’t have said it was exactly an equal relationship, but somehow it worked. I liked

to think that I was one of the few people who wasn’t afraid to tease him about things, and

I liked him for not thinking he was above that.

Trevor couldn’t resist showing me photos on his phone of Jason’s son, his only

grandchild. He beamed like only a grandparent could as he showed me the photos. I had

no children of my own, of course, and two nieces and one nephew were all raised at a

suitable distance, so children weren’t my forte, especially babies. But I knew how to

make appropriate noises when confronted with baby pictures or stories of offsprings’

academic or athletic accomplishments, much as I might read phonetic flashcards to say

greetings in a foreign language. You can make the sounds without actually

understanding what they mean.

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“Cute kid,” I admitted, which at least was the truth. Jason’s wife was gorgeous, and

about the same age as Laura, which always had seemed strange to me but which Trevor

and Jason didn’t seem to mind. Trevor and I had an unspoken agreement not to bring up

his ex-wife, so I asked him how Laura was doing.

“Fine, fine,” Trevor said, and took a drink. He glanced out the window. “She’s

somewhere spending money.”

“What, at least you can take comfort in the fact that, whatever she buys, she’ll look good

in it.”

He looked at me with barely disguised pride. “Yes, that does soften the sting. She is

worth it.”

“Things still good?” I asked tentatively. It was an oddly personal question, and as soon

as the words were out of mouth I had to wonder where it had come from. What if he said

“no”? Was I really prepared for some sort of confession?

He peered at me closely, as if trying to discern some ulterior motive, but evidently didn’t

find anything to be suspicious of. He shrugged. “Yeah. Sure. She’s great,” he assured

me, then paused. “I wouldn’t mind working more.” He seemed slightly chagrined at this

confession. “Not this Board or Commission work, I mean actually getting something

done.”

I thought about how I had the opposite problem, but didn’t offer that nugget up. “Laura

doesn’t like you to work?”

Trevor polished off the last of his ribs regretfully, licking the final bone. “Delicious,” he

noted absently. He looked up. “She says she wants me to do what makes me happy, and

I believe her.”

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“But…”

He nodded. “I’m not sure how we’d do if I spent a lot more time and attention away

from her for too long.”

“Are you jealous?” I asked, fearful that there was some problem in this May-December,

or perhaps May-October, romance. “Do you have some reason…”

He waved his hand to dismiss the notion. “No, no, nothing like that. Besides, I have a

great prenup; if she cheated, it would cost her a lot of money, and Laura is no fool when

it comes to money.” He grinned at the ridiculousness of the idea that Laura might cheat

on him.

“Glad to hear, although I like to think it’s because you guys are in love, not because of

the prenup.”

“Oh, yeah, absolutely,” he agreed. He leaned forward. “The thing is, I like to be around

her too. It’s like, I don’t know – it’s like I bought a great sports car and I just want to

drive it.”

“So to speak,” I added, and we both laughed.

“There’s that too,” he bragged, his eyes lively at the memories, or the prospect. “It’s the

first time I’ve ever wanted to spend time with someone instead of working; well, as much

time, anyway. I didn’t even do that for my kids, sad to say.”

“You were a good father,” I assured him. “Your kids think the world of you, and they’ve

turned out great. Just look at Jason – he’s a chip off the old block.” Trevor smiled with

pride at this. I sat back. “It’s funny – Karen was worried you might be getting bored

with Laura.”

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Trevor looked puzzled at this. “She did? Why would she think that?”

“I think she’s just generally skeptical of rich guys with young wives. She figures it’s a

habit that hard to break.”

“Well, ask me in fifteen or twenty years,” he suggested with a sly smile. “When Laura is

getting a little older.”

“Laura will be pushing you around in a wheelchair then,” I teased.

“The hell with that,” he exclaimed. “If I need a wheelchair, I’m hiring a pretty, young

nurse to push me!” He roared with laugher and I joined him, to the point a people at a

couple adjoining tables looked over. He calmed down. “Tell Karen not to worry.”

I assured him I would, and signaled Emily for the check. She came by, tried to pitch us

on dessert – especially the banana pudding – or after-dinner drinks, but we demurred.

Trevor tried to grab the check but we ended up each giving her a credit card. Emily

seemed amused by the attention, no doubt hoping we’d each try to outbid the other for

her appreciation by leaving the more generous tip.

“Speaking of Karen,” Trevor said after he’d signed his credit card receipt. “How is she?

Where is she?”

“Karen is fine,” I told him, trying to estimate how much of a tip he was leaving. I’d

played poker with Trevor but rarely had been able to gauge his hand. I just settled for a

thirty percent tip and hope Emily would think of me kindly. “I hate to say it, but I’m not

exactly sure where she is. I think today is Chicago. Or Milwaukee. Somewhere in the

Midwest.”

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“Uh-huh,” Trevor noted, eying me carefully. “It ever bother you, her being on the road

so much?”

I took a breath before answering, and he noticed the hesitation. “It never used to,” I said

almost wistfully. “I’ve always been proud of Karen and her career. And it’s not like the

travel is anything new – she was doing this when I met her.”

Now it was Trevor’s turn to press. His eyes got more intent. “But…”

I exhaled softly. “I don’t know. Maybe I worry she likes being away more than she likes

being with me. Maybe I worry I’m ready to slow our life down and she still wants to go

full tilt. Maybe I worry I’m getting old and she’s still got it.” I smiled, embarrassed at

having said all that. Until then, I’d only thought those things, in isolated moments.

Saying them out loud was scary, like it could make them real.

Trevor watched me closely. He nodded sympathetically. “You’re not so old,” he told

me, which I thought was gracious because I was only a few years younger than he was,

but for all I knew at his age those years meant a lot. He gave me a knowing smile that

didn’t quite invade leer territory, but certainly encroached. “You’re just missing the old

days, when we both were rascals.”

To be honest, I was never that much of a rascal, but there had been a few times Trevor

and I had been together – before I met Karen and before Trevor started Aeson – when

we’d had some pretty good times together. Off the top of my head, I remembered a

conference in Las Vegas when we hit the casinos pretty hard, another in Los Angeles

when we’d blown off the meetings to hit a few clubs with some friends of his, and a strip

club outing in New York that his then-wife would not have been happy about. Trevor

knew how to party, and I made a decent wingman. I smiled at the memory. “You were

the rascal. I was just an innocent bystander.”

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“Tell that to that dancer in Las Vegas,” he retorted, a twinkle in his eye. “I’m pretty sure

she’d have married you, or at least had your baby.”

“That was when she thought I was rich. She was hot, though, wasn’t she?”

“Smoking,” he confirmed emphatically. “What was her name?”

Trevor might have had more experience with strippers – err, “exotic dancers” than I did –

because I had no trouble either picturing my closest encounter with one, or her name.

“Chelsea,” I reminded him wistfully.

“Chelsea, “ Trevor repeated, savoring the sound and the memory it evidently invoked in

both of us. He gave me a knowing look. “And the nice thing is, you know gravity

wouldn’t have much effect on her…assets.”

“Ah, well,” I said philosophically. “I’m happy with who I ended up with, and I think

you’re lucky to have Laura.”

“Definitely.”

I was quiet for a minute, thinking a little more about old times. Trevor watched me

carefully. “I guess we had our times, didn’t we?” I asked. “Seems like a long time ago.”

Trevor smiled. “It does. These are pretty good times too, you know.”

“I know,” I murmured, looking down.

“And there’s nothing wrong with wanting to stop now and smell some roses, or with

wanting your wife to be there to smell them with you. Nothing wrong with that at all.”

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I looked up at Trevor, knowing him well enough to know he was getting at something.

“But…”

Trevor shook his head. “From what I see, Karen still loves you. Who wouldn’t?” he

asked expansively. Then he leaned in closer, and he had his serious face on, his business

face. “But I don’t see that woman slowing down. Not now, not even for you. She

reminds me of me.” He smiled in satisfaction at the thought.

“Oh, great,” I said, trying to have it come off as humorous but falling flat. “Now I have

to worry about her dumping me for a trophy husband. A toy-boy.”

Trevor looked at me gravely. “I’d start with at least paying attention to what city she’s

in.” He raised his hands, palm up, as if to apologize for delivering the bad news.

Chapter 15

Karen got back from her latest trip Friday evening. “Hello, lover,” she cooed on the

phone. “I just landed. What are you doing?”

As it happened, I was on my computer writing up progress reports on my active searches.

Ken Swanson had visited Indianapolis a few days ago, and had even talked his wife into

coming out for the weekend. He’d told me the visit had been productive, both in terms of

meeting with the leadership of the company and his impressions of the town. “My wife

didn’t hate it as much as she thought she would,” he’d reported. I translated that to

“spouse considering” in my report to my client. Another candidate was there and was

also planning to spend the weekend. He reported an hour or so ago that it had been a

grueling but stimulating day, sounding charged up about it, and I’d promised to give him

some feedback from the people he’d met with sometime in the next couple days. His

wife was flying in in the morning. He promised to call me Monday. Between the two of

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them, I thought Ken was the better fit, and he’d been a hit with the client, but the spouse

question made him a bit chancey.

I’d made progress on the search for Tondo and Patrick, identifying five strong or semi-

strong non-Karen candidates, which I’d been sending off tonight. I’d keep pursuing other

leads, of course, but I hoped they’d find a couple of these worth meeting with. I was a

little afraid they’d want to meet with all five, which would tell me they were floundering

about what they were looking for.

“Working, my dear – what else would I be doing while you’re away,” I told her. “Want

me to come pick you up?”

“Nah, I’ve got a car service already set up,” she assured me. “Home in thirty minutes or

so. Did you have dinner already?”

I told her I hadn’t, that I was waiting for her to get home. We talked about meeting

someplace or going out after she got home, but in the end we decided to order in, which I

was assigned to. I picked an Italian place we liked that had some nice pasta dishes. I

ordered Karen some chicken and linguini, while I stuck with a basic spaghetti and

meatballs. I threw in an order of garlic bread too, since their bread was the best thing

about the place.

Karen had barely arrived and brought her suitcase in the house before the food arrived.

“Let me change first,” she shouted down from the bedroom. I set up the food in the

family room, which was where we spent most of our waking hours together, what few of

them there were. I liked the family room; it was comfortable, had a great television, and

at least had some artwork I liked. The chairs weren’t too bad either. I thought of it as our

room, which I couldn’t say about many other rooms. The rest of the house, save for my

study, were really Karen’s rooms, done to her tastes. They were a little too bright and a

little too modern for my tastes; I always felt like I was in a model home in them. I

always had the sense that she wasn’t particularly attached to most of our furniture and

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furnishings. She liked nice things, and liked shopping for them, but had no qualms about

replacing any particular pieces. She didn’t have many sentimental favorites.

I did. I’d fought, and she’d relented, for keeping my study the way I wanted. The desk,

couch, and television – before I’d upgraded it -- had come from my old house, as had my

books, pictures, and a couple prints I’d accumulated over the years. The study didn’t

look like any other room in the house, yet it was where I felt most comfortable – and

where I spent the most time. Karen rarely went in it.

Finally Karen appeared, looking cool and collected in shorts and a long-sleeved top.

“You look great,” I told her sincerely. “How about a kiss?”

“I kissed you when I got home,” she noted, not objecting to a second kiss but wanting it

for the record that she hadn’t failed in her wifely duties. She made flirty eyes at me and

sighed theatrically. “Oh, all right.” She put her arms out and I came over for a longer,

more fun kiss than the perfunctory greeting we’d shared earlier. “Now, that’s what I’m

talking about,” I enthused when we broke.

We used to kiss a lot. A lot. She was good at it, as was I, if I do say so myself. When

we first got together we could barely keep our hands or lips off each other. There’s

nothing like a first kiss, people say, but all of those young love kisses were pretty special.

It was a time when you first are getting to know your lover’s preferences, their body and

how and what it responds to. Surely the body’s hormones are going crazy, matching up

with the pheromones or whatever caused people to fall in love, or at least be physically

attracted. It changes, over time. The kisses can stay sweet, but “sweet” was a whole

different thing. Kisses like this one were a reminder of times past, and, I still liked to

think, a promise of things possibly to come.

Karen grinned at me. “Good thing we did that before we had some of that garlic bread I

smell,” she said with a smile. “Speaking of which, I’m famished. Let’s eat.”

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The next morning we both went to the gym, although I took to the pool and she worked

on the machines. I didn’t ask Karen why she chose to come along to the gym instead of

working out at home, as I was glad for her company. I was tempted to watch her workout

for a while, and bask in the pride that this attractive woman was my wife, but I dutifully

went down to the pool for my own workout. I didn’t see my mystery swimmer at the

pool, which made me feel both disappointed and relieved. Somehow seeing her when

Karen was around seemed wrong, although I had nothing to feel guilty about. Karen

would no doubt admire her form, but I’d have a harder time explaining my ongoing

fascination about it.

Marty was thrilled to know Karen was actually in the building, although he made no

special effort to leave the pool in order to meet her, or even to see what she looked like.

It was like she was a mental construct for him, with physical proximity a new variable.

He urged me to pass along his greetings, assuming – correctly – that Karen was familiar

with my swimming cronies.

When I was toweling off after my swim, Carson came wandering in. He stopped by.

“Hey, I heard your wife is in the gym,” he said, and I had no doubt he’d gotten that

information from Marty. “What does she look like?”

I thought that was an odd question, and asked him why he wanted to know. He

momentarily looked chagrined, and hurried to explain that he’d come with his wife. “I

thought I might have seen her working out when I dropped Adele off.”

Somewhat mollified, I briefly described Karen, and Carson’s head started nodding.

“Yeah, I think I saw her.” He looked at me quizzically. “She’s your wife? Is she your

age?”

“Roughly,” I admitted proudly.

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Carson nodded thoughtfully. “Wow, she looks younger than that.” That left me

wondering if he thought I looked older than Karen, or if he thought I looked younger than

my age too. Carson didn’t clarify. I thanked him politely on Karen’s behalf. He looked

curiously at me. “She travels a lot, right?”

I confirmed that, wondering where Carson was going with this whole conversation.

He whistled softly. “Man, a woman that good looking – must be a lot of guys hitting on

her on the road.”

I gave him a look. “Gee, thanks for that thought, Carson,” I told him snidely. “I trust

Karen.”

He raised his hands. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just that I used to be on the

road a lot too, and, well – I enjoyed it.” He gave me a knowing look.

“How good for you.”

Carson shook his head somewhat sadly. “Once I got married Adele made me cut back on

the travel. Way back.”

“She doesn’t trust you?” I asked, taking the opportunity for a little dig. I wasn’t sure

why.

He gave me a sly look, and shrugged. “You know, guys will be guys, especially out on

the road. Attractive women get pursued – and nowadays some of them do the pursing.”

He paused, thinking back to his own time on the road, and evidently there were some

fond memories there. “It gets lonely after a while, you know.” His tone was different,

not bragging, just a little sad.

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I didn’t say anything, but I was starting to get annoyed. I had a hard time picturing Karen

feeling lonely, but not quite as hard a time imagining her tempted. Carson finally figured

out that I might be offended by this line of conversation. “Hey, hey,” he said hurriedly.

“I don’t mean your wife.”

Carson realized he’d not get out of that particular conversational hole, and quickly made

his excuses to get to his workout. I finished drying off, went to the locker room to put on

my sweatpants and a t-shirt, and wandered up to the room with the machines. Karen was

cranking away on an elliptical, and I stopped to admire her objectively. She did look

good, especially in her workout clothes. I was proud to be married to her, lucky to have

her.

Then I thought about how even better she’d look to some lonely traveler in the hotel’s

exercise room, and suddenly got a chill.

After we got home and cleaned up – each in our own bathrooms, as usual – we had some

breakfast while reading the papers; me the physical version, her on her iPad. Later in the

morning we ran some errands, had lunch out, and got home around two. Just a typical

Saturday.

On the drive home I remembered Carson’s comments. “Hey, you got noticed at the

gym,” I said as we drove back.

That attracted her attention from checking emails on her phone. She looked up and gave

me a smile. “How’s that?”

I briefly described how Carson had asked about her once he’d found out she was there.

“Once I described you, he remembered seeing you.”

“Did he now?” Karen asked, sounding pleased. “What did he remember?”

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“Well,” I started, giving her a quick glance. “Just the fact that he remembered you out of

all the women who must have been there says something.”

“Maybe he just has a good memory,” she replied, starting to lose interest and turning

back to her emails.

“He did say you looked younger than he thought my wife would, and that you were good

looking.”

That got her attention back. She gave me a satisfied look. “That’s nice. Anything else?”

“If you mean, did he compliment you on any particular body parts, no, he wasn’t that

specific,” I noted. I paused a second, trying to decide if I should share the rest of

Carson’s thoughts. I decided that I had nothing to be worried about. “He thought that

attractive women like you must get hit on all the time on the road, and that it’s easy to

give in to temptation.” I looked over and flashed her a quick smile.

Karen didn’t react immediately. She continued to look at me after I’d turned my

attention back to the wheel. “You run into all kinds of things on the road,” she said at

last, looking straight ahead. “You learn how to deal with it.”

“I should hope so.” I hoped my tone came out light and unconcerned rather than worried.

I couldn’t read her smile.

“How about a fashion show?’ Karen suggested once we got home. Several packages had

arrived for her while she’d been gone. Karen could find things to shop for just about

anywhere she was, but she was a little bit of a fashion snob and tended to buy clothes

while on her trips. She had favorite stores in several cities, but Dallas, LA, San Francisco

and, of course, New York tended to be her favorite. She’d hit Dallas and San Francisco

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this trip and had tweaked her itinerary enough to allow some shopping time, and these

packages were the end results. She’d undoubtedly not only negotiated a better price with

the merchants, but had also arranged for quick tailoring and express shipping as part of

the purchase. Then again, they knew a repeat customer when they had one.

“Sure, darling,” I agreed amiably. I settled down in the easy chair we had in our bedroom

while she took the packages to her walk-in closet.

“No peeking till I’m ready,” she warned me from the closet.

“I’m sitting right here,” I called back. I started checking email on my phone while she

started fiddling with the packages and deciding what to try on first.

It took fifteen minutes or so before she appeared in the first outfit. It was a grey pantsuit,

the jacket cropped short and squared off. She had on a frilly white blouse underneath the

jacket. “Very Hilary Clintonish,” I teased her with a straight face. “You have a better

butt, though.”

She made a face at me while she checked herself out in the mirror from several angles.

“Seriously, hon, it looks great,” I clarified.

“It doesn’t look too mannish?” she asked, not ceasing her own inspection.

“It would take more than that to make you look mannish,” I told her gravely and with

utter sincerity.

She ceased the poses, took one last look, and went back to the closet for a few more

minutes. She reappeared in another suit, this one dark greenish and with a skirt instead of

the pants. “Green? You don’t have a lot of green suits, do you?”

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She stopped posing in front of the mirror and used it to make eye contact with me. “It’s

teal, dummy,” she corrected me. She turned both ways, trying to see how it looked from

different angles. “What do you think?”

“I’d give you the business,” I promised her. “Whatever that business was.”

“Yeah, but you’re a pushover,” she reminded me mildly without her eyes leaving her

reflection. She pursed her lips, and made some silent decision. She headed back to the

closet.

“How many more of those do you have?” I asked, more out of curiosity than boredom.

She told me she only had a couple, but if I didn’t want to watch I didn’t have to stay. I

assured her that she had my rapt attention, and a few minutes later she reappeared in a

dress. It hugged her contours fairly well, and ended a couple inches above her knees.

There was a scoop neck that didn’t show any cleavage but showed off her upper chest to

good advantage. I thought it was not quite as fancy as a cocktail dress but a little dressier

than standard business attire. She looked great. “Wow,” I remarked, leaning forward a

little. “That’s some dress.”

She preened in front of the mirror, checking herself out and looking fairly satisfied with

the results. “You think it’s too much?”

“Too much what?” I asked innocently.

She looked at herself in the mirror from several angles. “I mean, I don’t want to start any

riots or anything if I wear this.” She stopped posing and looked at me with a smirk.

“Well, I suppose there might be a small riot,” I allowed, “but that’s the risk you always

run.”

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She looked at me with that amused smile, and I had no real idea what she was thinking.

I wouldn’t have minded knowing, but I was happy just looking at my beautiful wife in

her lovely dress with that smile on her face. I could have stayed there indefinitely. She

came to a decision. “Wait here,” she commanded. “Just one more.”

I sat there wondering what might be next in the fashion parade. Maybe slacks and a

jacket, maybe slacks and a top. I didn’t know what other options there were. She

reemerged, pausing in the bathroom door. She put an arm up on the doorframe and

extended one leg.

She was wearing just a bra and panties. The bra was black, frilly, virtually see-through,

and seemed to be combating gravity slightly. The bikini panties matched the bra. Karen

looked fantastic. Her legs were always well toned; she’d demonstrated why at the gym

earlier. She didn’t have six-pack abs, but her stomach was firm and had just the right

womanly curve. And, of course, I’d always been a big fan of her breasts, which had

never looked better.

Karen looked at me expectantly. It took me a second or two to unswallow my tongue.

“Is that new too?”

She arched her back slightly, enhancing the view. She raised her eyebrows at me.

“Maybe. You like?”

“Well, I’m not sure it’d be good on planes, but aside from that…”

She came over to the chair and poured herself into my lap, putting her arms around my

neck. “This one is just for you, darling,” she told me in a throaty voice. She looked me

in the eyes. “Should I keep it?”

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I was having a hard time maintaining eye contact; there was so much else I wanted to see.

“I suspect you can tell how much I like it,” I responded hoarsely, knowing she could feel

my erection and savoring her weight upon it. She smiled triumphantly. “Kiss me, then.”

We kissed there for a few minutes, and I let my hands run over her smooth skin in all the

bare places. I got goose bumps touching her, and I had the distinct sense she was

enjoying it as well. After that, we moved with unspoken agreement to the bed. I wished

I could have dramatically lifted her up and carried her there, but, well, I was starting from

a bad position and I needed to save my strength for what came next. She helped me strip

my clothes off with great abandon, while I helped her remove the bra and panties before

we jumped under the sheets.

We took our time making love. I loved making love with Karen, even after all these

years. I loved touching her, everywhere, and she loved being touched, almost as much as

she loved touching. She made soft, urgent moaning sounds that eventually transformed

into outward screams of pleasure, and every noise she made just incited me more. I kept

thinking to myself how no one would believe this woman was in her upper fifties. Her

skin was soft and tender, but she was firm in the places they should be. I used my hands,

then my mouth, and she came twice before we consummated the act. It didn’t take long

for me to come.

“Yikes,” I exclaimed contently afterward, holding her in my arms. “Double yikes.

Where did that come from?”

“I wanted to see if you missed me,” she said coyly.

“What’s your conclusion?” I asked, stroking her back.

She smiled at me and kissed me quickly. “I think so, yes.”

“Did you miss me?” I asked her.

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She looked me in the eyes. “What do you think?”

I tried to have a serious look on my face, but doubted I was entirely successful. “I think

parts of you most definitely did,” I temporized. “And corresponding parts of me

certainly missed…the corresponding parts of you just as much.” We both started

laughing, and held each other closer. I started trying to remember the last time we’d

made love. It hadn’t been the prior weekend, and I thought it might not have even been

the one before that. Could it have been as long as a month ago, I wondered. “Gee, why

don’t we do this more often?” I wondered aloud, as much to myself as to her.

“I thought you were getting too old for sex, old man,” she responded with mock

seriousness. “You know, your heart and all.”

“Plus the ED.” I was joking, of course, but it made me sad that our sex life wasn’t what

it once was. We had a mutual comfort that time brings couples, and usually I could tell

myself that the comfort and long-time familiarity made up for the loss of passion, but at

times like this I didn’t feel that way. I missed the passionate younger lovers we once

were, missed the heat we used to bring. The fashion show was something Karen would

have done when we first got involved, when I’d have been enthralled anytime she even

changed her clothes. Now I let her change on her own in her closet, and it came out of

the blue when she was feeling frisky like this. I thanked my heavens that I hadn’t

stupidly missed the opportunity.

“Well,” she replied contently, rolling away from me slightly. “I didn’t see any evidence

of that, thank goodness.” She leaned over to kiss me, starting out tender but growing

into something more passionate. We finally broke it off. “I’m all sticky,” she

complained, sitting up. I enjoyed the view of her naked breasts, gamely fighting the

years and doing a damned impressive job of it. “I need to take a shower.”

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She stood up and started towards the bathroom. She stopped after a couple feet and

looked back, appearing pleased to have my rapt attention. “Want to join me?”

Chapter 16

I wished I could have reported that the rest of the weekend was equally as loving and

sensual, but that didn’t prove to be the case. We went out for dinner, watched a movie

on-demand, and tumbled into bed half-asleep. It was always hard to agree on a movie.

My taste in movies skewed even older than my taste in music; I was a big fan of movies

from the thirties, forties and fifties, although classics from the sixties and seventies were

welcome too. Karen would watch them tolerantly but without interest, especially if they

were in black and white, so when I was with her I usually picked something current that I

thought would interest her, and saved my classics for my times alone in the house. Given

Karen’s travel schedule, that wasn’t much of an imposition.

On Sunday we had a quiet day as well; I didn’t even leave the house. I watched football

in the afternoon while Karen worked in her home office, catching up on paperwork and

whatnot. She cooked dinner for us – salmon, risotto, stir-fried veggies – and it was

delicious. We talked in the casual way long time couples do, nothing of particular

importance and with periods of comfortable silence.

Before I knew it, the weekend was over and I said goodbye to her Monday morning as

she set off on another road trip. “I should be back Thursday night,” she announced

cheerfully, giving me a perfunctory kiss that might as well have been on the cheek.

“Probably.”

I watched her drive off, feeling oddly wistful about her departure. When her car quickly

was out of sight it felt like she was already someplace far away. I sighed and got in my

car, headed for the gym, where I swam hard for an hour. I didn’t even stop in the café

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afterwards, although that might have had something to do with the fact I hadn’t seen my

swimmer doing her workout.

I had plenty of work to do. I spent a couple hours catching up on emails and updating my

database. This used to be a purely professional activity, tracking who had had what

changes in their careers, but more recently I’d found myself investing more emotion into

it. The promotions of candidates I’d worked with made me feel proud, unless they were

in jobs I hadn’t helped place them in, which made me feel disappointed that somehow

they’d moved on without me. Promotions of people who’d hired me once inspired me to

follow-up with them, ostensibly to offer congratulations while really reminding them of

the availability of my services. These days I often measured my interest by how long it

had been since they’d hired me, with my pleasure in their advancement inversely related

to how recently they’d hired me. A hungrier businessman might have redoubled efforts

on the ones who’d be ignoring me lately, but more and more I seemed to be writing them

off.

I felt sad when I heard about people I’d placed or worked with getting fired or

downsized. To some extent that had always been true, of course, if one could call my

professional interest in their new availability sadness, but these days I felt connected to

these kinds of people much more than by the advancing ones. It seemed like there were

more of them, for one thing, and they hit me harder. There were certainly more of them

than I could place, especially these days, and some of them had damaged their careers in

ways that made it possible I’d never be able to even present them as a candidate again.

Most of the time the damage hadn’t come from a job I’d placed them in, fortunately, but

sometimes that happened too and I felt especially awful about that.

Lately I’d become more focused on the people retiring. These were candidates I could no

longer offer up, and people no longer in a position to hire my services, so either way it

was a loss for what I did. Every time I came across one of their names I felt my

livelihood was just that little bit more diminished. Ten years ago, maybe even five years

ago, that didn’t happen – there were fewer of them, and when it had happened I’d just

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worked all that much harder to replace them with new blood. These days I felt more like

the kid with his finger in the dike; nothing I could do would hold back the flood. My

career was drowning, and it made me more sad than scared.

Ken Swanson called in the late morning to check in. “Have you heard anything from

them?” he asked.

“Not yet,” I told him. “They had another candidate there late last week and he and his

wife spent the weekend, but I haven’t heard from him yet either.” I probably shouldn’t

have told him that much, but I liked to let candidates have some idea where things stood.

He asked where the other candidate was from, no doubt wondering who it was and if his

relocation would be less problematic than his own, but I had to draw the line at that. It

was too small a world and he might be able to figure out who his competition was if he

knew where he was from.

“I’m working on my wife,” he assured me. “It’s tough for her to think about leaving

Seattle but she didn’t hate Indianapolis as much as she thought she would. So I keep

telling her what a great opportunity it is, and how we could have a great life there.” His

voice sounded confident, but there was something in his tone that sounded faintly

desperate, as though he was working hard to convince himself of what he was saying.

At this point I wasn’t even sure if Ken was their top candidate. I’d know more when I

heard more about how the other candidate had done, and I had another possibility waiting

in the wings just in case neither really excited them. They might have preferred I give

them her at the same time, but I’d come across her after Ken and the other candidate had

already been scheduled, so I simply was trying to avoid muddying the waters.

Professional discretion, learned from painful experiences of clients dithering from too

many good choices. I could imagine those conversations with Ken’s wife; her trying to

be supportive, yet wary about uprooting their lives and resettling in a very mid-western

city two thousand miles away. They might not have realized it yet, but Ken’s career was

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likely going to mean a relo at some point, and Indianapolis was better than some of the

future options might be.

We talked for a few more minutes, and I had the feeling he was really trying to rearm

himself with more ammunition he could use to bolster his case with his wife. So I

reminded him what good people he’d be working with, how strong the prospects for the

company were, and some of the nice feature of Indianapolis that my research had pointed

to. “…and there’s Broad Ripple,” I finished, citing one of the older and relatively hipper

neighborhoods.

“Yeah, we had lunch there last Sunday,” he confirmed. “Near that little canal.” He

brought up a couple other neighborhoods they’d toured. I couldn’t really add much to the

descriptions I’d sent him, having never seen them myself, so I mostly listened and offered

reassuring words when he paused for a response. It was a conversation I’d had hundreds

of times before, and I’d learned that nothing I might say was going to really matter.

Either the candidate fell in love with the job and didn’t mind the location, or they didn’t,

in which case it wouldn’t matter. Ken was coming to love the potential of the new job,

and it might not matter if his wife liked Indianapolis. If he was offered the job, she’d just

have to decide if she wanted to be with him there, or not at all. I found myself wondering

if Karen was at that stage about the job with AD DX.

We wrapped it up, with Ken thanking me profusely, although exactly for what, I wasn’t

sure.

I drove to the mall to have lunch, needing a break. On the highway I thought about

driving into an embankment. Dying in the car always seemed like a good way to go.

After all, if I died in the house, that would be pretty awful for Karen. It would be messy,

hard to clean up, and maybe impossible for her to get used to. I pictured her walking

past whatever room I’d died in, remembering finding my dead body there. Oh, and dying

it in the house meant she probably would be the one who would find my body, probably

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only after several days. My body would be doing what dead bodies do left on their own,

and attracting all sorts of flies and maggots and such. I had images of me laying there

with my blood and guts scattered everywhere – although I was not clear on how that

would happen -- and Karen coming home to find the scene. Such a mess. It wouldn’t be

fair to her.

Plus, it would make it harder for her to sell the house.

Dying in the car, on the other hand, meant trained professionals would most likely find

and deal with the body. Maybe a stray passerby would be the first on the scene, but such

a Good Samaritan probably had some morbid curiosity anyway, so I didn’t feel too bad

about their exposure to the gore.

It could happen a bunch of ways. A texting teenager could drift into my lane, forcing me

into the aforementioned embankment. A sleepy trucker might lose control and slam

head-on into me. I didn’t want to hurt anyone else, of course, so if another vehicle was

involved I hoped they’d done something to deserve it. Cars made it easy due to the

physics involved. Force equals mass times acceleration, after all, both of which my

speeding car would have in good abundance.

The only flaw in the plan, as best I could tell, was that there was no guarantee of death. I

might hit something at an angle that would help shear the force, and airbags nowadays

are pretty good. I could end up not dead but just badly injured, maybe even paralyzed. I

could find myself in agonizing pain, having to wait for the rescue squad to cut me out.

Then I’d face days, weeks, even months in the hospital and rehab, suffering through

multiple operations and still ending up in constant pain, even from ghost limbs that I’d

have lost. My face would probably be scarred and misshapen. All in all, mothers would

probably steer small children away from me so that the sight of my pitiful body wouldn’t

scare them, or so that the bolder of those children wouldn’t make hurtful comments

within earshot.

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Poor Karen would have to play the martyred wife, sticking by my side through all the

setbacks and disappointments. She might have to quit her job, get a job that allowed her

to stay closer to home in order to take care of me. She’d try to be a good soldier, but life

with a poor cripple wasn’t what she’d signed up for. No one could blame her for

becoming unhappy, having affairs with healthy men, and gradually falling out of love

with me. She’d be too noble to actually leave me, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t

withdraw from me emotionally. I could end up in a nursing home, to which her visits

would just get shorter and shorter, less often. Pretty bleak all way around.

A car rocked by me on the highway going at least eighty. “Asshole!” I shouted. Didn’t

he know how dangerous that was? I hated stupid drivers in the way I hate rude behavior

generally. It never failed to warm my heart when people did little acts of driving

kindness, like stopping to let pedestrians cross in the crosswalk, or letting other drivers

switch lanes in front of them on a crowded road. It usually gave me hope for humanity,

just as drivers not doing those kinds of actions made me despair for it.

It was ironic how the very type of driver I thought I was hoping for inspired such

negative feelings when I had a near-encounter with one. No, crashing in the car might

not be the ideal solution, I concluded glumly. I needed to be sure that whatever I did

would do the job, quickly and with a minimum of fuss and muss, and without anyone else

suffering collateral damage, deserved or not. Scratch the car crash, just as I’d already

disregarded lots of other options.

I pulled into the parking lot near the mall’s food court, and walked in. I scanned the

usual array of choices and decided pizza sounded good. I ordered two slices of

pepperoni. “Would you like a side salad or breadsticks with that?” the guy behind the

counter gamely offered. “I think the two slices are probably enough,” I suggested; the

slices here were pretty good sized. I thanked him for his suggestion and did let him talk

me into a large soft drink as a consolation.

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I found a table off to the side and settled in. The pizza was fairly decent. Sure, maybe

aficionados from New York or Chicago would disdain this homogenized version, but for

me it was fine. The sauce was tasty, the crust was doughy, and the pepperoni was spicy

without being obnoxious. As I chewed, I scanned the crowd. There were the usual

suspects – lots of young mothers with small children, scattered older couples or small

groups of women, some teenagers who looked like they should be in school, and a few

businesspeople taking their lunch breaks. Nothing out of the ordinary.

I found myself thinking back to the weekend. Working for myself, in my own home,

didn’t lend itself to much whining about having to go back to work on Monday. There

wasn’t much line between work and home, mind you, but I never had to worry about

being a corporate drone in an oppressive office. But this weekend had been a good one.

Saturday had been a good day, a great day. I’d been with Karen, we’d been close and

loving and we’d had a good time together. If I’d died in my sleep Saturday night, well, I

would have died satisfied, with a smile on my face. Some might say I’d have died too

young, with lots more good days ahead, but there was never a guarantee of those kinds of

days. Maybe ending on a high note was as good an out as I could count on.

Sunday had been a good day as well, and it would have been fine with me to die

overnight Sunday night too, but it wasn’t quite as good as Saturday. My feeling was,

there was no need to be greedy. If I got a great day, even a pretty good day, that’d be a

good time to cash in my chips, rather than bet on ever-diminishing odds of it happening

again.

Of course, I glumly thought to myself as I picked at my pizza, that still left the

mechanism of my death unclear. It was too bad humans didn’t come with some sort of

mental off switch, so we could call it quits whenever we wanted to. If humanity had that

kind of kill-switch, though, we probably never would have made it out of the savannahs

of Africa; everyone might just quit when things got too tough. Still, I’d put in my time,

weathered enough storms, that it didn’t seem too much to want to be able to go quietly at

a time of my choosing.

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It took a few scans of the crowd before I realized that, for a change, someone was

watching me, or at least scanning me in return. I noticed first out of the corner of my eye,

using that primitive awareness of potential predators to recognize that something was

interested in me. I didn’t abruptly look over, not wanting to startle whomever it was into

looking away. Instead, I took a couple of bites, chewed them as casually as I could, and

slowly looked around the food court. I didn’t catch anyone watching me, but I didn’t

really expect to; I anticipated that the watcher would see my head turning and break off

their surveillance. I was just trying to identify anyone who might be the one, who looked

like they were trying too hard to not be looking at me. I didn’t immediately spot such a

stalker, so I went back to eating my pizza, only to have my hackles rise again with the

sensation I was being watched. So I took another unhurried look around the food court,

this time focusing on the right side of the food court, where my impression of the

watching was coming from. Once again, I didn’t see anyone displaying any overt

behavior; everyone seemed to be ignoring me as a matter of course. Still, there was

something on the edge of my consciousness screaming at me that I wasn’t just imagining

the whole thing.

The pattern recognition circuits took a while to kick in. For one thing, she was sitting at a

table facing me, with her head down. Playing the scene backwards in my head, I was

pretty sure that she hadn’t walked up and sat down while I was eating; she must have

already been there when I arrived. So all I had to go on was the top of a head to go on.

With time, it was enough.

I kept looking at her until she risked raising her head to look at me, assuming I was back

to my own meal. Our eyes met, hers widening in surprise at being caught, and I could

tell she very nearly bolted in alarm. But she didn’t, and looked at me with no expression.

It was my swimmer, out of her element.

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Chapter 17

We held the gaze for a few seconds, while I tried to decide on an appropriate response.

Too eager might scare her away, too cool might kill any chance I had of establishing

contact, something I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted but didn’t want to lose either. In the

end I nodded gravely at her, suggesting that we did, indeed, know each other but without

indicating any presumed closeness that I knew I couldn’t claim. She didn’t respond to

the nod, and I forced myself to tear my gaze away and return to my pizza. I was dying to

know how she was responding – perhaps she had recognized me and was walking

towards me – but did my best to pretend I was cool about the whole thing.

Once I’d finished my slices I risked a quick glance over at her. She was back to eating

her own meal, and no longer seemed to be watching me. I carefully gathered up the

remains of my meal, noting with amusement that I’d doodled on a napkin while I’d been

checking out my surroundings and eating my pizza. I looked at it for a second, and

decided to keep it. I picked up my tray, deposited my trash in a container on my way

towards her, noticing that she’d picked up on my movements and was watching me

warily. On the way over I stopped to pick up a pacifier that a screaming infant had

thrown on the floor, and handed it back to the very stressed looking mother. She

muttered a distracted thank you, quickly wiped it off with a napkin, and stuck it back in

the infant’s demanding mouth, momentarily silencing him. If only all problems were so

easily solved, I thought.

I approached the swimmer’s table with as much deference as I could. I had to admit I

tried to hold myself more upright than usual, and made sure I held in my gut a little. I

couldn’t hide my age but I could try to disguise at least mildly. She looked at me with no

expression other than mild wariness, like a pretty girl expecting an unwelcome advance

by a stranger. She was hidden again behind those guarded eyes, watching but not

revealing anything.

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“Excuse me,” I started, not realizing until I’d done it that I bowed slightly. “My name is

Marc. We’ve seen each other at the pool, at the gym, and we talked once at the café

there.” I smiled as non-threatenly as I could. For some reason it was very important to

me that she not think I was trying to pick her up.

She considered this as she looked at me carefully. I wasn’t sure if she was trying to

remember whether she’d ever seen me, or whether that mattered. In the end her face

allowed a small smile. A very small smile, as a concession to civility. “Yes, of course.”

Her voice was quiet and careful, like she was used to not speaking too loudly. It thrilled

me nonetheless. “I think I told you this before, but you are a wonderful swimmer,” I told

her earnestly. “I haven’t quite decided if watching you encourages me to do better or

discourages me, because I know I’ll never be anywhere near as good as you are.”

She looked down at her table modestly, shaking her head, then looked back up at me. “It

shouldn’t matter. You just do what you can do. Besides, you’re one of the better

swimmers I’ve seen there. You shouldn’t feel bad.”

I realized that this was, perhaps, damning with faint praise, but I took the compliment

anyway. The important thing was that she had noticed me swimming and it didn’t seem I

was comically bad to her, although part of me realized she might just have been being

polite. The bar was set fairly low in my little swim group, after all. I stood there

awkwardly; having established contact, I wasn’t sure what to do next. She wasn’t

inviting me to sit down, nor was she doing anything to prolong the conversation. I was

about ready to take the progress I’d made as victory and slink off when she spoke.

“What’s that?”

She nodded towards the napkin in my hand. I’d forgotten that I was still holding it, and

for the life of my I couldn’t have explained why I hadn’t folded it up and put it in my

pocket. “Oh, it’s nothing,” I replied, feeling embarrassed. I folded it in half and stuffed

into my pocket.

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“You take napkins home?” she asked, and I felt the creep factor threatening to rise. I

realized that letting her think I was some sort of food court scavenger was probably

worse than admitting the truth. “Um. Yeah. I wrote something on it, and I wanted to

take it home.” Well, almost admit the truth.

She looked at me skeptically. She could have let it go at that, but for some reason she

didn’t let it go. “It didn’t really look like writing. It looked like something else.”

“Did it?” I said stupidly in response. I exhaled heavily, caught. “I sort of like to doodle.

This was just a little something I did while I was eating.” I didn’t unfold the napkin, just

held it at my side as mute evidence of my silly habit.

She looked at the napkin, then up at me. “Could I see it?”

I wasn’t expecting this. Karen was one of the few people who’d seen my efforts. She

had seen quite a few of my doodles over the years, but usually just ones I’d done in her

presence. She didn’t go out of her way to ask to see ones I’d done otherwise. I supposed

I could have refused, but I failed to see a graceful way to do it. “It’s not very good,” I

warned her. “Just a stupid little thing.”

She held out her hand towards me, and I somewhat reluctantly placed it in her hand. She

unfolded it carefully. She studied it carefully.

I’d done it while I had that sense that I was being watched. The doodle had started out as

some lines, which had gradually grown into a thicket of sorts, with a variety of shapes

that might have been branches or vines. What made it kind of interesting was that hidden

in the thicket were several sets of eyes and largely obscured faces, blended into the

camouflage the thicket created. It was kind of like one of those drawings in Highlights

for Kids, where various shapes are hidden in the picture and children are supposed to spot

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them. I hadn’t spent a lot of time on this, so didn’t have anything very elaborate, but it

was cute enough that I had taken it with me rather than throwing it away.

She finally looked up at me, and her face brightened in an amused smile. It wasn’t a big

smile – she seemed hesitant to let her amusement show through – but it was there and I

liked it. “It’s really funny,” she declared. “I almost didn’t see the people watching.”

“I’m not sure they’re all people,” I noted ominously.

That took her aback, and she looked back at the drawing for a couple more seconds. “I

see what you mean,” she allowed gravely. She looked at me quizzically with those

bottomless eyes. “Does it mean anything?”

I thought about blowing her off and telling her it was just random, but something made

me tell her the truth. “It’s kind of funny. I had a feeling I was being watched, so I guess

I started doing this. That feeling is what caused me to notice you sitting here.”

She flashed that small smile again, just briefly. “I guess I was watching you. You looked

familiar, but I couldn’t quite place you.”

“Perhaps if I’d been wearing my swimsuit,” I suggested impishly. I wondered how that

image appeared to her; hideous, or not bad, for my age? And what age did she imagine

that to be?

Her mouth twitched as she couldn’t quite hide the smile. “Perhaps, but I think you might

have looked out of place here.” She looked at me more appraisingly, and her eyes

seemed somewhat less guarded.

“Not as much as one might hope,” I noted, nodding at a table of teenagers not too far

away, who appeared to be having a competition about the amount of skin they dared

show. It took her a second to get my tiny joke, and if I hadn’t been watching closely I

might have missed the small sign of amusement that her eyes revealed. I thought about

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saying something about how she looked in her swimsuit, like how no one here would

have complained had she worn it to the food court, but it only took me a millisecond to

realize that I would more than cross the line with that. I decided discretion was called for

now. “Well, I better be going.”

She nodded, her face serious again. She looked at me and I had the sense she was

making a decision about me. I found myself wondering what she was thinking, and

hoped it was good. It was stupid and possibly inappropriate, and there was no reason to

wish for it, but I wanted her to like me. She came to her decision. She extended her hand

towards me. “I’m Robyn. Robyn Beardsley,” she told me, sounding like this was a fact

she usually disclosed only with great reluctance. Then she flashed that quick smile, so

fast I almost missed it. “Robyn, with a “y,””

“I’m Marc, with a “c,”” I told her, and again it took her a second to decide that this time I

wasn’t kidding. “Marc Wheeler.”

We shook hands on it.

Chapter 18

The next couple weeks were oddly satisfying. I made good progress on Tondo’s search.

I scheduled three very strong candidates with Patrick and Tondo. One of them was Adam

Silvester, who wasn’t exactly an enemy of Karen’s but couldn’t really be called a friend

either. They’d competed against each other on a number of occasions over the years, but

each had also been in the position of selling to the other at times as well, and in at least

one situation had joined forces. I knew that Karen regarded him with respect, and made

sure she brought her A-game whenever he was involved. Still, I’d never worked with

him. He’d always turned down the opportunities I’d presented to him in the past, for

whatever reason – bad timing, wrong job, whatever. I had never thought it was personal,

but my being married to Karen probably hadn’t helped.

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In fact, it almost became an issue in this case. After I’d outlined the job and he’d had a

chance to read over the job description, we talked and I sensed he was fairly lukewarm

about it. Our conversation had been drawing to a close when he casually asked why

Karen wasn’t interested in it. I somewhat flippantly replied, “Who says she’s not?”

Now, normally I never reveal the identify of other candidates, especially when two of

them knew each other so well, so I can’t really explain why I’d tried to joke about it.

Well, Adam wasn’t a great salesperson for nothing; he read into my tone something I

hadn’t meant to reveal, and things changed. “I see,” he’d said thoughtfully. After a

pause, he surprised me by telling me, yes, he’d very much like to be considered for the

position. Of course, once I passed along his information to Patrick and Tondo they didn’t

waste any time before they urged me to set up a meeting as soon as possible.

I was probably savoring this triumph when I talked to Karen later that same evening. She

was calling from Atlanta. She’d closed a big sale and was in fine spirits. After telling me

about her victory, embellishing on the last minute maneuvers she had to pull off in order

to make the deal, she eventually asked after my day. I was carried along by her

enthusiasm, and perhaps felt a little competitive, so I told her I’d had some good success

too. I then made the mistake of telling her about Adam. This was not something I should

have done, of course, and normally never would have done, but I was probably showing

off a little bit.

There was silence on her side for a couple of seconds. “Adam Silvester,” she asked

carefully. “He’s interested in the AD DX job?”

I confirmed that not only was he interested, but that Tondo and Patrick had immediately

requested a meeting, which I was working on and expected within the week. This caused

another thoughtful silence. “Huh,” she said at last. “Is he unhappy where he is?”

I told her that, as far as I knew, he wasn’t unhappy, but he liked what he heard about the

job. By then enough warning bells were going off in my head that I thought I better not

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mention the reaction that her name had caused in his opinion about the job. Maybe she’d

be flattered that he took even a sign of possible interest from her as validation of the job,

but I saw more ways that disclosure of that little fact could backfire on me than I could

see it helping. “Uh-huh,” she replied distractedly, and was quiet for a few more seconds.

“So, is he your strongest candidate?”

By now I was in full retreat mode, and reminded her that I shouldn’t be telling her about

the other candidates. “You didn’t want to be involved,” I reminded her.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t think Adam would thrown his name in the ring,” she retorted. I kept

quiet, and after a few seconds she continued in a silky tone. “I am going to get a chance

to talk to Tondo and Patrick after they talk to Adam, aren’t I? I mean, before they make

any decisions?”

I allowed that I could make that happen, although I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.

Honestly, Adam was a great solution to the search. Great candidate, gave AD DX great

credibility, and things in my and Karen’s lives stayed the same. But I’d forgotten her

competitive streak when it came to Adam, so my mistake in letting his name slip had

sparked her interest. She still might not want the job, but she’d want to be their first

choice. I assured her I’d pass along her desire for another meeting, which I was sure

they’d jump at, and she sweet-talked me for the rest of the conversation.

By the end of the two weeks Adam had had his meeting and Karen was set to go to San

Diego in a couple days.

Meanwhile, my chance encounter with Robyn had cooled my stalking instincts. I

stopped going to the mall where I’d seen her, and even stopped going to the health club’s

café after my workout. There was no point in waiting to catch a glimpse of her there any

more. I still saw her at the pool, and was immensely gratified that she was taking note of

me there. It wasn’t like she came over and chatted with me, but she’d started checking

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out my presence and made sure to nod an acknowledgement of it. It validated me in

some way that I felt inordinately proud of, but I knew better than to press the issue.

My swimming buddies noticed. One morning Carson came over to where I was standing

with Mary and Marty, after having seen her nod at me. “Hey, Marc, what’s up with you

and the mystery swimmer?”

“I thought I saw her looking at you!” Mary exclaimed, looking excited.

“I happened to run into her at the mall,” I explained. “We talked for a little bit, but that’s

it.”

“Did she tell you her name?” Marty inquired, watching Robyn swim her laps with her

graceful strokes, oblivious to our intense huddle.

I admitted that she had, and told them what it was, adding that it was all I knew of her. I

didn’t mention that I had, as a matter of course, googled her, and checked to see if she

was on Facebook, Linkedin, or Twitter. I’d come up blank on all accounts. Whatever

swimming success she might have had hadn’t been public enough for me to find it. Had I

pursued the matter, I probably could have found some swimming-related sites that might

have old high school or college results, but evidently I wasn’t that motivated. They were

impressed simply by her now noticing me, and her having given me her name made my

achievement all the more impressive to them. Carson high fived me, and Marty shook

my hand. Mary appeared to be pouting. After Carson and Mary wandered off, Marty

asked after Karen, as usual, and I wasn’t sure if there was some sort of implicit link

between our conversation about Robyn and his mention of my wife. I had nothing to feel

guilty about, but Marty had no way of knowing that. His tone didn’t express any

disapproval, but still…

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All this should have made me feel better about my life, but, if anything, it made me feel

more ready for the end of my life. I still wasn’t taking any active efforts to cause the end

of it, but landing Adam as a candidate and having Robyn acknowledge me seemed to

validate my presence. Validate it, but remind me that my presence was no longer

required. Either Adam or Karen would take the AD DX job; either way, my assignment

would be a success. And if I suddenly stopped coming to the pool, I thought perhaps

Robyn would at least notice. Perhaps she’d even finally ask someone about me, maybe

even be a little sad when she heard about my untimely demise. I just hoped my end

would come in some way that seemed more noble than embarrassing. No dying on the

toilet, for example.

I hadn’t really taken into account that my no longer going to the café would be noticed by

anyone, but I underestimated Brandi’s friendliness or desire for tips, or both. Towards

the end of the two week period she called out to me as I walked across the lobby towards

the parking lot. “Hey, Marc – where you been?”

I stopped, and thought about simply waving and walking on out the door. But Brandi

was cute, and she was initiating a conversation with me, so I didn’t want to seem rude. I

walked over to the café. “Hey, Brandi, how have you been?”

“Oh, I’ve missed you,” she chided me playfully. “What, did I mess up your order? Are

you mad at me?”

I assured her that neither was the case, that I was just going home for my coffee and

breakfast, but it seemed lame even to me. I couldn’t very well tell her I’d only started to

go to the café so I could spy on Robyn. She feigned dismay. “You don’t like my buns

anymore?”

It took me a second to realize that she was flirting with me, just a little, using “buns” to

ambiguously. I blushed slightly. “They’re the best,” I replied with equal ambiguity. For

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this I was rewarded with a smile. To make peace I ordered a cinnamon roll, although to

go, and we chatted for a little bit before I left. I made sure I left her a big tip.

When I walked outside I was feeling pretty good about talking with Brandi. I wasn’t

stupid enough to think that she had any interest in me, but it was nice that she’d noticed

I’d been missing from her routine. Much to my surprise, she wasn’t the only one.

Standing outside the club was Robyn, dressed for work and with her gym bag slung over

her shoulder. I thought she looked beautiful – the epitome of a modern career woman,

still glowing her from workout and yet ready to go to her job. She must have seen me

standing in the café and decided to wait for me outside. “Hey,” she said gruffly in

greeting.

“Hi, Robyn,” I replied. “I saw you swim. You did great, as always.”

“Yeah, thanks,” she said absently, not wanting to accept the compliment. She seemed

nervous, and looked both ways to see if anyone was near us. Neither her expression nor

her eyes gave anything away. “I, umm, haven’t seen you at the food court lately.”

That came as more of a surprise than the fact of her waiting for me. I hadn’t thought that

she’d be watching for me at the food court, or would care if I wasn’t there. If anything,

I’d assumed she might be relieved if I wasn’t there, as that would lessen any prospect that

I might try to force the issue by trying to sit with her. “Umm,” I stumbled, “I guess I’ve

been busy.”

She nodded, accepting but not really believing my story. She looked away again before

looking back at me, not quite meeting my eyes. She cleared her throat. “Well,” she

started with an awkward expression. “Are you busy today?”

Chapter 19

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I arrived at the food court right on time at noon.

Honestly, I felt nervous. I didn’t have any real reason to be. It wasn’t like it was a date

or anything. We were meeting in a mall food court, for heaven’s sake; not the sort of

place someone planning an affair would pick. All right, granted, Robyn was very

attractive, but she was more than twenty years younger than me, and had given no sign

that she was attracted to me. More importantly, I was happily married and had no

intention of cheating on Karen. Still, I felt like I was doing something wrong, or at least

over the line, just by being here. Yet here I was nonetheless.

I remembered what it was like to go out with a woman for the first time. That tingle, that

thrill of anticipation, all accompanied with that worry that you’ve got something in your

teeth or a stain on your shirt. All the insecurities boil up and you just hope the other

person doesn’t notice them or, if they do, think they are cute somehow. I didn’t quite feel

like that, of course, because there was no anticipation that anything was going to happen,

but I found myself hoping that she would at least like me. I wouldn’t mind if she found

me attractive either, even if in an older-guy-distinguished kind of way. Men age but they

don’t grow up, not really.

Robyn and I spotted each other about the same time. I gave her a reassuring smile, while

she just nodded at me without expression in return. She was wearing the same outfit

she’d worn outside the gym, not surprisingly – dark pants, a white blouse, and a

yellowish jacket. Everything was perfectly pressed, of course. Most women her age

would have worn heels, but it appeared to me that her shoes were flats or very low heels.

I’d dressed up slightly – khaki’s, polo shirt, topsiders. Nothing too formal, but on this

day I could fit in with the business-casual crowd. That wasn’t always true. “Nice to see

you,” I told her.

She nodded at me, and looked around the mall. “Crowded today.”

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It was crowded, although nothing out of the ordinary. Busy enough to be comforting –

nothing as depressing as a deserted mall -- but with plenty of vacant tables for us to

choose from. “Where do you want to get food?” I asked. I smiled munificently at her.

“My treat.”

She gave me a discouraging look, and held up a brown bag. “I brought my lunch from

home,” she replied. “You get what you want and I’ll find us a table.” She set off on that

mission, and I was left behind feeling even more confused. Why suggest we have lunch

at a food court if she was bringing her own food? It made me wonder again: why was I

here at all?

I decided to get something from the small deli, where I recognized the woman behind the

counter and she me. We nodded at each other. “What will you have?” she asked briskly.

“How’s the pastrami?”

She gave me a look. “About the same as yesterday,” she replied wryly. “In fact, it is the

pastrami from yesterday.” That told me it probably wasn’t the freshest, and it’s always

iffy to order pastrami from a deli in a food court anyway. I ordered the BLT, figuring at

least one of those ingredients had to be fresh, along with some chips and a soda. She

rang me up and turned her attention to the next person in line, already forgetting about

me. I scanned the tables for Robyn while I waited for my sandwich, and spotted her in

the center. She’d opened her bag but had not started. She caught me looking for her and

gave a brief wave to alert me to where she was sitting. Then she looked down at the table

again. I wondered what she was thinking about, hoping she wasn’t regretting having

invited me.

I joined her at the table. She’d picked a table for four, near the center of the food court

and without any immediate neighbors. I debated sitting next to her but chose the safer

option of sitting across from her. “What do you have?” I asked, indicating the plastic

container she was starting to open.

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“A salad. I made it this morning.” She also produced a fork, a napkin, and bottle of

water from her bag, which she folded up neatly after removing its contents.

She started eating her salad, using the same small, precise movements I’d seen her eat

with before. I unwrapped my sandwich and took a bite. Evidently I’d been wrong about

at least one of the ingredients being fresh.

She’d invited me to join her, yet she was neither making conversation nor making eye

contact. It didn’t feel quite like she was ignoring me, and she didn’t seem to be hostile

about my presence. It was more like she was kind of indifferent, which was odd. In any

event, she wasn’t exactly encouraging conversation. I chewed my sandwich while I

watched her, pondering how to proceed. It felt too weird to eat in complete silence.

“So,” I started. “You work around here?” I knew the answer from my prior spying

expedition but wanted to see what she’d say.

Robyn looked up at me tentatively and nodded. “Yes.” I waited for her to elaborate but

she went back to her salad. I waited until she had a chance to chew most of her next bite.

“Where do you work?”

Again she stopped, and looked up briefly at me, inspecting me before deciding if I was

worthy of a response. I must have passed. “An insurance company,” she allowed tersely.

Before she could go back to her next bite I interjected my follow-up question. “What do

you do?”

She froze, not having expected an immediate question. She cleared her throat and took a

sip of her water. “I’m a manager in customer service.”

“Uh-huh. Do you like it?”

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She looked longingly down at her salad, as if debating whether to take another mouthful

or to reply to my question. She seemed to sigh slightly, and looked back at me. “It’s all

right. I started out on the phones, but I like being a manager better.” She shrugged, but

quickly put her head down to take a forkful of her salad.

I let her chew that while I ate some of my chips. “So you don’t have to talk to your

customers directly?” I asked after a decent interval.

“Not usually,” she admitted. She flashed a tight smile, not revealing any teeth. “Not

unless they’re really mad and demand to speak to a manager.”

“Yeah, that probably isn’t too fun.” She nodded solemnly and returned to her salad,

which was starting to get smaller. I wondered if my time was up as soon as the salad was

finished or if she’d relax and talk more freely once that task was completed. I let her

take a couple more bites before I tried another conversational gambit. “I’ve been

wondering something ever since I first saw you swim. You do it so well, I figured you

must have swum competitively at some point. You must have been pretty good.”

This time she didn’t look up right away. She kept her head down for a few seconds after

she could use the excuse of chewing her food, and it was with some reluctance that she

looked up at me. She essayed a weak smile. “I swam some in high school,” she

admitted.

“Not in college?”

She shook her head slowly. “I went to Meredith, here in Raleigh, and they didn’t have a

swim team. Plus my mom wanted me to focus on school.”

It took some patient and, perhaps for her, painful digging to draw out more of the story.

It appeared she’d been quite a good swimmer indeed in high school, in suburban Atlanta,

but her father died her senior year, and her mother decided to move to Raleigh for

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reasons she didn’t disclose. Robyn had some scholarship offers, but chose Meredith

partly for the academics and, I suspected, largely to be close to her mother. “But you

kept swimming all these years?”

“Yes,” she admitted, seeming both amused and weary about it. She looked down, this

time not so much at her food but more blankly at the table. “It’s just, I don’t know, a way

of getting away from everything.” She shrugged apologetically.

“I know what you mean,” I assured her. “Hey, if I were as good as you I’d be in the

water all the time.”

She looked up with a barely suppressed smile. “You’re not so bad.”

I raised my hands in the air. “I’m just trying not to drown.”

That actually got a laugh out of her, although it was over quickly and very quiet. But I

was sure I’d heard it and I liked being responsible for it. “Well, try not to drown,” she

told me. “I might have to find another pool then.”

I almost made a comment about drowning seeming worthwhile if she’d give me CPR, but

fortunately I stopped myself in time. I thought that might scare her instead of bringing on

another laugh. We both went back to finish our meals.

When Robyn was finished with her salad, she carefully unfolded the paper bag, put the

top back on the plastic container, and placed it back in the bag neatly. She gathered up

her napkin, fork, and water bottle. I offered to add them to my own trash, and she

gravely handed them to me. We looked at each other, and I thought she was debating

whether to leave or to continue the conversation. I didn’t know what tipped the balance,

but she looked at me quizzically. “Do you work around here too?” she asked, sounding

uncomfortable asking.

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I described my situation, including a brief explanation of my job and my working from

home. I tried to make it sound modestly glamorous and a little exciting, realizing the

incongruity of that while sitting in a food court. When I stopped she wrinkled her brow.

“Do you like it?”

I used to, I wanted to say, but that I wasn’t so sure any more. For a half second I hung on

the precipice of revealing myself to this woman, who was largely still a stranger to me. I

didn’t want to lie to her, not right off the bat like this, but didn’t want her feeling sorry

for me either. “I’ve been doing it a long time now,” I responded at least, if to a slightly

different question. “I get to know a lot of people, which is pretty fun.”

She looked at me and I suspected she realized I hadn’t exactly answered her question, but

she wasn’t going to press me on it. Her gaze wondered around the food court. “And you

drive out here for lunch?”

“Kind of funny, isn’t it?” I admitted sheepishly. I shrugged. “It’s a break from my day, a

change of pace.” I poked at the remains of my food. “I guess I’m not exactly a

gourmet.”

She nodded distractedly, not quite looking at me. “You didn’t draw anything today,” she

noted softly.

I looked down at my napkins, not entirely sure if I had or not. “I guess not. I guess I

can’t talk and doodle at the same time.”

She wrinkled her brow again. “Really?”

I started to say something funny, then stopped myself. “No, that’s not true. I doodle all

the time when I’m on the phone. I guess it’s different when I’m face to face with

someone.”

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She let a smile emerge briefly, and it was like the sun shining through. I was sorry to see

it go. “That’s too bad,” she admitted shyly. “I liked your last doodle. I was hoping to

see another one.”

“Next time,” I offered lightly, realizing after I’d said it that it might sound like I was

asking her out or something.

Robyn didn’t seem to notice. “The other time I saw you, you were by yourself. Do

you…” She paused awkwardly. ‘Do you usually eat with someone?”

“Almost never,” I told her, thinking she was suddenly wondering if I had a habit of

finding young women to eat with. I wanted to remind her that she’d invited me to lunch,

but didn’t want to sound like I was rubbing her nose in it. The truth was that our

conversation had been strangely stilted and kind of formal; she was not the easiest person

to hold a conversation with. I had the feeling that, had I not pushed it, we might have

eaten here together in silence. Despite that, I liked her. There was something about her

that made me want to protect her, in some indefinable way. It wasn’t that she seemed in

need of protection, wasn’t that she seemed weak. It was more that she seemed to kind of

need help in normal human interaction, like she wasn’t used to it. It was silly on my part

– she worked in customer service and doubtlessly dealt with people all the time – yet

there it was. I smiled bashfully at her. “This is a nice change of pace.”

Robyn seemed somewhat mollified, and nodded slowly. Her hands slowly brushed the

table.

“What about you?” I asked delicately.

She looked down at the table, and for a long moment I didn’t think she was going to

respond. Then she looked up, again managing to not meet my eyes. “I like to eat alone,”

she said quietly.

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I looked at her sympathetically. “I hope this wasn’t too painful for you.”

Now Robyn did return my gaze, and I swore there was the twinge of a twinkle in her

eyes. For once, I felt as through her eyes weren’t holding me at bay, but were letting me

see a little of the awkwardness she apparently was feeling. “It was not too bad,” she said

judiciously. “We could do it again.”

Chapter 20

Karen spent the weekend in Minneapolis, visiting an old friend. She told me –

“reminded” me, as she put it – on Thursday that she wasn’t coming home for the

weekend. “It’s going to be a girl’s weekend, dear,” she’d explained cheerfully. “Lots of

shopping and gossiping. You’d hate it.” She was going to be in Ann Arbor on Friday

and needed to be in Seattle Monday morning, so spending the weekend in Minneapolis

instead of coming home saved lots of time on airplanes. It made sense, except that I

wasn’t in Minneapolis. Her friend Terri was.

In theory, I knew Terri. I’d met her at our wedding, and heard Karen talk about her

periodically. It was possible we got Christmas cards from her as well, but I couldn’t

testify to it. They knew each other from college, or maybe it was from one of Karen’s

early jobs; in any event, it was from a long time ago. However they’d first met, they’d

stayed in touch over the years.

I only mildly protested that I didn’t remember her telling me; even though I was willing

to concede I didn’t always remember all of her plans, but somehow I thought her not

coming home at all would have been something that would have stuck with me. This was

the first time since I’d known Karen that she’d spent a weekend with Terri, or any of her

friends, without me.

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Oh, sure, we’d gone together to visit friends or family, and she’d had a few trips to see

her family without me. In a way, it wasn’t at all remarkable that Karen wanted to do a

girl’s weekend; judging from what I’d heard, it was a fairly common practice for women

friends. Hell, if I had had any brains I’d have organized a trip somewhere with some of

my buddies while she was visiting with Terri, if I was twenty years younger and still

enjoyed going to Las Vegas or enjoyed playing golf. But instead I was stuck at home

alone over the weekend. It wasn’t that I minded either being home or being alone. I was

used to both. What bothered me was that I didn’t believe she was really with Terri.

I didn’t have any specific reason to doubt Karen. It was just a string of little things. She

knew I wasn’t likely to see or talk to Terri on my own, so I couldn’t easily check up on

her story. She’d been calling me less frequently, relying more on text messages, and

even those were more irregular and at odd hours. In the week leading up to her weekend

I’d only spoken to Karen twice, both briefly, and our text exchanges consisted mostly of

saying hello or telling each other to take care. I had the sense, if one can glean that from

text messages, she was distracted, and not by anything she wanted to talk to me about. It

could have to do with the job with Tondo, a sign that she was taking it more seriously,

but in a way I thought I’d rather suspect her of deceiving me about her whereabouts than

to believe she didn’t want to discuss her career future with me.

I could have called her over the weekend to check in on her, but I didn’t see the point.

What was I going to do – demand to speak to Terri? That would really look like I was a

paranoid husband. Chances were that the call would go to voice mail anyway, making

me feel stupider and even more needy. Either she was where she said she was, doing

what she said she was doing, or she wasn’t, but either way it was out of my hands.

The prospect that my wife was out somewhere possibly cheating on me should have been

more upsetting than it was. I was curiously numb about the whole thing. Somehow I

blamed myself. I wasn’t exciting enough for her, I wasn’t successful enough for her, I

wasn’t good looking enough for her – pick ‘em. A man who was waiting to die, kept

thinking about possible ways his demise might happen sooner rather than later – well,

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that was not a man that Karen would want to be with. That wasn’t a man she deserved to

be with. Unfortunately, I was that man.

By nature I’d never been a jealous person. As far as I knew, no one I had been involved

with had been unfaithful to me, and it wasn’t anything I tended to worry about. Karen

was a beautiful, vivacious woman, and I had no doubt that men hit on her all the time.

I’d seen it at parties, and could imagine how it must be on the road. I didn’t doubt that at

times she flirted; Lord knows she was good at it. She made people feel like they were

special, that she found them interesting and even attractive. She always seemed in

control though, never taking it too far nor letting the other person do so. If she was

having an affair, I thought, it wasn’t because someone else had seduced her. With Karen,

it would have been something she’d decided upon.

Of course, I flirted too, usually on the phone with my candidates and contacts. Most of

the time it was the harmless banter of two people who’d known each other a long time,

knew the other was safely married or involved, and had no intention of taking it any

further. Sometimes, when I was getting to know someone, it might wander into more

playful flirting, as I sought to establish a relationship and to distinguish myself from the

dozens or hundreds of other recruiters who might also be stalking them. But I knew the

boundaries, and didn’t overstep them. Or so I liked to think.

I’d always thought of myself as a monogamous man. My pattern historically had been to

get in relationships quickly rather than to date casually for a long time. Sometimes

they’d worked, sometimes they hadn’t, but it had the effect of helping to ensure that I

wasn’t sleeping with more than one woman at a time. I could understand how that

happened, and didn’t judge people who did so. For example, Trevor had been no angel

when it came to sleeping around, but I liked him all the same. I didn’t know, and didn’t

really want to know, if he was sleeping with anyone other than Laura, but I could see it

happening. What I couldn’t see was him accepting it if she was unfaithful to him. It

might be a double standard, but he had no tolerance for such indiscretions. If Karen was

his wife and he suspected she was cheating on him, he’d have a private detective

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following her there or be on a plane to Minneapolis himself. He wouldn’t be doing what

I did, sitting at home thinking about my wife, my marriage, and my life.

Of course, if Selma Hayek and I were shipwrecked and washed ashore on a deserted

island together, with no hope of rescue, my monogamy would most likely take a detour –

although she’d still have to initiate it. Women weren’t throwing themselves at me in the

real world, so being monogamous was more like the passive result than an active choice.

Karen did have choices, probably more often than I liked to think, and in retrospect I

might have said that I was surprised it had taken this long.

It would be simpler, I concluded glumly, if I passed away and relieved Karen of the

burden of being married to me. If she’d given up on our marriage enough to have an

affair, the graceful thing for me to do was to step out of her life. To most people that

meant divorce, but the prospect of life as a divorced man at this stage in my life seemed

like more than I could bear. I didn’t want to start over again, I didn’t want to date again,

and yet I didn’t want to be alone again. I wasn’t going to try to hang on to Karen and

make her wallow in my fatalism.

If I did have that mental kill-switch, I honestly wasn’t sure I’d have the nerve to hit my

own switch, or to ask someone to do it for me. Too Kevorkian. No, I needed the asteroid

to land on me, the previously unknown weak blood vessel to burst in my sleep.

Something to assure a quick, painless death.

I slept each night not imagining Karen with someone else, but just with the hope of not

waking up. It sounded horribly depressing but there was a queer kind of comfort to it,

picturing the oblivion of sleep just never-ending. Falling asleep was a little like death

anyway, and yet we all long for sleep every night. My dreams were nothing memorable,

nothing I could control or look forward to, so the act of simply not being awake, of not

even knowing that was being at all, was the lure of sleep.

Yet every morning I woke again, and had to face another day of waiting.

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Chapter 21

“My mother doesn’t trust you,” Robyn told me matter-of-factly, her face neutral. We

were in the food court having lunch together. It had quickly become a fairly regular

habit. On those days when we saw each other at the pool, more often than not she’d

suggest lunch, and I’d always accept. It was always the food court, and she always

brought her own lunch. Today it was a turkey sandwich and some baby carrots, whereas

I’d gotten gyros and greasy fries from the Greek place. I kept waiting for her to bring

something very messy to eat, just to see how she would deal with it, but she seemingly

chose her food as carefully as she chose her clothes, so she never was in any danger of

getting messy.

I paused before responding. There was something slightly mischievous in the way she’d

told me, as if she was serious yet almost smiling at being able to tell me such a thing. It

was a kind of sense of humor I’d not seen in her before. “Is that so?” I asked carefully. I

had to refrain from looking around the mall to see if her mother was somewhere nearby

watching us; I didn’t know what she looked like but thought I could probably discern a

protective mother’s gaze. It took all of my willpower to keep my manner casual and my

attention focused on Robyn. “Any particular reason?”

She shook her head with a small gesture. “She doesn’t know why you have lunch with

me,” she said, playing with a carrot in front of her.

“Because I enjoy your company?” I hazarded warily.

Robyn looked up and smiled quickly, resuming her serious face and reverting her

attention to the carrot. “She wouldn’t believe that.”

“Seriously?” I asked in surprise. “She doesn’t think people enjoy your company?”

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She shook her head without looking up. “Not without an ulterior motive.”

“Ah-ha,” I said in mock exclamation. “There we go. Does she think I’m after your

money?”

That garnered another small smile, then she shook her head quickly. “Don’t be silly. She

thinks you’re only doing this to have sex with me.”

I had to put my gyros down. “Are, are you serious? I mean, look,” I pointed out.

“We’re in a public mall. Not many safer places.” I had a sudden chill of suspicion that

her mother had followed Robyn here to check me out. I used the opportunity to nod my

head to indicate the food court around us. It was busy but not too crowded. More

importantly, I didn’t see anyone clearly watching us. If her mother was there, I didn’t

catch her.

Robyn explained quite matter-of-factly that her mother thought this was only the first part

of my campaign to spoil her virtue. First food courts, then restaurants, then maybe a

nightclub, where I’d get her drunk and take her to some sleazy motel for unprotected sex

that Robyn would be unable to defend herself against. She told me this as though it

didn’t sound crazy, like she and her mother lived in, say, the 1930’s or something, when

defending a woman’s virtue – and, equally important, the appearance of virtue -- was a

constant battle that had to be fought until at least when she was safely married.

It turned out that Robyn lived with her mother. The story came out in bits and pieces, as

Robyn didn’t seem very used to talking about her life with her mother. She’d moved

back to her parents’ house after her father’s death a few years back. That was supposed

to have been temporary, but somehow her mother had come to take Robyn’s presence for

granted, apparently not wanting her to develop friends or activities that would take her

away from the house. I asked her if she’d ever lived on her own, and she almost

blanched. Without looking at me, she quietly allowed that she’d lived on her own once,

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but that, as she put it with a twinge of regret, “it didn’t work out.” She said she’d moved

back home.

I thought that was exceedingly odd, at Robyn’s age. Her mother should have wanted

Robyn to have a life on her own, with a husband and family at some point. Rather than

hoping for grandchildren, she had settled to keep her daughter underfoot. I had to

wonder what had happened in Robyn’s time on her own, but it seemed much too personal

to inquire about. It was all too odd for me, so I simply refrained from questioning or

commenting.

There was a brother, who had seemingly made his escape. He lived in St. Louis with his

wife and family, and evidently had happily delegated parental care to Robyn, aside from

an annual visit and some periodic phone calls. If Robyn was bitter about this, she hid it

well, but I had to wonder.

“Your mother watches too much TV,” I told her at last instead. I had a mental image of

her mother, complete with grey hair pulled in a bun, dowdy housedresses, and frown

lines on her face. Much older than me, of course, but I realized it was possible she

wasn’t that much older than I was -- if at all. I pushed the disapproving mental image out

of my head and studied Robyn carefully. She still kept her head down, slowing chewing

on carrots one-by-one. “Is she serious?”

Robyn pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Not entirely,” she conceded. “But not entirely not

serious either.” She looked up and flashed me a resigned what-are-you-going-to-do smile

that everyone has done about their mother at some point. “It doesn’t help that you are

married, either.”

“I can see that,” I admitted diplomatically.

She looked up at me, a puzzled expression on her face. “What does your wife think of

our having lunch like this?”

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I felt busted. “Well,” I said, stalling. “The fact is that I haven’t really told Karen about

our lunches. She eats lots of meals with lots of people that I don’t know about, and I

don’t tell her about every person I eat with either.”

I’d told Robyn some things about Karen, including the fact that she was on the road most

of the time. It was occurring to me now that telling her about how often my wife was

away might have sounded like I was laying the groundwork for a seduction, if one was

inclined to be suspicious. As evidently, her mother was.

“I see,” she replied noncommittally. She took another carrot and studied it carefully. She

paused and looked up at me quickly. “Well, my mother would like that you are polite.”

“Am I?”

Robyn nodded her head vigorously. “From what I’ve seen, anyway.” She flashed a

quick smile. “It’s not something you see very often anymore.” She seemed sad about

this, and her expression grew more thoughtful. “Of course, she might think you were just

faking it.”

“Like Eddie Haskell?” I teased. She looked at me blankly. “Never mind,” I told her. He

was a concept that her head didn’t really need, although a world that hadn’t known the

innocence and innate sweetness of The Beaver made me depressed. Unfortunately, now I

had the image of June Clever as Robyn’s mother, and I was a fifty-some version of Eddie

Haskell trying to despoil her innocent daughter. If June and Ward had had a daughter.

I should have realized it might come to this. I’d been simply following her lead, not

pursuing her and not trying to push our relationship, whatever it was. If I got to see her

swim in the morning, great; if she suggested lunch, even better, but I had deliberately not

tried to initiate anything or even ask for her phone number. I didn’t think our spending

time was going anywhere; I was content with whatever time I got. It was harmless. But I

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could see why her mother might view my intentions more cynically, and I wondered what

Karen might have made, not of our having these regular lunches but of the fact that I

hadn’t told her about them. “Can I ask you a question?” I asked at last.

Robyn looked at me with a slightly amused expression that suggested what-another-

question. “All right,” she said with a tone of resignation.

I nodded at her sandwich and carrots. “How come you always bring your lunch? Why

not just buy something from one of the places here?”

She looked around at the various options, which I had to agree were not the greatest. But,

still, just as a change of pace? She shook her head, as though getting food from one of

them was impossible. “Too expensive. It’s cheaper to bring my own.”

“Then why come here at all? I mean, there must be a lunch room or break room or

something at your office if you’re just going to eat something you brought.”

She looked down at the table, and allowed a tight smile. I thought it might be a little sad.

“I don’t want to sit with anyone from work.” She surveyed the food court briefly. “No

one bothers me here.”

“Except me.” I wasn’t sure if I was joking or not.

She rolled her eyes a little, and her mouth twitched at the notion of a smile. It was like a

laugh would be with anyone else. “Except you.”

“Since I’m already bothering you, you could just buy your lunch here sometime, just for

a change of pace. I’d be happy to buy something for you.”

“I couldn’t let you do that,” she protested with total sincerity.

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“Plus your mother wouldn’t like that,” I surmised.

“No, no, she wouldn’t,” Robyn agreed softly, but there was something almost playful in

her eyes -- a twinkle, if you will -- as if she didn’t mind her mother not trusting me. She

looked down at the remains of her sandwich, and we both ate a couple bites in silence.

“So what do you think?” I asked at last.

Robyn looked up at me searchingly. “About what?”

It was hard for me to get the words out, but eventually I did. “Do you trust me?” I found

myself needing to hear her judgment, and hoped against hope that it was favorable.

For a long moment she simply looked at me, but eventually a kind of self-satisfied smile

came across her face. “The jury is still out,” she told me, the smile just barely there, so

faint I might have missed it but for the fact that any smile from her was still a surprise to

me. She looked down at her food for a few seconds, but did not eat anything. When she

looked back up at me the smile was gone, replaced by a wistful look. “Those other

swimmers you talk to in the mornings…” she started, her words trailing off.

“Sure, sure. What about them?” Until then, I hadn’t been sure Robyn was even aware

of their presence. She’d always ignored them at the pool, even when she acknowledged

me.

“Are they your friends?”

I wasn’t entirely sure how to respond to that. I wasn’t sure what to make of her tone, not

sure if it was merely curious or perhaps even a trifle plaintive. “I guess you could say

that,” I allowed. I certainly talked to them when I saw them in the mornings, knew their

names and a few things about them, but whether that qualified them as friends was hard

to say.

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“I don’t think they like me,” she told me quietly, looking down again.

I was amused by that. “Why do you say that?” I asked, trying not to let my amusement

show. Still, I didn’t think she was joking.

She couldn’t look at me, and seemed slightly nervous. “They never talk to me.”

“You never talk to them,” I pointed out reasonably. That caused her to look up at me. “I

don’t know them!” she rebutted sternly. “I can’t just go up and talk to strangers!”

It might have been funny, but I realized that she was entirely serious and it wasn’t funny

to her at all. “Hey, hey,” I comforted her. “They don’t quite know what to think of you.

They – me too, really, until I met you – are kind of intimidated by you.”

She looked puzzled at this notion. “Why would they be intimidated by me?”

I sat back a little and gave her a reassuring smile. “Well, you know, you’re this

mysterious stranger. You show up one day and it’s obvious that you’re a great swimmer.

Nobody knows anything about you except you are so graceful and beautiful.” I stopped

myself because I felt myself getting a little carried away.

Her forehead was wrinkled in thought. “They think I’m beautiful?”

I laughed. “Robyn, I suspect most people would call you beautiful,” I told her. I

gestured at the other patrons in the food court around us. “We could take a survey.”

Her face colored slightly, a delightful blush that just made her face look even lovelier.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” she protested with perfect earnestness

“Trust me,” I assured her.

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She absorbed this but did not seem particularly convinced. She was silent for some time,

perhaps considering for the first time a world in which people found her attractive.

Eventually she shook her head. “I don’t think I’m beautiful,” she concluded judiciously,

“but maybe I am a decent swimmer.” She essayed a smile, and I thought she might be

trying to make a joke. It seemed like just for a moment she’d let her guard down, and it

was a thrill to see.

“You are indeed a pretty decent swimmer,” I agreed. “We’ll have to agree to disagree

about the other.”

She grew thoughtful again, and looked down at her remaining food. It appeared she had

to summon up her nerve. She took a deep breath and looked up at me again, seeming

uncharacteristically vulnerable. “Do you think I could meet your friends? The other

swimmers?”

Chapter 22

It took the better part of a week to finalize the details of the package for Ken Swanson.

As I’d hoped, Brian and the others had really liked Ken, and I had made sure they knew

of his interest. Of course, their first offer was well below what they were willing to pay,

so neither they nor I were surprised when Ken rejected it and countered with an offer

equally high.

I stayed out of most of the negotiations, letting the two sides talk directly but keeping in

touch with each just to make sure the deal didn’t go sour. They agreed on the base salary

and bonus by mid-week, spent another day hashing out stock rights, but ran into the most

trouble on the relocation package.

“Ken,” I asked, “what’s the problem on the relo? They’re willing to pay for the move.”

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He took a moment to respond, and I could picture him squirming a little. “Well, you

know the real estate market these days. What if I can’t sell my house?”

I’d done my homework on this as well. He and his wife had had the house for almost ten

years, were above water on their mortgage, and comparable houses in the neighborhood

were selling at prices that would leave Ken and his wife with a modest profit and plenty

of money for an even better house in Indianapolis. I walked him through all that. “So,

OK, maybe it will take you six months or so for the house to move – although I really

don’t think so – but you could rent a nice condo in Indy until you’re ready to buy.”

“I don’t know…” he grumbled.

“Ken, they’re not going to buy your house outright,” I warned him. “No one is going to,

not any more. Those days are gone. They’re offering to pay for the move, and are

willing to give you something for your temporary expenses. But you have to be

reasonable about it. You know housing costs are a lot cheaper than they are out there, so

you’re going to come out ahead.”

“I know, I know,” he admitted, without sounding happy about it. I had a little bit of an

ulterior motive in the components of the relocation package; payment for direct expenses

didn’t impact my payment, but anything they gave him in a lump sum counted towards

his compensation for purposes of calculating my fee. I’d been burned years before by a

client who low-balled the base and hid the money in the relo bonus, so ever since then my

contracts had been explicit on this point. I wasn’t sure if Brian realized it, but I wasn’t

going to point it out to him; he had his own lawyers and financial people. “Then what’s

the problem?”

Another pause. “Well, Allison is probably going to stay out here initially,” he told me in

a low voice. “She’s got some things going on with her job that she wants to finish up.”

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This was the first I’d heard of this. “Uh-huh,” I replied neutrally. They didn’t have

children, so it wasn’t an uprooting them kind of issue. This was a wife problem. “I

thought Allison liked Indianapolis on your visit.”

“She did, she did,” he assured me. “She just not, you know, quite ready to leave her job

here, and her friends and all.”

“It’s tough to leave sometimes,” I agreed diplomatically.

“I’m sure she’ll come around,” he assured me, but sounding more like he was trying to

convince himself. “It just will take a few months, so I figure I’ll have to keep up a place

in Indy, our house there, and do a lot of commuting.”

“So that’s what the problem with the package was?” I asked. He quickly agreed. That

should have sounded like good news. I’d handled plenty of relocations where the spouse

and family trail the candidate, and could advise Brian on how to structure the package to

make Ken feel better about the interim period. But I wasn’t entirely sure I knew where

Ken’s head really was. “Ken, are you sure you really want to make the move?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah, it’s a great job!” he assured me vigorously, if not entirely convincingly. “I’m

really looking forward to it.”

“And they are really excited about having you,” I assured him.

“Allison will come. I’m sure of it. You’ve probably seen lots of situations like this,

right?” His voice sounded hopeful.

“I have,” I told him, and I probably should have stopped there. “Like you say, sometimes

it takes a few months.” I paused for a second. I couldn’t help but think about Karen.

She hadn’t told me much about her latest meeting with Tondo and Patrick, but the mere

fact of the meeting told me she was more interested than she was letting on. I could

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picture myself in Allison’s shoes, with my spouse thousands of miles away in a new job,

a new city, waiting to see if I’d come and, perhaps, not entirely heartbroken if I chose not

to. Maybe that’s what Ken was prepared for, even if he wasn’t admitting it to himself. I

had to wonder what Karen was similarly prepared for. “Sometimes, though…”

“What?” he asked worriedly.

“Long distance can be tough on a relationship. Long distance commuting is tough too,

especially with the kind of demands you’re going to have. Are you sure you and Allison

are up to this?”

There was silence on the other line. “I’m sure,” Ken said at last, sounding more

confident. “It’s what I want. She knows that. She’ll come around.”

I’d never met Ken’s wife, but I had researched her background and knew she had a

respectable career of her own. I didn’t know how solid their marriage was, or if she had

family ties to the Seattle area. What I did know was that Ken was going to be one

distracted Chief Scientist for many months. Maybe he’d throw himself into his work as

his marriage dissolved, or maybe he’d not be able to focus properly. It was anyone’s

guess. I had a stake in this. If he got fired or quit in the first year, my contract would

obligate me to find them another candidate. I mentally shrugged. “You want me to talk

to them?”

“Make the deal,” he instructed me firmly.

Negotiations aside, it felt like a long week. I should have been eager for Karen to return

home, but the opposite was true. I couldn’t help thinking about her weekend away from

home, away from me and our marriage. Each conversation, each text with her I treaded

with caution, then played and replayed them in my head, searching for hidden meanings

or clues that something was amiss. If she texted me late in the morning I wondered if she

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was sleeping in with her new guy; if she called early in the evening I suspected she was

trying to get it out of the way so she could spend the rest of the night with someone else.

Nothing in her tone or in her words gave anything away; everything sounded the same as

always. But my doubts about where she’d been – and who she had been with – the prior

weekend had cause a small crack in my trust.

It would have been a good time for me to pass away quietly. I longed for the gas line to

spring a leak and kill me as I slept. Karen could come home and find me there, looking

peaceful and having suffered a painless death. Then she could grieve for some socially

acceptable time and move on with her new life and whomever she wanted to spend it

with.

I should have minded more. Losing a wife is no trivial matter. It would make any man

feel diminished. Some men go crazy at the prospect, take preemptive strikes to keep their

woman from straying, even to the point of inflicting violence or death upon them. Men

are such stupid animals, their ego getting in the way of their intellect. That kind of

possessiveness has nothing to do with love, just with pride. Maybe it made me less of a

man, but I never had that kind of blind insistence on lifetime fidelity. I wanted to be with

Karen the rest of my life, and I’d certainly hoped it would work out that way, but now

that I was faced with the prospect of losing her I saw now that it was always too much to

ask for. Karen was a special woman. I’d always known it, but it was only now becoming

clear to me what the implications of that were. I was just a guy, one near the end of his

career, already on the decline, the curve of which would start to drop precipitously over

the next few years. That is, if I had many more years; my willingness to forego

experiencing those years was yet another reason why Karen would be better off with

someone else. I doubted she was aware of my morbid thoughts, at least not consciously,

but I couldn’t really blame her if she was taking some preemptive actions to move on to

the next phase of life. Karen was the kind of person who would always land on her feet.

If my tacit acceptance of Karen’s assumed infidelity was unusual, at least it was

consistent with my willingness to die sooner rather than later.

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Karen got home around six on Friday evening. “Hey, honey,” she exclaimed cheerfully

as she got out of the car. I’d heard her pull in the garage and had come out to the garage

to greet her. “Boy, am I glad to be home!”

Part of me was distracted, wondering if it meant anything that she expressed pleasure at

being home but not necessarily to see me. I tried not to let it bother me. “Hey,

beautiful,” I replied, giving her a quick kiss and an equally brief hug. “I’m glad to have

you home.” Even though she’d had a long flight home, she was neatly dressed in a very

professional pantsuit and crisp white blouse, and looked great. I got her bags out of the

trunk and helped her get them in the house. She put her briefcase on the dining room

table and I lugged her suitcase up to the bedroom, wondering for the millionth time how

she managed it so adroitly on her trips. “Thanks, dear,” she told me. “Let me unpack

and I’ll be downstairs in a bit.”

I’d actually been planning to stay and talk with her while she unpacked. For a few

minutes there I’d even entertained the crazy idea that we’d have welcome home sex in

the interim between her work clothes and her relaxing clothes. It had been longer than

usual since we’d seen each other, due to her not coming home last weekend. A few years

ago she wouldn’t have gotten far into the house before we’d have started making out after

just a couple days away. I tried not to let my disappointment show; after all, whatever

hopes I might have had, I hadn’t had any real expectations about it. There’d been too

many homecomings without celebrations by now. “Oh, OK.”

Karen asked what I wanted to do about dinner, then suggested ordering a pizza instead of

going out. I told her I’d take care of it and went downstairs to do so. I hadn’t had my

heart set on going out, but somehow the evening was unfolding as just another night. I

sat in the family room watching television while waiting for Karen, who seemed to be

taking longer than I would have expected. I wasn’t paying attention to whatever was on

the screen. It should have felt like an evening full of promise, thick with excitement, and

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with a strong prospect for romance, hopefully culminating in making love. I wanted to

feel like a high school kid whose parents were away and whose girlfriend was here for

the night. I wanted that excitement, that thrill. Instead, I didn’t even feel like part of an

old married couple; I felt like a man whose former lover had stopped by, out of duty or

pity or whatever. Lots of old memories, but no prospects.

Karen made it down just as the pizza arrived, making me wonder if she’d been watching

for the delivery from the bedroom window. She got some glasses and a bottle of wine

from the kitchen and settled in on the couch next to me. “Looks good,” she observed,

putting a slice on a plate and handing it to me. She took one for herself, and poured us

both some wine. She looked over at the television. She asked what I was watching, and

she made a face when I told her it was “Cool Hand Luke,” with Paul Newman. She liked

Paul Newman well enough, I supposed, but it wasn’t exactly a relaxing movie. She

suggested I see what else was on, so I flipped through the channels until we came to a

show we mutually didn’t mind watching.

We ate the pizza in largely polite silence, watching the action unfold on the television.

We’d seen episodes in the series before, and the show hadn’t been great the previous

times, but it was mindlessly predictable without being insultingly so. The cast was

largely likeable and generally attractive, and the plot was, at times, credible. Karen

didn’t seem inclined to talk much, and the longer we went in effective silence the more I

became aware of it. I wondered if she would go the rest of the evening without saying

anything if I would let her, but I didn’t really want to find out.

When we finished the pizza we both helped clean up. In the kitchen I tried to break the

silence. “So, good trip?”

“Long trip,” she replied expressively. “I’m glad it’s over. I just want to relax the rest of

the weekend.”

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“Do you have anything to show me from last weekend?” I probed carefully, keeping my

tone neutral. Karen gave me a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”

“You know, from your shopping trip with Terry, “ I elaborated. “I figured you probably

came back with a bunch of stuff. Maybe you’ll give me a fashion show…”

I was, of course, alluding to her lingerie showoff a few weeks ago, but either Karen

missed the reference or chose to ignore it. She shook her head and laughed. “Oh, you’d

be bored. We mostly just caught up, did a lot of gossiping. More shopping than buying,

but it was great.”

“I’m glad you had a good time,” I replied, wanting to press her more but realizing the

futility of doing so. Karen would tell me what she wanted to tell me, when she wanted to

– no more, and no sooner. I sighed, which caused Karen to look up at my curiously.

“You all right?”

I forced a lame smile. “Just tired, I suppose. Long week.”

Karen nodded and smiled at me sympathically. “Me too.” I told her about closing the

deal with Ken Swanson, and she raised her wine glass in salute. “Well, that will be a nice

payday, I assume,” she said. She shook her head. “I hope your Dr. Swanson knows what

he’s getting into.”

“How do you mean?”

Karen laughed. “Oh, you know Brian. He’s a piece of work. I could never work for

him. I don’t know your candidate and I just hope he understands what he’s getting into.”

I bristled a little. “I like to think I laid out the situation, and Brian and Ken had plenty of

conversations. I mean, I didn’t come right out and warn him Brian was anal, but he and

Ken spent some time together and they both told me they liked each other.”

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She raised her hand in mock surrender. “Hey, hey – I’m not accusing you. I just know

what Brian’s like. I’m just saying, don’t go spending your payment until this guy

Swanson has his year in.”

“I have thought of that,” I told her coolly. I paused for a second, and relented. “I am a

little worried because his wife isn’t coming out with him right away.”

“She didn’t like – umm, where is the job?”

“Indianapolis.”

She rocked her head side-to-side, indicating that it the wife’s reluctance wasn’t totally out

of line, but not entirely obvious either. “She didn’t like it there?” She twirled the wine

glass in her hand.

I shrugged. “Ken says she did. I was kind of surprised when he told me about this.” I

explained how I’d questioned Ken about taking the job if his wife wasn’t coming, and

he’d been firm. Karen asked if there were children in school that were a factor, and

seemed pleased to have her guess confirmed when I told her no. “There you go,” she

concluded. “It’s on him.” We drifted back to the family room and sat back down, but

neither of us was particularly interested in the show. Karen looked over at me. “If it

helps, Tondo thinks you’re doing a great job on his assignment. He and Patrick are very

pleased with the candidates they’ve talked to.”

I couldn’t help myself. “Including you?”

Karen cocked her head and considered her reply before answering. “Well, of course

they’re happy with me,” she said lightly. “Who wouldn’t?”

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I nodded my head to indicate agreement, but withheld any further comment. Karen must

have caught something in my expression or my mood. “What?” she pressed. Her eyes

were bright with calculation, trying to anticipate what might be on my mind. I shrugged.

“So are you taking the AD DX job seriously?”

“Is that you asking or Tondo asking through you?” she asked with a light tone of voice.

“It’s your husband,” I reminded her.

Karen’s face conceded that I’d made a fair point, and nodded in agreement. “I guess I

am,” she conceded. “It gets more interesting every time I talk to them. I think you

helped push them to get a better handle on the job.” She smiled. “When I talked to

Tondo that first time it seemed a little vague.” She turned her head to the television,

evidently ready for this line of conversation to be over.

I almost let the moment go, so we could settle into a quiet comfort zone. But for some

reason I didn’t want to let it go. “When were you thinking we’d talk about it?” I asked,

trying to keep my tone of voice friendly, just a man asking his wife a casual question.

Karen looked over at me. “About what?”

I smiled at her helpfully. “The job? You know, moving to San Diego and all?”

She nodded. “Oh, that.” She stretched languidly. “I don’t know. When things got more

serious, I suppose.”

“What, like when you got an offer?” I had wanted to say this playfully, but it came out

sounding somewhat accusatory.

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She reached over and tapped playfully on my arm. “Don’t be silly. I’ve already had an

offer. Just not one I consider serious yet.” She looked back at the television, not

expecting a reply.

Again I almost let it pass. It should have been obvious that Karen wasn’t prepared to

have this conversation, at least not yet. But I didn’t. “So you’re prepared for us to

move?” Despite my effort at restraint, my tone might not have sounded so light anymore.

Karen frowned and looked over at me with some disbelief. “What’s the problem? We

never thought we’d live here the rest of our lives, did we? San Diego – that’s a pretty

nice place to live.”

“I’m just saying – it’s still kind of a big decision. One that impacts us both.”

Karen studied me for a few seconds, and I felt that I was looking into the professional

Karen’s eyes, the eyes and the expression she used when negotiating a tough sell. It was

a little scary and I didn’t like what I thought that made me in those eyes. Then she

relaxed and patted me affectionately on my hand. “You’re right, dear,” she agreed

sweetly. “It is a big deal. We’ll definitely talk about it if I think things are getting really

serious. OK?”

I wasn’t entirely sure I believed her, but I had nothing I could point to to justify not. I

forced a smile. “Thanks. I’m sorry I came across so strong.”

Karen nodded thoughtfully. “That’s OK. We’re both tired.” She yawned and stretched

out. “Listen, let’s watch TV in bed. I’m beat and might as well get ready for bed.” I

nodded and we both stood up. I turned the television off and we turned the lights off.

Karen put her arm around me as we started to walk upstairs. “We can talk about this

thing later in the weekend if you want to.”

But we didn’t.

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Chapter 27

Karen was off on her next trip first thing Monday morning. The weekend had passed by

surprisingly quickly, and in a largely companionable fashion. I had to admit that it was

nice having her around, even though we each did our own thing for much of the time –

Karen understandably had quite a bit of catching up to do – but went out to eat a couple

times, cooked a big Sunday brunch, and hung out. We were like two roommates sharing

the space. There were no fights, no tension, no drama, but no passion either. In

retrospect, I realized it wasn’t much different than many previous weekends, but now I

noticed, and now I minded.

The two things we did not do were to have a serious conversation about the future, or

make love. Each moment of the weekend that went by without them nagged at me. I

could have initiated either, but I wanted to see if Karen would, and she didn’t. So by

Monday morning I was feeling a little melancholy. We said our goodbyes and I got a

quick kiss from Karen as she left, hurrying out the door to catch her flight. If she noticed

my mood, she gave no indication.

I’d skipped going to the pool over the weekend, even though Karen worked out both

days, and I still didn’t feel like it Monday morning. Instead, I moped around the house

all morning in a pair of sweatpants and t-shirt, not getting dressed or even getting on my

computer. The house felt emptier than usual. Usually I was very comfortable spending

time alone, and working from home by myself. I’d done both before I married Karen,

and even after getting married that hadn’t changed, due to her time away from home. But

something had changed since my bachelor days. The house was our house, not just mine.

I’d grown accustomed to hearing from her during the day, to talking with her before I

went to bed at night, and most definitely to welcoming her home. I’d grown used to

looking forward to these things.

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I didn’t feel like that now. Looking back at the weekend, I realized it was all too much

like having a houseguest visiting, albeit one who slept in the same bed – just platonically.

The spark didn’t seem to be there, at least not from her. As a result, I was almost afraid

to hear from her, wasn’t entirely sure I would, and the prospect of more polite but distant

weekends filled me with dread.

I had lunch at home, scrounging some cold cuts and chips, and dragged myself to my

home office. I’d not picked up several calls, and my inbox was full of unread emails. I

returned a call from Brian Culpepper and endured his excited congratulations over the

deal with Ken Swanson. They were finalizing the written agreement and Ken’s start date,

but Brian told me he didn’t see any problems.

“You know Ken’s wife isn’t coming, don’t you?” I told him dutifully, although I didn’t

think it was my obligation. Brian fairly chortled, told me that he knew, but her not

coming right away would allow Ken to focus more on the job in the first few months. I

thought to myself that it could also serve as a distraction, but let it pass. Brian thanked

me again and gave vague indications that there would be more work for me in the months

ahead.

Forcing myself to get to work, I went through my emails mechanically, deleting ones I

didn’t need, answering a few of the simpler ones, and putting aside for later any that

required any serious thought. By three o’clock I had drifted back down to the family

room and flipped on the television, something I almost never did during business hours.

The days when I could focus for eight, ten, twelve hours at a shot were long gone, even

without the recent distractions.

Still no updates from Karen, although her plane should have arrived hours ago.

I thought about how my life would be if Karen did move to San Diego. We might just try

the bi-coastal thing, although we’d both seen how often those turn into fewer and fewer

visits and unhappy endings. More likely, I thought glumly, her fleeing would mean we’d

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separated, and we’d gradually slide our way towards the divorce. All of my days would

feel like I was feeling today.

I didn’t really want to go through all that. I’d lived a lot of my life alone, and I’d always

been good at it. But the difference was, before, living alone was my life, and then Karen

had filled my life with something more. Going back to being alone wouldn’t be resuming

my previous life; it would be like living the shell of the life I’d come to know.

I’d have to figure out how to fill my days without the prospect of Karen, virtual or in-

person. I wouldn’t have her to look forward to, to tell things to, to listen to. Lord knows

Karen needed little comforting, but I liked to imagine that my being in her life had been

something that she enjoyed and maybe even took some pride in, and believing that was a

source of great pleasure to me. Karen would be fine without me, I conceded, but I had

grown used to leaning on the pillar of strength that was our relationship, and I’d be

wobbly without it.

At some point I’d have to think about dating again, unless I wanted to live like a monk

the rest of my days. Dating – ugh. Starting life over as a man in his mid to late fifties

held little appeal to me. The odds that I’d find another age-appropriate woman as great

as Karen seemed almost as doubtful as the odds that I’d convince some younger woman

to take her chances on me. Ten years ago I might have attracted women at a variety of

ages, but at my age the options were much more limited. Lots of divorcees and some

widows, but we all had our histories and our emotional scars, and those build up.

The old days were fun to think about, but that water had moved down the river already. I

wasn’t going to try to swim upstream to try to recapture my cavalier single days. I knew

guys who did that, enjoying the good life with sports cars and pretty young things.

Cynics might include Trevor in that category, due to Laura, but he’d never really had a

wild and crazy period after his divorce – well, not too long a period, anyway. Guys who

did that might think they were having a good time, but in my opinion they just looked

ridiculous, and that wasn’t something I was prepared to do. Maybe I’d meet someone at

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the gym, or maybe Trevor and Laura would scheme to introduce me to some potential

romantic partners, or maybe I’d just sit at home alone and sulk. At least I had some good

memories to remember.

There were just too many years ahead, I brooded. Too much time to fill, too many quiet

moments, and too many bad things ahead. My parents were going to get sick and

eventually die, and I’d have to witness and help deal with those. My own health was

going to go in a steady decline. Things I took for granted now -- like walking pain free,

visits to the doctor only for routine exams, eating pretty much what I wanted – were all

going to go out the window. At some point I’d start needing daily prescriptions,

worrying all day about when it was time to take which pill. I probably would have a

hospital stay, or stays, for an accident or a condition I couldn’t even foresee at the

moment, and it would take something out of me that I would never get back. Swimming

would be harder, if I was even still attempting to keep exercising. I’d always given

Marty and Sue lots of credit for sticking with it, but picturing my own efforts becoming

that ungainly was not an appealing prospect.

The movie idols in my youth were guys like Paul Newman, Clint Eastwood, or Steve

McQueen – cool, good-looking men I’d have liked to emulate. Look at them now,

though: two were dead, and Clint was wearing his age, looking very much like someone’s

grandfather. McQueen had died young, so had been spared the indignities of age, if not of

illness, but Paul had aged slowly and, towards the end, shockingly. If that was what

happened to them, I brooded, how much the worse for me?

None of these worries were new to me. I’d been dwelling on them for months now, but

the saving grace had been the fact that Karen had been in my life. They would still all

happen with or without her, but the various indignities of aging somehow seemed less

objectionable if she would be there to soften the blow. Still, I concluded, it wasn’t fair to

her for me to be a burden on her. If she had a chance to start life over, it was selfish of

me to stand in her way.

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If Karen wanted to take the AD DX job and move away, she should do it, I decided

firmly. It just made me sad.

I wished I could curl up in a ball and die, or go to sleep and never wake up. It wasn’t

morbid, it wasn’t selfish, it wasn’t being depressed; it was simply a logical preference for

what I wanted the rest of my life to be like. In my case, I simply preferred that the rest of

my life not last so long, especially not under the circumstances I was anticipating that the

rest of my life was going to look like once Karen left. No, I assured myself, there really

was no point in dragging things out over a period of years.

The one flaw was that, without Karen, I wasn’t sure who would find out that I had died.

People would miss me – well, some people – but the actual discovery of my lifeless body

was something I couldn’t figure out how would happen. Maybe my clients would

wonder why I wasn’t responding to their calls and emails, maybe my swimming buddies

would think I was slacking off, maybe Robyn would miss our lunches, or maybe

eventually my mailman might question the accumulating mail. I shrugged; it would not

be my problem. Days, weeks, months could pass and it wouldn’t matter to me.

All that rationalization still left me with the central dilemma. Despite my willingness to

accept death, I still had no mechanism to assure it. I had imagined various scenarios that

required no action on my part, but I was realistic enough to realize the long odds against

any of them coming to fruition in a time frame I would find acceptable. Nor had I

developed an active method for ending my life that I felt confident about or willing to try.

I didn’t want to jump from the frying pan into the fire, so to speak; an aborted effort that

left me, say, paralyzed would make life truly miserable. And having it happen to me was

still preferable to making it happen.

I’d like to say that my pity party was short-lived and that I spent the rest of the day at my

desk being productive, but I went to bed that night more dispirited than ever. Even a

short good night call from Karen only served to remind me of what my life lacked.

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Chapter 28

I did make it to the pool the following morning. Sue was doing her slow but steady laps,

while in an adjacent lane Mary was kicking away doggedly. I did some quick loosening

up and hit the water. I was pretty sluggish at first, but gradually got more into it.

Narrowing my focus to moving through the water ahead of me stroke by stroke, kick by

kick, was a relief; no time or energy to worry about Karen or my life outside the pool.

By the time I finished, I was tired but felt oddly vindicated and definitely more awake.

While I’d been swimming Marty and Carson had arrived. Carson was doing his own

laps, while Marty was treading water near the end of the pool, talking to Sue and Mary.

Sue was standing, wrapped up in her towel, while Mary was sitting on the edge of the

pool with her feet in the water and holding her kickboard on her lap. I got out of the

pool, went over to my stuff, toweled off, then walked over to the two of them. “Hey,

guys.”

“Where you been, Marc Spitz?” Marty teased. I pointed out that it had only been a few

days since I’d been there, but he pretended to dismiss my arguments, waving them away

with a flourish of his arm. “That lovely wife of yours keeping you at home? You’re not

going to make the Senior Olympics if you keep skipping days.”

“Thank God for that,” I replied flippantly. Marty enjoyed those age-based competitions

but, to be fair, he didn’t have many serious rivals. I had no interest in making my

swimming a competition, particularly when it was likely I’d just get my ass kicked

anyway.

“Not everyone likes to show off what an old geezer he is,” Sue admonished Marty

playfully. “You like to win those little trophies, but the fact of the matter is you’ve just

outlived your competition.”

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Marty just shrugged tolerantly but seemed proud of the reference to his trophies. “So I’m

officially a geezer?” I asked in mock surprise.

Sue giggled and touched my arm with her hand. “Of course not, dear. You’re just a

youngster.” Her eyes sparkled. “And a handsome one at that.”

“Ah, Sue,” I said gallantly, taking her hand and putting it on my chest. “If only I were

single.” She batted her eyes flirtatiously and took back her hand. I looked down at Mary,

with whom the idea of flirting never came up. “How are you doing, Mary?”

She smiled at me with gratitude at having been noticed. “Good, I’m doing good.”

We watched Carson swim for a couple laps. He was better than I was, but nowhere near

as good as Robyn. “He’s putting in a good workout today,” Marty observed approvingly.

I asked how long he’d been at it, and Marty estimated almost a half an hour. I asked

Mary how long she’d swum, and she told me she’d done her usual twenty minutes. “I’m

just cooling off, “ she explained, kicking her heels a little in the water.

“You going to actually swim today, Marty?” I teased.

He affected a hurt expression. “I’ve already done two laps. I’ll do another two after I

finish my break. I do intervals, you know – better for my heart.” Marty was proud of

his regime, and no one ever had the heart to suggest he could work harder. I figured if I

was still able to just get in and out of the pool at his age I’d be grateful. Sue and I

exchanged amused expressions.

Just then Robyn walked out of the women’s locker room, carrying her towel. She already

had her cap, with her goggles resting on top of her head. “Ah, it’s Esther Williams,”

Marty cooed longingly to us, too soft for Robyn to hear. He looked at me and rolled his

eyes, knowing I might suggest again that he replace his nickname for her with someone

of more current generation – a Natalie Coughlin or Amanda Beard, for example. Mary’s

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smile faded and grew more thoughtful. I wondered if she was envious, or resentful. Sue

looked over at Robyn with a friendly expression. “She is a wonderful swimmer.”

Robyn made minor adjustments to her cap, ensuring her hair was firmly in place, but

before she jumped in the pool she looked over stealthily at me. I doubted the others

realized that’s what Robyn was doing, but she and I had gotten used to making eye

contact when we saw each other here. I thought back to her comments at our last lunch,

and I suppose I felt a little lonely due to the current emotional distance from Karen.

Before I could second guess myself I greeted her. “Hey, Robyn,” I shouted out, waving

my arm. My voice echoed off the water. “Come over and say hello for a minute.”

I didn’t know who was surprised – Robyn, or Sue, Mary and Marty. Even Carson

stopped, evidently having heard while swimming. Robyn’s face had the expression of a

deer caught in the headlight, not sure whether to bolt or to stay frozen. For a long

moment I feared I’d gone too far, thinking she was either going to ignore me or pick up

and leave. In either event I’d look like an idiot and probably ruin whatever burgeoning

friendship she and I might have had.

Fortunately, she recovered quickly. She put a brave smile on her face and came over to

us, that smile plastered on her face like a kid going to see a relative who was going to

pinch her face and otherwise embarrass her. “Hello, Marc,” she said formally when she

reached our circle, standing slightly further away than most people would enter a

conversational circle. Her eyes were back to being guarded.

“Hey, Robyn,” I replied cheerfully, and actually felt that way. “Robyn, this is Marty.

That’s Mary with the board, and this young lady up here is Sue.”

“Hello, dear,” Sue said. “I love to watch you swim.” Robyn blushed. Carson swam

over, having concluded a chance at meeting the mystery swimmer was more important

than finishing his workout. “And in the water there is Carson,” I concluded.

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Robyn nodded at each of them but didn’t repeat their names or say hello. I jumped in. “I

just finished up here. Marty and Carson are kind of in mid-workout.”

“I can see that,” she replied drolly.

“Robyn swam in high school,” I explained to the others.

“I’d say your lessons took pretty well,” Marty complimented her. “You’re very good, my

dear.”

“Thank you,” Robyn murmured, shifting her weight nervously.

“How far do you swim?” Carson asked, resting on his arms on the side of the pool and

looking up longingly at her.

Robyn shook her head. “It varies,” she said quietly, looking down but not in Carson’s

direction. “Depends on what workout I’m doing.” She didn’t intend to, but she sounded

like what she was – someone very good at something trying not to have to explain

something complicated to someone who wasn’t ready to understand what she might say.

I suspected Robyn’s versions of workouts had more nuances than any of ours, and that

she swam further in her workouts than all of us combined.

“You must have been very good in school,” Sue praised.

“Did you swim in college too?” Carson chimed in.

Robyn looked at me for help, but I wasn’t sure what to say. “I was decent in high school,

but my college didn’t have a swim team,” she told them at last.

“Wow,” Carson exclaimed. “You probably got scholarship offers from colleges that did.

I’m surprised you didn’t take one of those.”

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“Maybe she was burned out,” Marty interjected helpfully, noticing Robyn didn’t seem

happy with this line of questioning. “All I know is that she makes our pool a more

special place.” He put his hand over his heart dramatically. “You, madam, inspire me.”

Robyn had to smile at this, as did the rest of us. “Thank you, but I’m inspired that you

and, um…” She paused as she looked at the other women, searching to remember their

names.

“Sue and Mary,” I added.

“Sue and Mary are so dedicated to it,” she finished. “And you are very good too,”

looking at Carson.

“I guess I’m neither inspiring nor good,” I lamented. Robyn looked in consternation at

me, until she realized I was joking. We all laughed, except Robyn, who merely smiled

uncertainly. She then took the opportunity to excuse herself in order to return to her

workout. We all watched her, spellbound, as she got in the water and began her graceful

strokes.

After her head was safely in the water, Marty whipped his head around towards me.

“How long have you been holding out that you know her?”

Chapter 29

Robyn hadn’t stuck around to suggest we meet for lunch, but I showed up at the food

court just in case. I got there a little early, and sat at a table doing emails on my phone. I

texted Karen, “@Lunch. Wish you were here,” and was surprised to get a reply almost

immediately, “xoxo!!!” I was surprised and inordinately pleased by her symbols of

affection. It made me smile, but it also reminded me that she hadn’t called or texted me

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in the morning. I almost missed Robyn’s arrival, not noticing her until she was a few feet

away. “Hey, there,” she said gravely. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be here today.”

She was wearing a dress, for a change. It was what I might call a cocktail dress; very

simple, coming just to her knees, slightly scooped neck. It was dark blue, and she even

was wearing shoes with small heels. I must have gawked more than usual, because she

asked me what was wrong, sounding self-conscious. “Wow,” I exclaimed. “You look

very nice. You look like you’re going to a fancy party or something.”

She made a self-deprecating face. “There’s a reception after work tonight. One of the

vice-presidents is retiring, so they’re having a little party.”

“And you don’t want to go?”

Robyn sat down at my table. “It’s one of the disadvantages of being a manager,” she told

me matter-of-factly. She shrugged. “I try not to stay too long.”

“And keep away from people who drink too much?” I teased.

“That too,” she agreed, not joking. I quickly got the impression that had been a problem,

or at least a concern. Robyn had always dressed well, but I’d never seen her dressed up

like this, and she seemed a little out of her element. I realized that her other outfits were,

in some odd sense, designed to hide just how attractive she was, even as stylish as they

were. There was no disguising in this dress, and I had the impression she felt too

exposed, as if she were practically naked, even though there was nothing at all indecent

about the dress. I thought about the receptions she had to go to; I had the image of her

standing in a corner trying to avoid talking to people, yet I was sure men would keep

trying to talk to her, especially if she was dressed like this. It made me smile, and I had

to hide it from her.

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Robyn urged me to get some food, so I went up and got a sub and chips from Subway;

not my favorite meal, but they were pretty quick. I rejoined her, noting that she had

waited for my return before opening her sack lunch. “What do you have?” I asked.

“Some salad from dinner last night,” she told me. “Mom made it, and there was just

enough left for today.” It did look pretty good, I had to admit, although I wasn’t much of

a salad man. I suggested we trade, not really meaning it, but she politely declined.

“That’s good. She might have poisoned it or something if she knew I might be eating it.”

“You think my mom hates you enough to put poison in my food, in case you happen to

eat it?”

I wasn’t sure if she was teasing me or trying to decide if I was serious. I shrugged

elaborately. “I don’t know. It could be like the guy in “Princess Bride” who builds up a

tolerance to poison over time so he can trick someone into drinking poison.”

Robyn’s expression was dubious. “I don’t think she hates you that much,” she asserted,

carefully leaving it vague as to exactly how much she might hate me. I smiled at this

small encouragement. “She thinks I’m going to hell, though, doesn’t she?”

I intended it as a joke, but she didn’t react that way. She nodded at me. “Oh, yes,” she

confirmed seriously. Either she had a great poker face or she meant it. “Let’s see.

You’re divorced, that’s an eternity in hell. If you and your wife had premarital sex, that’s

another eternity. It doesn’t sound like you go to church very often, so strike three.

Should I go on?” She shook her head to illustrate the severity of my situation.

“I kind of stop counting after the first eternity of damnation and hellfire.”

“Not to mention everlasting torment,” she pointed out.

“That too,” I agreed. “So I don’t really have anything to lose, wouldn’t you say?”

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Robyn looked at me with a skeptical expression. “Mom would say it’s never too late to

repent.”

I gave her a sharp look. “Do you agree with all that? You think people like me are going

to hell?”

She looked down at her salad, making no move to start eating. I wasn’t sure if she was

praying, thinking of a response, or wishing she could just start eating. Finally, she looked

up, unconsciously looking around before speaking, as if to ensure no one could overhear.

“I don’t think so. I think you are a good person. I don’t think you should go to hell.”

“Despite my many sins,” I teased, or attempted to.

She held my eyes for a long moment, and then allowed a small smile to escape on her

lips, like smiles were expensive and she couldn’t really afford this one. It was gone

before I was sure it really had been there. “Despite those,” she replied solemnly, and I

wasn’t quite sure if she was serious or not.

With that, we each started in on our own meals.

After a couple minutes Robyn paused. “I liked your friends,” she announced seriously.

She waited for my reply. “Well, they liked you too,” I told her once I realized to whom

she was referring. “I’m not sure you could really call them my friends, but I’m sure

they’d be happy to talk to you anytime you are there.”

She shook her head. “Oh, no. I could never talk to them if you weren’t there,” she

informed me, as if it should have been obvious. I let it go, and we ate some more. As

always, I was awed just to watch her. She made a science out of the simplest of actions,

her posture perfect, her movements executed with grace. She even chewed well. I felt

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like a three year-old by comparison. After another few bites, she paused again and

looked at me. “What were you doing with your phone when I got here?”

I was somewhat nonplused. “You know. First I was doing some emails, then Karen and

I exchanged texts.” Robyn considered this somberly, and something tipped me off. “Do

you text?” I asked carefully.

She shook her head slowly. “I don’t even have a cell phone,” she confessed. She

appeared to almost add to that, but stopped and looked down at her salad.

“Why not?” It was practically incomprehensible to me that she wouldn’t have at least a

basic mobile phone.

Robyn didn’t look up right away, and finally raised her head slowly. “My mom didn’t

think I needed one.” That floored me, and I almost let it go. But I was too intrigued.

“Doesn’t your mother want a way to get in touch with you?”

Robyn rocked her head back and forth slightly. “Pretty much I’m at work or with her, so

unless I’m in the car I’m somewhere she can get a hold of me.”

“Or here,” I pointed out.

She let a smile drift across her face. “Or here,” she agreed, and I had the definite

impression that she enjoyed the times when she was out of reach with her mother. I let

that sit there a while, and we both ate a couple more bites. “Don’t you ever want to get in

touch with your friends when you are out?” I asked.

She had to think about that. “I don’t really have many friends,” she admitted finally, and

I had the awful feeling that there was another answer she had considered giving me – that

she rarely was out and about, away from her mother. I was beginning to really not like

her mother.

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“What about email, or checking the web?”

Robyn blinked, then slowly turned her face back to her food. “I don’t know,” she

allowed, then slowly took a bite of her salad. “We have a computer at home but mom

doesn’t like me using it very long.”

I finished off my food and stuffed the remains into the bag. I thought carefully about the

idea I had, dismissing it a couple times but not able to get rid of it. I asked her if she was

almost done, then asked if she had a few extra minutes. She wanted to know why, but I

just got her to admit she had some spare time. We disposed of our trash and I walked her

out of the food court and into the mall. I took her to the Apple store.

Robyn stood outside the store, entranced. I had to urge her inside the store. She moved

slowly through the isles, moving her hands tentatively over the various devices, each slim

and elegant in their own ways. She eventually looked over at me, and smiled brightly,

like a little girl in a great toy store.

I wanted to tell her about some of the mobile phones I’d had over time – and, in fact, still

had a small museum of – but I didn’t want to come off as an old codger. So I did my best

to appear familiar with the various Apple products, thus demonstrating how cool I was,

until one of the staff found us. “May I help you?” he asked. He was a young man, in his

twenties, wearing the appropriate t-shirt and official ID around his neck, yet his sneakers

and jeans conferred more credibility by illustrating his youth.

“This young lady is looking for a phone,” I told him gravely.

“Am I now?” she asked me, more amused than surprised. The young man – Ted, his

badge said – watched us. I nodded while winking at Robyn. I wanted Ted to understand

that I was a sophisticated customer, on top of current technology, but I feared in his eyes

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my age disqualified me from being up-to-date. He tacitly assumed I was the money in

this transaction and focused on Robyn.

Ted asked what kind of phone she currently had, and looked in askance when she

confessed that she didn’t have one. I told him she’d been living on a desert island, and he

gave me a tolerant smile, still not really believing she didn’t have a phone. Robyn almost

smiled, and told Ted that she had read about mobile phones and had a pretty good sense

of what they could do. “See,” I said proudly, which got a mock glare from her. Ted then

did a very good job explaining the various phones and features – all icons and iTunes and

App Store and network speeds, some of which went over my head -- but in truth he had

his sale as soon as he put one of the phones in her hands. She cradled it like it was a

fragile ducking. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he noted.

She nodded, and asked Ted to give us a few minutes, still holding on to the phone. “Do

you like it?” I asked, moving a little closer. She nodded and looked down at it, pulling it

a little closer. She practiced touching the screen, opening and closing some of the icons.

“It is beautiful,” she agreed softly, smiling slightly and her eyes wide with wonder. I’d

never seen her look so open, and I liked it. Her face grew serious again. She shook her

head. “I’d never be able to figure out how to use it.”

“”Come on,” I admonished. “Anyone can use them. That’s why I picked Apple.” I

gestured around us. “Seriously – look around you. You think all these people are

smarter than you?”

The store wasn’t very busy, but there was a decent mix of people, some of whom seemed

more to be there to play with the various cool devices. A few seemed to have stumbled

out of bed, and one doubted that they’d had to worry about what to wear at high school

graduation. Robyn looked around and seemed to take my point, but wasn’t quite ready to

concede. “Is this what you have?”

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I shook my head. “I was a Blackberry guy back in the day, but now I use an Android

phone. Just never got into Apple.”

She looked at me steadily. “But I should?”

I wasn’t sure if she was putting me on or not. I shrugged, not quite willing to admit that,

whatever else I thought of Apple, their work was beautiful, slim and elegant, and that

reminded me of her. “It’s a young person’s phone,” I said at last. “And, like I said,

anyone can use one.”

Robyn still wasn’t convinced. “But at least they’ve all probably used cell phones before.

I haven’t.” She studied the other customers for a few seconds. Her thoughts were as

opaque as ever, but I was certainly thinking how they were nothing at all like Robyn.

Still, I had no doubt she could figure out how to use the phone. “I have faith in you,” I

reassured her.

Robyn studied me for a long moment, then looked at the phone for several longer

moments. When she looked up I thought I saw longing in her eyes. “Mother wouldn’t

want me to.”

“That’s easy,” I assured her. “Don’t tell her.”

Chapter 30

I was restless the rest of the afternoon, for reasons I couldn’t really explain. I should

have been feeling good about things. I had done, I thought, a good deed for Robyn by

talking her into getting the phone. It might help her be more connected to things, be

more like other people her age. Plus, I had to admit, I thought that it was way past time

for her to be disobeying her mother’s wishes about something. Of course, I wasn’t going

to have to bear the consequences of any fights between them it might cause, which made

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me feel a little uneasy. Of course, I probably would go to hell an extra eternity for my

action, at least according to her mother, but what was one more time?

Adam Silvester called to tell me he was very interested in the AD DX job, and told me to

pass that along to Patrick and Tondo. “It’s a pretty interesting opportunity,” he told me,

“and I think I’d really bring something to the table for them.” I told him that was why I’d

recruited him and what a favorable impression he’d already made. Not too far back in

my mind I was both calculating my fee and wondering if it would take the pressure off

Karen to take the job. “I heard Karen was interested in the job,” Adam said casually.

“Any truth to that rumor?”

“You know I can’t confirm or deny, Adam,” I replied, wondering whom he’d heard it

from. Probably directly from Tondo, or even Karen herself, both of whom would have

had their own reasons for spilling the news. “But even if it was true, you’d give her a

good run for the money. I bet you already know how much Tondo and Patrick like you.”

That was true, although even I didn’t know how well they liked him versus Karen. In

any event, it perked him up and we finished off the call; I promised to inform Patrick, and

he and Tondo would decide if they were ready to start negotiating.

What Adam didn’t realize, nor Karen for that matter, was that there was another

contender, a guy named Tom Petrovick. Tom worked for one of the big pharmacy

chains. I’d tried to recruit him for a couple jobs in managed care companies, never

successfully but I’d become very impressed with him. His background made him a bit of

a long shot for the AD DX job, but his initial calls with Patrick and Tondo had apparently

gone surprisingly well and they were rushing to get an in-person with him. He was over

a decade younger than either Adam or Karen, and had a much more retail background,

but he was very impressive. If nothing else, I’d figured making Tondo’s acquaintance

would bode well for future opportunities.

While I was talking to Adam I started to doodle. It began as a square, which gradually

evolved into, not surprisingly, an iPhone. I then gradually added Robyn to the picture,

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making her much smaller and holding it in her hands like a sacred object. The last phase

of the drawing was an even tinier character, in the upper left corner. She looked like a

wicked old witch, complete with the long nose, wart, and pointed hat. The witch had an

expression of hate and power on her face, leaving one to wonder what she had in mind

but left no doubt that it spelled trouble. I had no doubt the character was meant to be

Robyn’s mom, and was glad that the call ended before I could add any more detail to the

drawing.

I decided to stay in for supper, and stood in the kitchen deciding what to make. I hadn’t

done a recent grocery run, so I ended up boiling some water to make some pasta. I was

making a salad when I thought about the knife in my hand. It’d be easy enough to slip, I

thought, to gash my arm, my hand, maybe even my wrist. Maybe it would just be a nick,

and I could hold it under the water, then put a Band-Aid on it. Or maybe, if I were a little

sloppier using it, the cut might be deeper, maybe hit a vein or an artery. I could picture

the blood spurting out, getting all over the island. I could call 911, or try to wrap it up

and rush to the ER myself. If I reached someone in time, it would end up as just being a

scar and a scary story.

Or instead of calling for help I could just slump down, sit on the floor with my back

against the counter, and watch my life flow out of me. I didn’t even like paper cuts, so I

wouldn’t relish the initial pain of the knife cutting into my skin, but I reasoned that

eventually I’d go into shock and a certain calm might come over me. I could watch the

blood pour out of me, rushing across the floor like a flood conquering new territories. It

might even be pretty, in an abstract art kind of way, the red mixing with the white tiles in

a jarring juxtaposition. Who knew; maybe I could look for shapes in the blood like I was

watching clouds in the sky. It might not be a bad way to pass the time until I lost

consciousness.

It would be hell to clean up, but that wouldn’t be my problem.

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I held the knife up in front of me. Karen had bought a very nice knife set for her cooking,

and it was sleek and well designed. The shape of it was more stylized than it needed to

be, but the design added beauty to the stark functionality that the keenly sharp blade

delivered. Truly, it made the iPhone seem over-designed. I turned it around slowly so I

could admire it from multiple angles, and it almost seemed a waste not to use it on

myself.

I put the knife down. Maybe a salad wasn’t such a good idea, I decided.

The phone rang then, just in the nick of time, and I saw it was Karen. “Hey,” I answered.

“Where are you?”

“Hello yourself,” she replied breezily. “I’m in the same time zone as you for once. I’m

up in Philly. Are you eating?”

I explained that I was just in the middle of cooking some pasta. “You should have a

salad too,” Karen suggested. I had to figuratively bite my tongue. I looked balefully at

the knife sitting on the counter. “I thought about it,” I admitted, “but it seemed too

messy.”

“Too messy?”

“Don’t ask,” I advised wearily. “Tell me about your day.” Karen proceeded to tell me

that she’d spent the afternoon with a client, whom she was taking out to dinner in

downtown Philadelphia in another hour. Then tomorrow she’d be meeting with a target

customer. “I should be home Thursday night this week,” she concluded cheerfully. I

agreed that would be a nice change of pace, while thinking for the first time that it

actually seemed strange.

I tried to picture Karen. It was possible she was at a Courtyard Marriott or a Holiday Inn

Express, but knowing Karen, I suspected she was at a nicer hotel. I thought about what I

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knew about hotels there. Maybe the Ritz Carlton, or the Four Seasons. Then there was

the old Bellevue. Someplace nice. I tended to like old hotels with some history and

grandeur, but Karen seemed to prefer newer properties. She’d rather have a bigger room

and fancy bathroom than an impressive lobby. I liked those too, but I was old-fashioned

enough to like to be impressed when I walked into the hotel. Or a train station or theater.

Unfortunately, places like that are getting fewer and fewer; call it progress.

I knew I could have just asked Karen where she was staying, but it didn’t really matter. I

just pictured her in an idealized luxury suite, probably walking around unpacking or

sitting at the desk working on her laptop. I liked to imagine her relaxing in a big fluffy

robe, with only her lingerie underneath. It was a nice mental picture, and one that we

once might have had some mutual fun with, but I was willing to bet she was still dressed

in her business attire. Lobbies weren’t the only place that had less romance about them

anymore. “Hey, I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but Adam is definitely

throwing his hat in the ring for the AD DX job,” I told her, just to say something. I kept

an eye on the pasta. “If you are really interested it might not be a bad idea to let Patrick

or Tondo know.” I tried to sound nonchalant, but I was hoping it might spur her to open

up and have a real discussion with me. Philadelphia wasn’t that far from Cary, not in the

scheme of things, yet I still felt far, far away from her.

“Is that so?” she repeated carefully. “Doesn’t surprise me. Sure, you can let them know

I’m interested in a serious offer.”

“You are?” I asked, trying to keep the surprise out of my voice. “Just like that?” I was

hurt and starting to get angry that this was how I was finding out about her intentions.

“Relax, boyfriend,” she chided me playfully. “I just said I’d be interested in an offer. I

didn’t say I’d take it.”

“You probably shouldn’t tell me that,” I said dutifully, putting on my recruiter hat. AD

DX was my client, after all. I didn’t want her to get Patrick and Tondo all excited about

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landing her if she didn’t mean it. She wasn’t even my candidate; I shouldn’t even be in

the middle of them.

“Ah, Tondo knows how the game is played,” she replied. “It never hurts to talk. The

worst is he makes me an offer and I say no.”

From a candidate’s perspective, Karen was absolutely right, but from Tondo’s point of

view – and from mine – one kind of hated to waste time and emotional energy working

on a candidate who proved to not be serious. I’d lost more than one placement in similar

situations, when my back-up candidate turned out to be no longer available and then the

client moved on to someone else. “Well, try not to string him along. Maybe we should

talk more this weekend.”

“We’ll see,” she said ambiguously, making no promises. “What else is going on? Did

you close that job in Indy? The guy with the wife who wasn’t coming with him?”

Karen was obviously changing the subject, and I let her get away with it. It wasn’t worth

trying to fight about, especially not over the phone. Karen was a better poker player than

I was anyway, so if she was going to keep her cards close to her chest I was just going to

have to wait. I told her we were just waiting to get the signed contract back from Ken

Swanson, but I was still feeling bad about the prospects for his marriage. And my own. I

eyed the knife almost longingly. “I better get going,” I told her. “My pasta is ready.”

Chapter 31

I dithered away the evening in my study. Most people probably would have spent the

evening in the family room, but I’d eaten my pasta there and it just felt too empty by

myself. It reminded me too much of being there with Karen. I was already feeling her

absence too acutely, and I didn’t need to be reminded of it even more so. My study was a

safer refuge, a place where I was accustomed to being alone.

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I sat on the couch, laptop in my lap while simultaneously watching TV. Or, at least, the

television was on. I flipped back and forth between an action movie and a police drama,

of which there seemed to be no shortage. Alas, these were not the classic “Law and

Order” police stories, these were newer series, with quirkier characters, many of whom

were women. The women tended to be gorgeous yet curiously single, and entirely

capable to bringing down bad guys who were much larger. It was all right; I didn’t get

the impression we were meant to take any of it too seriously. I changed channels

whenever a commercial came on, which was frequent, and prided myself at being able to

keep track of the distinct stories despite the non-sequential nature of my viewing.

It was hard to remember the days before cable. No, not hard to remember; it was all too

easy to remember. What was hard was to imagine that there were so few choices, and

that we all put up with the crap the networks showed. Despite that, I remembered lots of

television shows from my youth, from the truly early days of television like “I Love

Lucy” to the jiggle shows of the seventies. The ones I remembered might have been the

cream of the crop, although “My Mother The Car” would seem to belie that, or maybe

had just hit some chord. Many of them, of course, were now on Nick at Night or Retro

TV, or available on DVD. I’d tried to watch some of my fondly remembered series, like

“The Avengers,” and had been disappointed by how poorly they held up. We must have

graded more on a curve then, given the paucity of choices. I wondered idly how many

different shows I’d watched over time, or how many movies I’d seen, between television

and theaters. I probably could remember more names of characters from 1960’s

television shows than I could names of schoolmates, which seemed a curious abdication

of reality. It was amazing that my brain hadn’t overloaded on those memories alone, all

the bits of trivia I’d stored away about foolish entertainment options that, at best, served

as historical markers for times gone by.

Yet I continued to watch.

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When the tone for a text came on I assumed it was going to be Karen. It was still early

for her going-to-bed contact, so I thought maybe she was letting me know she had a late

dinner or meeting and would be in touch tomorrow. I had steeled myself for the

disappointment of having to end my day without hearing from her, while wondering if I

should be worried about what she might really be up to. I looked at my phone reluctantly

and was surprised to see that it wasn’t from Karen at all; it was a text from Robyn. I’d

given her my mobile number at the mall, and input hers in my phone, but I had to confess

I didn’t really expect to hear from her, especially not so soon.

“Does this work?” the text read.

“Who IS this?” I impishly responded, smiling to myself.

“Robyn.”

“Robyn who?”

“You’re teasing me, aren’t you?”

“A little.”

I held the phone in front of me waiting for a response, which was slow in coming. I

decided to be proactive. “Where R you?” I wrote.

“In my bedroom. Mom thinks I am reading.”

“Sort of the truth.”

Her response took a couple seconds. “Sort of.” I wished I could see if she was smiling

or worried, so I sent a “?” The question mark that came back suggested that she didn’t

know what I meant. “Colon then right paren. Means are you smiling.”

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“Yes. ”

I tried to picture Robyn. I knew nothing of her house, much less her room, yet somehow

conjured up the image of a Gidget-like room, complete with stuffed animals, ruffles, and

lots of pink. Everything would be immaculate, of course, her clothes neatly folded in the

dressers or hung with precision in her closet. Her shoes would be arrayed in their boxes

or in a shoe rack. She’d be sitting up in her bed, maybe dressed in a Doris Day-like set of

pajamas that her mother insisted on. The reality might be completely different, of course,

and I didn’t quite know why I pictured her like that. Perhaps she just reflected that kind

of innocence to me.

“Like your phone?”

“Love it. Still don’t know how to use all the features.”

“Tried the web?”

“YES! Very cool.”

“Where is home PC?”

“In den, but mom watches.”

The phone was kind of like the transistor radio had been for Gidget: entertainment and

connection with the outside world that her parents couldn’t control. I had the strong

feeling that nothing happened on the television, radio, or computer at Robyn’s house that

her mother wasn’t at least aware of and, more likely, had to approve. She might not

come right out and declare dictatorship, but that didn’t mean that over time she hadn’t

worn people down into doing what she wanted. Robyn was too old to be under her

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mother’s thumb. I hadn’t met the woman, and Robyn hadn’t come right out and

complained, but if her mother didn’t trust me, I’d have to say the feeling was mutual.

“Next we’ll have 2 get you on Facebook.”

“”

“Seriously.”

Robyn’s reply took a few seconds. “Why?”

“Lets you share things w/ friends & vice-versa.”

There was a pause before her reply appeared. “Who would care about what I am doing?”

I debated my response, but ended up giving in to my original impulse. “I would.”

Another pause. “Sweet of you, but I lead boring life.”

“Then you can read about other people’s lives.”

“I’ll think about it. One problem.”

“What?”

I almost had given up on her replying, and was getting ready to send a follow-up when

her response came. It almost broke my heart. “No friends. .”

I didn’t want to believe that was true, but the weight of the evidence was that it could be.

I didn’t think Robyn would say that just for sympathy; she seemed remarkably clear-eyed

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about herself about her life. It just made me sad. I knew what I wanted to tell her, and

finally did so. “You have me.”

Was I really Robyn’s friend? And, if so, why? If I was being honest with myself, I

didn’t know that much about her. I’d never been to her house, or vice-versa, and didn’t

expect either of those to change. I knew some things about her mother, none of which

made me want to meet her in person. All I knew of her was gleaned from our lunches,

and from observing her at the pool. I liked the way she swam, I guessed. Maybe we

were going to become cyber-friends, but I’d miss the lunches. There was something

sweet about her; she had an innocence that spoke of opportunities missed. The cloistered

existence she had with her mother had robbed her of too many chances to lead her own

life. Some part of me that I hoped was gallant rather than opportunistic made me want

her to have better, wanted her to have chances for a richer life. I supposed I felt sorry for

her, but our budding friendship wasn’t based on pity. There was a gem hidden inside her

carefully cloaked exterior, and I thought it would be rewarding to help expose that to the

world.

Robyn’s response to my text was not what I expected. It consisted of a picture of her. I

couldn’t make out much of the room behind her, and the picture was slightly off-center,

but her smile came through clearly. It was a nice smile, if self-effacing. I quickly

snapped a picture of myself, smiling and making the “OK” sign, and sent it off.

“Better go now. Night, Marc.”

“See you @pool? 2morrow?”

“Yes.”

That ended the exchange, and I put the phone down, wondering what Pandora’s box I’d

opened.

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Chapter 32

I whiffed on my first attempt to hit the golf ball. I furtively looked around to see if

anyone noticed, and tried to casually stretch, as though my swing was part of my warm-

up. I lined the club up very carefully for my next attempt, kept my head down with my

eyes focused on the ball, then pulled the club back slowly. I let the club come forward

and tried to keep my downswing smooth and even – only to top the ball. It bounced out a

few yards.

“Maybe I should have let you rent some clubs,” Trevor said thoughtfully, standing at the

next tee.

Trevor had invited me to go hit golf balls with him Sunday morning. Karen and Laura

were doing a fund-raising 5k, jogging or power-walking it. Neither of us was sure which

charity it was for, but we did know that we had each “volunteered” to contribute to it.

Trevor had been after me to play golf for years. He was a pretty good golfer, and had

used it strategically in his CEO days. I never saw the point of it; it took too long, and in

North Carolina it was usually too hot to play. Karen had suggested on several occasions

that it might be something we do together when we eventually retired, but that remained

to be seen. Hitting balls at the driving range, though, was something I didn’t mind,

especially if the alternative was to walk in some charity event.

There were a scattering of other people at the driving range, almost all of them men and

most of them younger than I was. Collectively, we formed a large semi-circle, or maybe

a quarter-circle, with large gaps between, except for people hitting together, like Trevor

and me. It allowed a degree of anonymity, which I welcomed. I felt self-conscious

enough about my poor golfing ability. I knew Trevor would only tease me moderately,

but if there had been anyone next to us I would have hit even worse.

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It was a warm day, although not quite hot, so the sun felt good. The range in front of us

was peppered with golf balls from the morning’s efforts. The yard markers boldly

marked off each fifty yards, out to a four hundred yard marker that basically dared

anyone to reach it. I certainly wasn’t expecting to.

I teed up another ball, and managed to drive it out thirty yards or so. Trevor was sharing

his clubs with me. I shuddered to think how expensive they were. I didn’t know much

about golf clubs, but I figured his bag had a few thousand dollars worth of clubs in it.

Trevor hit his own shot, sending a ball a couple hundred yards out into the range. “Nice

hit,” I commented. He looked over at me and smiled encouragingly, then took another

ball out of his bucket. I did the same.

Eventually I started to connect with a few of the balls. I never got anywhere near the

distance Trevor made look easy, but at least I sometimes got the balls out past the one

hundred yard marker. They probably would have gone further if I didn’t keep slicing or

hooking; I wasn’t even consistent about how I hit my bad shots.

“See, you’re getting it,” Trevor encouraged me after one particularly decent shot, which

reached a hundred and fifty yards, counting the roll. “Why don’t you try a driver?”

I eyed the drivers in his bag, with their huge heads. “I don’t know,” I said dubiously.

“Seems like a lot of firepower.”

“Yes, but when you connect you’ll really notice,” he promised. I put away the five iron

I’d been using and selected the biggest driver in the bag. “You’re sure I can’t break it?” I

asked nervously.

“Well, I’m not sure, but if you do I can always beat you with my iron.” He waved his

iron in the air to re-enforce the point.

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“Ah, now we’re getting into the tough love part of the coaching.” I glared at him for

effect.

Trevor grinned at me. “Whatever works.”

My first shot with the driver sliced so badly that the golfers far to our right looked up in

surprise. I followed their lead and looked over to my left as if trying to pinpoint the

source of such an errant shot. I shook my head at the ineptitude of the fictitious duffer

and innocently teed up another ball. Trevor reminded me to just relax and not force it,

and my next shot actually flew down the range a good distance the air, then bounced and

rolled a few yards further. I stood to watch it, and Trevor paused between shots to notice

my admiration. “See – it’s not such a stupid sport.”

The thing with golf was that it seemed so arbitrary. I’d say that maybe a third of my

shots were absolute duds, grounding out or veering off in some direction so badly that I

feared for anyone to either side of me. Maybe more like forty percent. Most of the rest

of my shots were what I could only generously call mediocre, heading in roughly the

right direction and staying in the air somewhat longer than I might have been able to

throw them. They never went nearly as far as Trevor’s worst shots, which was pitiful,

but I figured that was more due to the fact that he practiced more than I did, rather than

him being stronger or more athletic than I was.

About one in twenty shots, though, were a mystery. I could tell right away from the

sound such hits made, a good solid noise that was less about power than about purity. A

well hit baseball made an equivalent noise, and for all I knew a perfect punch would too.

When I hit one like that, I saw the appeal of golf – and immediately after the shot

thought: how did I do that? They seemed like the easiest, most natural shots, yet

inevitably my attempts to replicate what I’d done failed, until the next magical time. One

in twenty might be giving myself too much credit.

“Good shot,” Trevor said approvingly after one such shot. “I told you it was easy.”

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I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, sure.” I teed up my next ball, and, sure enough, grounded it

out. If I had been playing baseball the pitcher could have fielded it with his bare hand.

“If we were actually playing, I’d have to string a bunch of shots like this to follow up on

my good shots. It would take forever.” I shook my head. “At least at the driving range

there are no penalties for bad shot – every shot starts fresh.”

“There is that, but you can’t keep score at the driving range.” He turned his attention

back to the ball, focused, and sent it flying far out into the distance.

That probably summed up the difference between Trevor and me when it came to golf. If

it was just about going out and hitting some balls, I could see doing it for fun. Trevor

liked the keeping score part of it, and his competitive nature probably was also why he’d

been the CEO of a Fortune 500 company while I was content to run my little one man

business. Maybe it summed up the difference between us, period.

We finished up our bucket, then went to the snack bar to get something to drink. Trevor

got an Arnold Palmer, true to the golf traditions, while I got lemonade. We sat at a table

in the shade, such as it was. Out of the sun, and with a small breeze, it was very

comfortable. “That was fun,” Trevor said expansively. “We should do it more often.”

“We should,” I agreed, after swigging down about half of my soda. I’d worked up a good

thirst and was sweating. My arms and back were feeling a little sore from the unfamiliar

exercise, and I already knew I’d be even sorer in the morning. I didn’t hit golf balls very

often, and my body punished me for surprise exertions. I studied Trevor for a moment.

He looked cool, comfortable, and entirely at ease here, even though his golf clothes were

crisply expensive, which was not quite the norm at this suburban driving range. I was

rather more casual, dressed more for a trip to the grocery store or the mall, and my style

was more in line with most of the other golfers around us. Trevor didn’t seem to notice

or care that no one else was as nicely dressed as he was, and one of the things I liked

about Trevor was that he always seemed like he fit in, no matter where he was, no matter

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if his style was at odds with the people around him. It was a kind of arrogance, if you

thought about it, but the thing I liked about him was that he didn’t think about it. “Who

do you think is having more fun – the girls or us?”

Trevor smiled. “I’d hope us. I’m just glad Laura’s not out spending money. Our usual

agreement is that when I play golf she gets to go shopping, so at least she’s not near a

store today.”

“There is the matter of your contribution to the charity,” I pointed out.

He took a drink. “Ah – still cheaper than some of her shopping trips. If it’s clothes or

even shoes, there’s only so much damage she can do, but if she gets to looking at home

furnishings or jewelry, then I get nervous.”

“You love it.”

Trevor smiled modestly. “Hey, it’s worth it. I like to work out with her just to watch her

in her little outfits.” He smiled wistfully at the thought. “You probably feel the same

way about Karen,” he added kindly.

“Something like that,” I agreed, thinking of how I rarely worked out with Karen. For that

matter, how rarely I got to see her at all lately. She’d arrived home on the red-eye

Saturday morning, and the day had flown past without us seeming to spend as much time

together as I might have expected. Here Sunday was, starting out the same way. I

thought about the little fashion show she’d done a few weeks before and wondered why

there hadn’t been repeat occurrences.

“I’ve been thinking about getting busier,” Trevor told me, studiously not looking at me.

He took a measured sip from his cup.

“I thought you liked being with Laura so much.”

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“I do,” he agreed, then shot me a sly smile. “But I need to do more. Being on Boards,

even that Governor’s thing, isn’t enough.”

“You going to start another company?” I asked, and I selfishly couldn’t help but wonder

if he’d have some assignments for me if he did. Maybe I was soon to retire, maybe I was

soon to be dead, but my business instincts hadn’t entirely disappeared.

“Maybe,” he allowed, then gave me a coy look. “Some people are talking to me about

running for office.”

“You’re kidding,” I responded automatically. I smiled at him. “Dogcatcher?”

He acknowledged the shot, and shook his head. “Nope. Higher.”

I studied his face for clues. “State representative? State Senate?”

“It’s all very premature,” he assured me gravely. “Depends on when certain people

retire, what happens with some other races, and so on. But no. We’re looking at federal

options.” He smiled modestly, pleased with himself.

“Well,” I said. “Very impressive. You really think you’d be happy in politics?”

Trevor shook his head. “I tell you, I’ve always wondered about some of the elected

officials I know, and this Governor’s Commission thing has really opened my eyes. I

don’t know if I’d like it or not, but I thought maybe they could use a few more people

who know how to make things work.”

“That’d be you,” I agreed.

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“Plus, Laura thinks it’d be ‘cool.’” He grinned, and the implication was that his potential

political power was kind of a turn-on for her.

“When it comes time, if it comes time, for fundraising and such, you just let me know,” I

offered, wondering if I’d be around for it. To be honest, part of me couldn’t see Trevor

being happy playing politics and, if he was lucky, passing some laws, but part of me

agreed with his assessment that maybe we needed people like him. I also wondered if all

this was really a way to show off for his young wife, if he worried that she’d think less of

him if she thought he was truly retired. That’s the trouble with trophy wives; you have to

remember that they are collecting you as well, and tarnish shows up faster as you get

older.

Trevor nodded appreciatively at my offer to help with his future fund-raising, although I

doubted he’d ever push very hard about it, and we sat in silence for a little bit, enjoying

the slight breeze and the sounds of the golf balls being hit.

After a suitable pause, Trevor asked me how things were going with my business, and I

told him about the search I was doing for Tondo, whom Trevor knew slightly. I also

mentioned how Tondo was recruiting Karen for the job at the same time. “Sounds like

Tondo,” Trevor noted sagely. “He plays his own angles.”

“That he does,” I agreed. Trevor peered at me more intently. “Is she interested?”

“You’d have to ask her,” I replied with studied casualness, looking at my soda.

He nodded to himself and sipped his Arnold Palmer again. “I see,” he said at last. “You

don’t want her to take the job?”

I shrugged. “It’s a great job, for someone. And she’d be good at it. But it’s in San

Diego.”

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He raised his eyebrows. “Great weather. Great golf courses. Lots of nice places to live

out there. Plus, of course, the ocean and all that.”

I exhaled heavily. “Yeah. I know. That’s what I tell the other candidates.”

“So what’s the problem?”

I looked over at the driving range, watching the remaining golfers hit. It was reassuring

to see some of them occasionally hit shots that rivaled some of my worst, although even

more dismaying to see some of the young guys effortlessly whacking the ball further than

even Trevor did on his best. Youth will be served. I wondered what the odds were that

an errant shot could come my way and hit me in the head. That’d be a good way to go –

quick death and a great story for Trevor and his friends to tell. But, alas, none came

anywhere near us. Besides, what if it just broke my jaw or put out an eye? Plus, if the

poor kid did manage to kill or maim me, he would probably be scarred for life. He might

not face any criminal charges, unless he was just being reckless, but killing someone with

your golf ball had to weigh upon you for the rest of your life. It was hard to see how

anyone could play again after that. I shook my head again and tried to get back into the

flow of the conversation. “I’m not sure I want to move.”

Trevor looked puzzled. “Why? I’m glad you live nearby, but you’re not really tied here,

are you? And your business should be pretty portable, right?”

He was right. What he said made sense, and they were arguments I’d made to myself. “I

don’t know,” I admitted at last. I made a pained smile. “I guess I’m getting old.”

Trevor didn’t know what to make of that. His fingers absently wiped away condensation

on his cup, and he glanced out at the driving range for a few seconds. “So you said last

time. Do I have to remind you again you’re not so old,” he said at last. “That you’re

younger than me.”

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“Yeah, but you’ve got the young wife,” I said, trying to pass it off as a joke.

“Karen is a great wife,” he countered, then paused to look at me. “Hell, I don’t feel old.

I’m probably in better shape now than I was in my twenties. I’m still sharp, still full of

energy.”

I eyed him contemplatively. “You are, indeed,” I agreed slowly, and took a drink of

lemonade.

“And you,” Trevor argued. “You’re working out and all. You’ve built a good business,

making good money, have Karen in your life. I bet you wouldn’t trade now for anytime

else in your life.”

I nodded, listening but also lost in thought. I looked at Trevor. “I suppose not,” I replied

without enthusiasm. “Not knowing what I know now.” I sat forward. “The thing is,

back then, I didn’t know better. I didn’t really think about how I’d feel when I got older.

Now I think about it too much, and there’s nothing about it that I like.”

Trevor looked at me with a slight frown. I knew he’d lost his own father a few years ago,

and his mother had live-in help to allow her to keep living on her own. He’d seen his

peers retired and happy to spend their days on the golf course, claiming to be happy but

showing their age and losing their edge. He knew what I was talking about. He held his

cup in front of him. “Damn. Too bad I don’t have a real drink, something with a kick in

it.” He laughed, and the laughter slowly drained away. We sat in uncertain silence for a

while, with the periodic sounds of golf balls being whacked punctuating that silence. It

seemed fitting somehow. We both let our attention wander out to the golfers at the range.

“That one kid on the third tee can really hit the ball,” Trevor observed in admiration.

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“Not bad. Every once in a while, though, he hooks like crazy. The guy, oh, four slots

towards us isn’t as dramatic about it but his shots are always straight. I bet he’s got a

better handicap.”

Trevor watched them hit for a few more shots, then took another drink and looked back at

me resolutely. “What’s this all about, anyway? All this feeling old shit? You just don’t

feel like moving?”

I shrugged and exhaled heavily. “I guess. I don’t know. It shouldn’t really matter.”

“Lots of people like to stay where they are,” he pointed out. “It’d take a lot to get me to

move. Doesn’t make either of us old.”

But you could, I wanted to say. It wouldn’t be overwhelming to you. You’d stay

because you had too many things to do here, not because you were afraid of taking on a

new life. You’d stay because your life here was something you looked forward to. But I

didn’t say any of those things. I didn’t think he’d understand. We were friends, but I

couldn’t explain to him that the years ahead bore down upon me like the icebergs did to

the world during the Ice Age. The time ahead looked bleak, cold, and barren of life. But,

no, I didn’t say any of that. I just shook my head.

“Is it Karen?” he pried shrewdly, if not quite correctly. “When we had lunch a few

weeks ago you mentioned something about Karen being away too much.”

I looked out to the driving range and Trevor did as well, implicitly agreeing this was a

line of conversation in which perhaps eye contact was not preferable. This was a good

diversion; Trevor could understand me feeling blue about a woman. It wasn’t the right

thing to do, it wasn’t a brave thing to do, but I let him believe he was on the right track. I

told him about her weekend in Minneapolis, and about how it seemed she called less

often when she was away. “Not much to go on,” he concluded when I’d finished, or at

least stopped talking.

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“Not much,” I agreed with no enthusiasm. Listening to myself talking I’d just made

myself more depressed. The prospect of losing Karen did bother me, more than I’d

admitted to myself. I took a deep breath. “Like I said – maybe I’m just getting old.

Faster than she is.”

“I hear you, buddy,” Trevor said gruffly. He looked over at me. “You talked to Karen

about this?”

“Not so much. I try to get her to talk about the job but she keeps putting me off.”

“What about the…the other stuff?”

I laughed mirthlessly. “No. Not an easy topic.”

“I hear that,” he agreed fervently, no doubt remembering a conversation or two he might

have had along those lines in his life. He finished his drink and crumbled it up, evidently

finished with the conversation. “There’s always today,” he reminded me, indicating that

we should stand up.

Chapter 33

Despite Trevor’s advice, the rest of Sunday came and went without a serious discussion

with Karen. We had brunch with our wives, who were very pleased with their fund-

raising efforts, then Karen and I went home. One thing after the other, and the day

passed. Next thing I knew it was Monday morning and she was off again, giving me a

quick hug and an even quicker peck. I didn’t even feel up to going to the pool, as my

body felt even creakier than usual due to the prior days’ efforts at the driving range. I

just moped around my office making half-hearted attempts to update my network contact

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information. I should have been making calls to connect to try to see about some new

assignments, but I fell back upon the more passive email approach.

Tom Petrovick called, wanting to know if I’d heard any more about the AD DX job.

“I’ve got a couple other irons that are starting to heat up,” he warned me, “but I’m really

interested in this one.” His comment made me realize I hadn’t heard from Patrick or

Tondo for a few days, which was a little unusual. After hanging up with Tom I tried

Patrick and got his voice mail. I left him a message, then tried Tondo’s mobile, but it

went straight to voice mail as well. They were both busy guys, and for all I knew they

were meeting with each other, but for some reason I felt a little paranoid that they were

avoiding me. I hadn’t had trouble getting in touch with them before.

My feeling grew more pronounced when I hadn’t heard back from them by the end of the

day. Karen checked in about eight, from Houston. She cheerfully chattered on about

how hot it was and how bad the traffic was, and I kidded her that neither was likely to

deter her from shopping while she was there. “If I have time…” she conceded.

“I’ll take that bet.”

“I bet you would,” she laughed. The phone connection was good, her voice sounding like

she was sitting right next to me, but I still felt every one of the two thousand miles that

physically separated us. She was in her element – in a luxury hotel, in a busy metropolis,

getting ready for a day of business wheeling and dealing. I could picture her in the

meetings, dressed to the nines and professionally managing any and all objections that the

prospect might try to throw out. It made me think about how little I’d accomplished

during the day; I felt bad because I didn’t feel worse about not having been more

productive when I’d had the chance. She was passing me by.

Once upon a time we’d have tied up the phone for a long time, maybe even flirted or

even had some phone sex. We could have been using the video. Instead, here we were

with this fragile audio connection, and having a hard time coming up with things to talk

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about. I felt a surge of affection for her; proud of her, nostalgic about the good times

we’d had, wanting her to be happy. I hadn’t fallen out of love with her, but I was

preparing myself to accept that being with me might no longer be what was best for her,

not what would make her the most happy.

With kind of a lump in my throat, I asked her, as casually as I could manage, whether

she’d heard from Tondo lately. There was only a slight pause, which most people might

have missed, before she responded. “You know, it has been a few days,” she admitted.

“Maybe he doesn’t like me any more.” She laughed again, this time at the ridiculousness

of such a notion, and I made myself laugh as well. Meanwhile, I was wondering: if

Tondo wasn’t talking to her, and he wasn’t talking to my candidates, and he wasn’t

talking to Karen – who was he talking to?

We made small talk for a few more minutes, and hung up.

I made it to the pool Tuesday morning. I was still sore but not enough to justify skipping

another workout. Carson was dutifully doing his laps, but Marty and Sue were standing

by the pool talking when I arrived, so I walked over to them. Sue was holding a

kickboard, which wasn’t typical for her. Her suit was colorful, and her cap matched it,

but her face looked a little wan. “What’s with the board, Sue?”

She made a faint smile. “Oh, feeling a little under the weather today, so I thought I might

take it a little easy today.”

“You’ll feel better once you get going,” Marty assured her jovially. I suggested that

perhaps she should just take the day off if she wasn’t feeling well, but Sue shook her head

and told us she was fine. “You forget I’m an old lady,” she reminded us with that same

faint smile.

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Just then Robyn emerged from the ladies locker room, so I waved her over. She hesitated

just for a half-second, then made her way over to us. I was struck again at how she

managed to make walking look like a disguise, hiding her grace and making her seem

smaller and less beautiful than she was. Gazelles probably had the same trick, trying to

make lions think they weren’t worth the chase in the African sun. We exchanged hellos.

Carson wandered over once he saw Robyn was with us.

“Well, I better get to it,” Sue said bravely, sighing heavily. I again urged her to not

overdo it, and she shook her head in mock exasperation. “I’ll be fine.” She walked over

to the far lane, sat down on the edge of the pool, and slipped in. She adjusted her swim

cap, steadied her board and started kicking, moving slowly down the lane.

Carson shook his head. “Seems like cheating, using the board like that. I’d never do

that.” He looked at Robyn. “I bet you wouldn’t either.”

Robyn looked over at Sue. “Actually, it’s a good part of a training program. Helps work

your legs more.” She looked back at us, and winked at me when Carson looked away for

a second in surprise. I wasn’t sure if she was teasing Carson or simply standing up for

Sue. Marty asked what kind of workout Robyn had planned, and Robyn did her best to

minimize it.

I was staying out of the conversation, just happy to stand there next to Robyn. I liked

seeing her in her sleek swimsuit, I liked watching her talk, and I liked just being with her.

I was thinking of things I might add to the conversation, just to prolong being with her a

little longer, even though it just delayed both of our workouts. Marty’s too, for that

matter, but I was pretty sure he didn’t mind. I felt a little guilty about delaying Robyn’s

swim, but I didn’t want to cut the conversation short either.

Had she not been there, I might have been paying more attention to Sue. Maybe if I’d

have been paying more attention, everything would have been different. That perhaps

wasn’t fair; had Robyn not been there, I might have just gotten in the pool myself and

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started my workout. Or maybe even if I’d noticed Sue immediately it still might have

been too late to help her. I’ll never know, and that was going to bother me for the rest of

my life. In any event, it took me longer than it should have to realize that the pool was

too quiet; I couldn’t hear sounds of Sue’s kicks, only the sound of Robyn and Marty’s

voices echoing off the water. I looked over to Sue’s lane and saw her floating on top of

her board, her legs not moving. I knew right away that it didn’t look right. “Sue, you all

right?” I called out. “Sue?”

Robyn and Marty stopped talking and turned their heads over to where I was looking.

“Sue?” Marty called out anxiously. Carson stood there dumbly. There was no response

to either of our calls; she just floated there, bobbing slightly as the pool’s waves pushed

her up and down. From that distance, I wasn’t sure if her head was in the water or just

near the water, but whatever she was doing, I didn’t like it.

I liked to believe I hit the water first, diving in and setting off as quickly as I could

towards her in the water, but I had to admit that Robyn beat me to her. I heard her dive

and saw her pass me underwater. She was holding Sue’s head up when I surfaced next to

her. “She’s not breathing,” Robyn said tersely.

“She’s not?” I repeated stupidly. I couldn’t believe something serious had happened.

She shook her head. “Quick, let’s get her out of the water,” I suggested, trying to fight

off the panic. I yelled at Carson to help, and out of the corner of my eye saw Marty take

off towards the lobby, presumably to get help.

By the time we’d managed to maneuver Sue’s inert body out of the pool, things had

started to happen. One of the club’s attendants arrived at a dead run. “What happened?”

he asked, kneeling next to us. Carson, Robyn and I stood in a small semi-circle around

her, Carson a half-step further away with a sick look on his face.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “We looked over and she was floating there.”

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“She’s not breathing,” he observed unnecessarily. He was a young guy, at most in his

twenties, and his expression was a mixture of panic and disbelief that this was happening

on his watch. He looked at us in hopes that we were going to help him. “Do you know

CPR? I had the training but it’s been a while.” Robyn told him that she did, and took a

position next to Sue. She started chest compressions while the attendant and I looked at

each other helplessly. Carson slipped back another half-step, his arms wrapped tightly

around his chest.

I’d be the first to admit that I wasn’t thinking very clearly at that moment, but as I

watched Robyn labor over Sue’s inert body I had one recurring thought: it should have

been me. If someone was going to die at this pool, I wanted it to be me. Sue had always

seemed like a happy, cheerful person, with lots to live for. For all I knew, she had a

family, gave lots of time to charity, was a regular churchgoer – all reasons to live. I was

ready to die, thought I wanted to die, yet it was her laying like a dead fish on the floor.

Life was not fair.

Within a couple more minutes we’d drawn a small crowd. A young man, maybe in his

mid-thirties and dressed for his workout, arrived and told us he was a doctor. He took

over from Robyn while he calmly asked us what had happened. I told him the same story

I’d told the attendant, which basically was that we didn’t know. “I think she’s had a heart

attack,” the doctor assessed. This didn’t appear to fluster him. This wasn’t his first time

seeing a non-responsive body. He managed to appear concerned and calm at the same

time.

“Will she be all right?” Robyn asked, breathing hard from her efforts. The doctor kept up

with his compressions, but managed to look up long enough to give us a small but

decisive shake of his head. Robyn and I looked at each other, hardly believing what was

happening.

Within ten minutes from our initially noticing Sue, the emergency squad had arrived, a

stocky middle-aged man and a stringy blond woman with a few visible tattoos. They

200


came at a controlled rush, pushing a stretcher in with them. Very professionally, they got

an update from the doctor. He stopped long enough for them to transfer her to the

stretcher, but I saw the look pass between them and I knew the prognosis wasn’t good.

The club’s attendant told them he’d get her purse and belongings from her locker and get

them to the hospital.

“I’ll meet you over there,” I volunteered, somewhat to everyone’s surprise, including my

own, and was surprised but pleased when Robyn offered to come along with me. I met

her in the lobby a few minutes later. I’d thrown on the sweats I’d come in, and Robyn

had elected to put on the jeans and top she must have come in, rather than changing to her

more normal work outfit. She was carrying both her bag and a second bag, which she

explained was Sue’s; the attendant had delegated to her getting Sue’s processions to the

hospital when he’d heard she was going to the hospital after all. “He did say he’d call the

emergency contact listed in her membership information,” she told me. “He didn’t know

who it was.”

Things didn’t get better at the hospital. It was still pretty early in the day, so the ER

wasn’t very busy, with only a couple people waiting in the waiting area. The ER looked

modern, with bright walls and several small waiting areas filled with indestructible

furniture, arrayed around a central triage desk. It came across as trying to look like a

hotel lobby, but came across more as the lobby in a nice high school. When Robyn and I

walked in I wondered if anyone else waiting would look at us and wonder which of us

was sick or hurt, of if we were there for another patient. I needn’t have bothered; there

were only two people there, a young mother and her very young daughter, and they didn’t

even look up at us. The mother held her daughter in her lap, stroking her hair gently

while keeping a close eye on the restricted access door, behind which I assumed were all

the doctors.

Since Robyn and I weren’t Sue’s family, we had a hard time getting anyone to give us

any information on her. We told the receptionist a brief version of her story, including

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the fact that we had Sue’s bag and wallet, and she told us to wait. So we took a seat in

the bland waiting area, sitting a discrete distance away from the young mother.

After about ten minutes a doctor emerged and headed towards us. “You’re with Sue

Martin?” He was another young guy not that long out of medical school or at least

residency. He seemed tired and had dark circles under his eyes. I wondered if his shift

was just beginning or if he’d been here all night. We confirmed that we’d come from the

health club with her. He shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry, she didn’t make it,” he told

us, running a hand threw his hair in frustration. “Massive coronary. There was nothing

you could have done.”

The news hit hard. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, given how she’d looked when we

last saw her, but somehow I wasn’t prepared for it. Television shows prepare us for

miracles, reviving even hopeless patients through the heroics of the doctors. They didn’t

do so well at acknowledging that sometimes people are too old or too hurt or too far

gone, that they die before anyone was ready. In my head I suddenly had a small future

scene of the same doctor telling Karen that I hadn’t made it, leaving her with the same

surprise I was feeling. I had to stop the scene before I got to the part of observing what

grief she might show.

“I didn’t even know she had a heart problem,” I said numbly. “She said she wasn’t

feeling well. That’s why she was using the board today.” The doctor tilted his head at

me, and I realized he didn’t know about the pool or the kickboard, but he didn’t ask for

clarification. It probably didn’t much matter; he had to move on to his next case. “She

was your…?” he asked.

We had to explain to him that we weren’t family, just knew her from the gym. Robyn

remembered to let him know we had her purse and her clothes, which flummoxed him for

a moment. After a moment of thought, he directed us to the admissions office. There

was an African-American woman manning the desk there who looked like she’d heard

every story, more than once. She listened to ours, and it was clear that it was by no

202


means the most unusual. “I’m sorry to hear about your loss,” she said at last. “I’ll have

the social worker come talk to you. She glanced at her computer screen, then eyed Sue’s

bag. A thought occurred to her. “I wonder if you’d mind filling out a few forms for your

friend,” she asked nonchalantly, like we were doing a favor for Sue rather than saving her

some work.

I almost passed on her suggestion, but Robyn took them and we went back to our chairs

to work on them, using the contents of her wallet to get the pertinent information. It was

like a little jigsaw puzzle, searching for pieces of information. We found her address, her

insurance information, and even numbers for a son and a daughter. Neither lived in town.

“Do you think the gym called them?” I asked about the latter.

“I don’t know,” she said. She thought for a moment. “Should we call them?”

I looked over at the admissions representative, who was intent on her computer. “I’m

sure they’ll call them,” I speculated. I knew I didn’t want to meet Sue’s family this way,

as the bearer of bad news on the phone. Robyn looked at me with big eyes. “I think they

should know.”

I nodded reluctantly, and took the forms over to the admissions person. She started

examining them quickly. “Excuse me – when will someone call her family?” I asked

tentatively. She stopped long enough to look up and explain that one of the social

workers would call, but she couldn’t tell me when that might be.

I went back and reported back to Robyn, who nodded unhappily. She sat there holding

Sue’s bag and looking decidedly unsettled. I thought about Sue, and her two children,

who right now were going about their business thinking their worlds were normal but

when, in fact, a huge hole had just been torn into them. I thought about Karen, wherever

she was. I should send her a text, I told myself, but didn’t. She didn’t really know Sue,

and it would be hard to explain why I was sitting in the ER for a person I’d only known

from brief encounters at the pool. It would be harder still to explain why I was sitting

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here with this young woman, of whom Karen knew nothing and with whom I’d enjoyed

several lunches. Of course, I didn’t have to include any of this information in my text,

but it felt like it would be disingenuous to omit it. So I simply waited.

The waiting area wasn’t as bad a place to wait as I might have expected, especially since

neither Robyn nor I was waiting for medical help. From the waiting room, I couldn’t

really see any action. The patient areas and the staff working on the patients were hidden

behind the closed door, so we just had the bland blue chairs and pale yellow walls for

company. The young mother and her daughter had been whisked away after a few

minutes, and there wasn’t a rush of other patients to replace them. An old man tottered in

after we’d been waiting ten minutes or so; he appeared to know the receptionist, and sat

in one of the chairs like he had all the time in the world. After ten minutes or so one of

the nurses brought a wheelchair out for him and took him back.

Robyn and I didn’t talk very much. I might have thought that would feel awkward, but

we were both probably still a little in shock. It felt oddly comfortable just sitting there

with her, knowing I was healthy while the building I was in was filled with the sick, the

injured, the dying and the dead. One of those dead people was someone I’d known, if not

well, and had even seen die, in a manner of speaking.

I didn’t have a clue what Robyn was thinking. She’d withdrawn behind that neutral

expression and guarded eyes, back to being the mystery woman she used to be and,

apparently, still was. I was thinking about the fact that, sadly enough, this wasn’t the first

time I’d been waiting in a hospital for someone I’d known who had died in it. It hadn’t

happened often, mind you, but over the years death happens to people you know. It

doesn’t ever get easy, thank goodness, but it does get easier, or at least more familiar. I’d

lost a friend as a teenager in a car crash – there had been underage drinking involved, of

course – and no death since then had hit me as hard as that had. We were young and

invincible, and then one of us wasn’t. You never recover from that realization. His death

hadn’t made the rest of us any more responsible, but it gave us a better story to tell

impressionable girls we wanted to sleep with.

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When one of my parents eventually dies, I expected that will ratchet up the pain level, but

as the oldest son I’ll be expected to behave responsibly and hold up. I felt a little the

same way sitting with Robyn. I didn’t know who had been her first direct exposure to the

fragility of life. Perhaps her father. I knew he had died but not any of the details. She

might have had a bedside vigil until he passed away, or it could have come quickly and

while she was far away. There was no way for me to read her expression; she was fairly

inscrutable under the best of circumstances, and especially so now, oddly enough. So I

tried to maintain a somber and composed demeanor as well, although it was tough to

bluff it out as well as she was.

I wondered what other people in the emergency room thought of us. We didn’t seem

worried, anxious or upset, like people waiting for care, or families waiting for them. We

clearly didn’t work there. I doubted that we looked like a couple, and as that thought

occurred to me two related thoughts immediately came to mind. One was why I doubted

they wouldn’t; there certainly were more unlikely looking couples in the world. The

other was why I was wondering about that here, in a hospital emergency room waiting

area, instead of during our times at the food court. I speculated it was because places like

this tended to draw people together, making emotional ties closer, if only temporarily, yet

I suspected it was obvious to any bystanders that there was a distance between us. Not an

angry distance, not even a cold distance, but a distance. And I found myself wishing it

wasn’t there. I didn’t need or want comforting, but, right then, in those cold, hard chairs,

I longed to have more of a connection with this woman I barely knew.

It ended up being almost forty minutes before the social worker appeared. She was a

chipper woman in her late thirties or early forties. Her hair was brown and down to her

shoulders, although held back from her face by a headband. She wasn’t pretty but she

had a kind look about her. She introduced herself as Linda Taves. “You are the ones

who came with Sue Martin?” she asked.

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We nodded, and repeated about having been at the health club with her. Robyn handed

her Sue’s bag. “Sue’s stuff is here, including her purse and her phone,” Robyn told her,

holding on to the bag for a long moment after Linda had taken hold of it, as though

letting go meant saying goodbye forever to Sue, which wasn’t far wrong.

“She has an address book,” I added. “Plus her phone has the numbers for her kids. Do

they know yet?”

Linda seemed sad about this. “We haven’t called them yet, since we didn’t have the

information,” she admitted. She took a deep breath and smiled apologetically. “I’ll call

them in a few minutes.” She held on to the bag more tightly.

What a terrible job, I thought. You’re with the families of dead people every day, or

called them to break the news. As bad as doing that for someone like Sue must be, I

couldn’t imagine how terrible it would be to do for young children or teenagers, crushing

their parents’ hopes forever. It was impossible to imagine surviving that, yet people did.

I found myself thinking how hard it might be on my parents if I died before they did. I

didn’t want to wait, but there was no telling how much longer than might live, giving me

mixed incentives. I shook my head involuntarily, just a small movement that I hoped

neither of the women noticed. They’d survive it; other parents had, parents of much

younger children. People were braver than I was, I thought ruefully to myself.

We watched Linda walk away, not envying the conversations she was to have. After she

disappeared out of our view, we turned and walked out of the emergency room, going to

the parking lot, walking more slowly than necessary. Robyn paused before her car,

holding her keys in her hand. She looked at the car, then at the parking lot around us, and

finally down to the ground. She sighed.

“Tough way to start the day, huh?” I said sympathetically.

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Robyn nodded and tried a small smile. She seemed lost in thought about something.

Maybe she truly felt bad for Sue, or maybe she was remembering her father’s death,

which made me feel even worse for her. Either way, she seemed vulnerable. She looked

at me and I was struck anew by how pretty she was, and at how fragile she seemed at this

moment. “I don’t feel much like going to work today,” she declared at last, seeming

slightly surprised by her own words. “Would you – would you mind terribly if we hung

out some?”

Chapter 34

Alarm bells went off in my head. This is not a good idea, I told myself immediately. I

admonished myself that I should gently brush Robyn off, telling myself she was just

upset by the shock of Sue’s death – she’d done CPR on her dead body, for heaven’s sake

– and didn’t know what she was saying. I reminded myself that I was a married man, and

that I had work to do. There was no way I should agree to her proposal. “No, I don’t

mind,” I said instead, hardly believing the words coming out of my mouth. “I don’t mind

at all.”

I couldn’t really explain why I said that. I didn’t really know Robyn that well, and

certainly hadn’t been expecting to expand our relationship beyond the narrow confines of

our pool and food court boundaries. It had been a long time since I’d last pursued a

woman other than Karen, or had anyone pursue me. At this point, I didn’t seriously think

Robyn had any intentions of actually pursuing me, but her suggesting that we spend the

day together was clearly something way beyond our normal boundaries. But, truth be

told, I didn’t have that much work to do, Karen was far away and feeling even further

away, and there was something about Robyn that just intrigued me. What had been a

pretty gloomy day so far suddenly had a ray of sunlight. Maybe I could explain why I’d

agreed after all.

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Robyn seemed almost as surprised as I felt, but a wave of relief and, I dared think,

pleasure swept over her face. It made her more beautiful than ever, which made me feel

all the more guilty about our proposed day ahead. I was too committed by now to let that

deter me. Robyn wanted to go back to the gym to do her swim, but I told her I was out of

the swimming mood. “I can’t go back to my house,” she told me apologetically, not

needing to explain. Her home meant her mother, and I speculated that she neither wanted

to explain to her nor end up spending more time with her. I suggested we meet at the

mall. She thought for a moment, not making eye contact. Finally she looked back at me.

“I’m not sure they’d be open by then,” she replied, shifting her weight uneasily. She still

wouldn’t meet my eyes.

I was slow. Maybe I was out of practice, maybe I was still too stunned by Sue’s death, or

maybe I just didn’t believe she might be leading to the conclusion I was slowly coming

to. “You could come to my house,” I offered meekly.

She looked up at me quickly. “You don’t mind?”

The alarm bells went off loudly again. Nothing was going to happen, I told myself. I

was a faithful husband, I was much too old for her, and she wasn’t the kind of girl who

might make advances. We would be perfectly safe even at my house. Karen had nothing

to worry about; I had nothing to feel guilty about. But I already did.

Robyn asked for directions, but instead I asked her for her phone. She was puzzled, but

complied. I found the entry I’d made for my mobile number in her contact list, then

added my home address, plus my email address for good measure. I then showed her

how she could use the map function to get to my house from wherever she was. “That is

so cool!” she gushed, holding the phone in front of her and marveling at the screen. She

put the phone away and asked if it was all right for her to come by in about an hour and a

half, giving her time to swim, clean up, and drive there. I assured her it would be fine, to

just come when she was ready.

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Of course, as soon as she drove off I headed home and started straightening up. We had a

maid that came in once a week, so nothing was in too bad a shape. Still, I wanted to

make a good impression, so I cleaned up some errant newspapers and old mail, made sure

the bathrooms were decent, and made the bed. As I moved through the house, I kept

wondering what she would think. Would she just be struck by Karen’s presence – in the

way it was decorated, by the pictures of her and of us that were scattered about, or

perhaps by her scent? I couldn’t be there without being reminded both of Karen’s

presence and, when she was away, by her absence, but I was having trouble imagining

what the house would look like from Robyn’s eyes.

I finished up my tidying, such as it was; intermittent wandering probably described it

better. I went into my study and booted up my computer. I checked my new emails –

deleting most, replying to a few easy ones, and saving the rest for sometime when I

wasn’t so distracted. Which I was.

Checking my watch to make sure I had time before Robyn might arrive, I sent Karen a

text, telling her that one of the swimmers from the club had died. Somewhat to my

surprise, she called back almost immediately. “What happened?” she asked, concern in

her voice. “Are you all right?”

I assured her I was fine, that Sue had just had a coronary. “They gave her CPR right

there, and the ambulance arrived pretty quickly, but she was already gone.”

“Terrible,” she exclaimed. “Just terrible.”

Somehow I didn’t volunteer that I’d gone to the hospital, or that I’d been accompanied

there by a beautiful young woman. And I most definitely didn’t mention that the young

woman was coming to my house – our house, I reminded myself – in a few minutes. I

could explain everything, and Karen wasn’t the jealous type, but explaining seemed like

more effort and more risk than I felt up for.

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Karen asked about Sue’s family, and I told her what little I knew. She asked if I would

go to the funeral, which, frankly, I didn’t given any thought to. I told her I didn’t know,

maybe if some of the other swimmers went – already wondering if Robyn would go.

“Well, not a good way to begin the day,” she concluded. “What’s the rest of your day

like?”

I casually told her I thought I would take it easy the rest of the day, and Karen told me

she thought that was a good idea, even though I doubted she would do the same in similar

circumstances. She would take off work if it was me laying in the hospital’s morgue, I

was sure, but I didn’t want to place a bet about how long she’d stay away. Or whether

she’d stop checking her emails.

We chatted for another couple minutes, and she asked if I was sure I was OK. I assured

her I was, which I supposed wasn’t entirely true, and she seemed to hesitate as she

considered whether to believe me or not. In the end, she acceded, and said she needed to

get going. She told me she loved me and I reciprocated, feeling guilty.

Robyn arrived about twenty minutes after my call with Karen. She rang the doorbell and

I opened the door for her. She stood outside awkwardly. She had on the same jeans and

top she’d worn to the hospital, but her hair was still damp and pulled back. Her face

looked rosy from her workout, and that made her seem even younger and more innocent.

“I’m used to seeing you dressed for work,” I noted, ushering her inside. “Please come

in.”

She seemed embarrassed. “I thought this would be more comfortable,” she replied. “Is it

all right?” I’d put on a pair of khakis and a polo shirt myself, so I assured her she was

fine. We stood in the entryway, nervous like a couple of teenagers. Instead of feeling at

home, I felt like an intruder myself. Robyn looked around at the rooms she could see

from there. “You have a very nice home,” she offered politely.

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“Want the grand tour?”

She nodded, and I walked her around, hitting the highlights, skipping the master

bedroom, and ending up at my study. “This is my study,” I explained. “This is where I

work.” Robyn looked around the room. Her expression had been reserved on the rest of

the tour, appearing interested but distant, like she was on a home show tour –

appreciating what she was seeing but not imagining herself in a house like this. It made

me wonder what her house was like, or how she’d react if I took her to a really nice

house, like Trevor’s. In my study, though, her face softened. “I like it,” she declared. “I

can see you working here.” She smiled softly.

I wasn’t quite sure if that meant she’d tried to imagine me working, or if she was being

polite, but I nodded at her comment. She looked at the couch and the HDTV. “Are you

sure all you do here is work?” she asked dryly. I admitted that I tended to spend my

spare time here, especially when my wife was out of town.

Bringing up Karen, even if not by name, might not have been the greatest idea, albeit a

necessary one. A cloud passed over her face. “Your wife,” she said, involuntarily

looking around, as if Karen might leap out at her. “Is she at work?”

I explained that Karen was on the road, and that was the typical status for her. I didn’t

quite say it, or mean to imply it, but it would not have been unreasonable for her to infer

some degree of dissatisfaction with that state of affairs. She might have let a puzzled

expression pass across her face, then she slipped back into a bland expression that

revealed nothing. It occurred to me to wonder what she’d thought when she had

suggested coming to my house; was she expecting Karen to be home, or away? Was she

even more innocent than I gave her credit for, or even smarter?

Robyn and I stood there uncertainly. The mention of Karen seemed to make her feel

more awkward about being there with me, and I had to say I was feeling a little more

uncomfortable myself. It occurred to me that we really hadn’t thought this through, or at

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least I hadn’t. What to do with her for a whole day? It was one thing to watch her swim,

another to make small talk for a half hour or so while eating lunch, but it wasn’t even ten

o’clock and I suddenly feared not knowing what to do next. Staying here all of a sudden

seemed problematic. For lack of better ideas, I asked her what she would normally do on

a day off.

She shrugged. “Usually I don’t take days off,” she told me. “Unless mom has a doctor’s

appointment or something.”

“Vacations?”

“Mom doesn’t really like to travel,” she said, with no expression. “Except sometimes we

go to see her brother, in Charlotte.” Something gave me the impression she didn’t much

care for her uncle.

I gestured for her to take a seat, and with some small reluctance she took a seat on the

couch. I almost sat down next to her there, but it felt too oddly intimate, so I sat on my

desk chair and turned around to face her. “Don’t tell me you don’t like to go shopping.

I’ve seen your wardrobe.”

She allowed a faint smile to cross her face. “Usually I do that during lunch, or sometimes

before I go home from work.” She smiled again, this time modestly. “I’m a quick

shopper.”

“That makes one woman I know,” I replied with a straight face. She didn’t smile, so

either she didn’t see the humor or was just matching my own expression.

We talked about our respective jobs, as that seemed the safest topic. I got the feeling she

took pride in her work and probably was a perfectionist, which might not make her

popular with her subordinates. Still, I didn’t think that she was much inspired by her

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work. I was sure she put in a hard day’s work, but it didn’t seem to be her dream job, nor

part of a clear career path. It was a way to pay the bills.

She was more interested in my job. She didn’t let me dismiss it as just talking to people

on the phone all day, and managed to draw me out about the kinds of people and

companies who hired me. Over the years, I’d accumulated a few good anecdotes – bad

candidates, failed match-ups, unintended consequences, and so on – and shared a few

with her. She was appalled at the story of one candidate who’d brought his three year old

to an interview with me – we spent more time trying to keep him entertained than talking

about the position I was recruiting for – but liked the story of a young guy I’d gone out

on a limb for a CIO position in a bio-tech start-up that had gone on to do a very

successful IPO. He was now a multi-millionaire and had never forgotten the push I’d

given his career. “He sends a nice Christmas present every year,” I noted with a fond

smile. “And he’s given me several assignments over the years.

“As well he should,” Robyn replied. I shrugged, and didn’t mention that he had recently

turned to philanthropy, which pretty much ended the likelihood of future assignments.

Oh, well; his had been a great placement, one that I’d fought hard for because I saw

something in him, and I had been right. It was the kind of success that made my job

rewarding.

Robyn was a good listener, watching me with those big eyes and apparently undivided

attention, and it took me a while to realize she was learning a lot more about me than I

was her. I didn’t have an agenda about that, but it made me wonder what hers was.

When conversation lagged, I suggested some television, which she agreed to. I asked

what kind of movies she liked, and she shrugged. “If it’s on Hallmark or Lifetime, I

might have seen it.” She flashed a conspiratorial smile. “Those are channels Mom

approves of. You pick something.” I felt a great responsibility, not wanting to ruin what

might be my one chance to introduce her to something she might not otherwise see. I

considered “The Godfather,” of course, but thought it not quite the right thing for the day.

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I also thought about “Blade Runner” or “Pulp Fiction,” but I wasn’t sure unique appeal of

either would fit her taste. In the end I suggested with one of my favorite directors,

Michael Mann, and suggested “The Last of the Mohicans” – spellbinding scenery, great

action, and a love story at heart. I pulled up my Netflix account on the TV screen and

found the write-up for the movie. She read over it, her face thoughtful. “Sure.” I started

streaming the movie.

Robyn watched it with rapt interest. We didn’t talk much during the movie, although at

several points I couldn’t restrain myself from warning her when a particularly good scene

was coming up. She took my kibitzing with great tolerance. “That was wonderful,” she

exclaimed when it was over. “Very exciting.”

“It is pretty good,” I admitted with some satisfaction. “Who’d have thought Daniel Day-

Lewis made for an action star?”

“I’ve heard of him but I’d never seen him in anything before,” Robyn replied. “He was

really good.” I quickly rattled off a few other movies he’d been in, none of which

appeared to have been shown on Lifetime, judging by her reactions. “Perhaps we could

see some of his other movies sometime,” she suggested shyly. I was already plotting out

a full film curriculum for her, so I nodded, realizing too late what a time commitment I’d

be agreeing to. It was past noon, so I proposed we have some lunch. She suggested our

usual haunt, but that seemed too mundane for the current circumstances. “How about

someplace downtown?”

“Downtown Cary?”

“Downtown Raleigh,” I corrected her with a smile.

Robyn seemed dubious. “I don’t really know many restaurants there, other than around

Meredith.”

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I stood up. “C’mon, I’ll drive. You can tell me what kind of food you want on the way.”

Lunch was at The Mint, to which she had never been. She was suitably impressed, and I

kind of enjoyed showing off that I’d been there before. It wasn’t that I was a regular or

that the staff recognized me, but her bar was lower than that; it was enough that I knew

where it was and got us a table. She had the Asian Pear Salad, with the salmon. I asked

our waitress her opinion about the open faced grilled cheese sandwich, with tomato soup,

versus the Reuben, and opted for the former on her recommendation. I asked her how

long she’d been working there, which turned into a short but interesting discussion about

the difficulty of waitressing while going to school full-time, in her case UNC. I didn’t

know if she was building her case for a sympathetic tip, or if she thought I was a kindly

old man, but I listened with genuine interest, noticing that Robyn watched our exchange

with interest – without joining in.

Our waitress bustled away with our order, beaming, and when it came time to serve the

food she delivered it with great enthusiasm. I thanked her and got a big smile in return.

It was more relaxing being there than at my house; eating together was something we had

more of a routine for, even if not in such nice surroundings. The restaurant was

pleasantly crowded, and we were among the more casually dressed patrons, although no

one seemed to mind. I scanned the room quickly, not really expecting to see anyone I

knew and not finding anyone. I had to admit that I was vaguely relieved, even though I

assured myself I had nothing to feel guilty about. I just didn’t want to have to explain, to

them or to Karen.

She popped back a few minutes later to get my reaction to her recommendation, and was

pleased when I told her how delicious it was. .

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“You always talk to waitresses like that?” Robyn asked. I couldn’t tell if she was

amused, curious, or disapproving, but she looked at me with great interest. I shrugged.

“I like to hear people’s stories. They interest me.”

“Is that why you talked to me?” Robyn gave me a deadpan look.

“Hmm, why do I feel there’s not a good answer to that?” I said lightly. “I was interested

in you. I am interested in your life.” I shrugged and glanced briefly at our waitress, now

taking an order at another table. “If she swam like you maybe I’d be having lunch with

her.”

That got a quick laugh from Robyn, and the tension eased. We returned our attention to

our meals, which were, indeed, good. After a time, we talked a little about Sue. “I

wonder how her kids are doing,” I wondered aloud. Robyn kept her expression neutral.

“I’m sure it’s hard for them.”

I thought back the pool, and the memory of her doing CPR on Sue’s body. “Was it hard

for you to, you know, touch her body?” I asked softly.

She looked down, and put her fork down as well. “I don’t know.” She was quiet for a

moment, lost in memory. “I didn’t know she was dead, not then,” she confessed at last.

She looked up with a hint of apology on her face. “Not for sure, anyway.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I simply nodded.

“I think about it sometimes, you know,” she said, looking away. She stared out the

window.

I was confused. “About what?”

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She took a deep breath, and shook her head before looking back at me with another

apologetic smile. “About finding my mother like that.”

I was shocked; that had never occurred to me. “Oh, I’m so sorry – I didn’t even think of

that.”

Robyn gave me a knowing look. “That’s why I know CPR, you know.”

“Sure, sure,” I agreed, watching her. She looked out the window again. “Is your mother

not well?” I recalled she mentioned taking her mother to doctor’s appointments.

She let a single laugh escape. “Depends on who you ask. Her doctors think she’ll live a

long life, but she’s sure they’re wrong.”

I thought back to how she’d told me she’d moved in with her mother years ago, and had

gone to college nearby even though it offered her no way to continue her swimming

career. “This been going on for a long time?”

She smiled at me, a sad smile but grateful that I was following what she wasn’t explicitly

saying. “It’s been going on for a while,” she confirmed, a resigned look on her face. She

picked up her fork again and started picking at her salad again. I turned back to the

remains of my sandwich, and we finished our meals in relative quiet.

We did Act III of our hooky day by hitting an afternoon movie at the mall. We were

walking to my car after lunch. I was thinking I’d had a nice time with her, but figured it

was coming to an end. She probably had things to do, and I knew I should get to work.

Much to my surprise, Robyn had different ideas. “I don’t really get to go to too many

movies,” she announced, appros of nothing.

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“What do you mean?” I asked, wondering if she was referencing the one we’d seen

earlier.

“I mean at the theaters. My mother doesn’t like to go out,” Robyn continued, “except

maybe to the grocery store or sometimes to the mall. She never wants to see movies in

theaters, doesn’t think it’s safe. She’d rather watch television.”

“OK…”

Robyn smiled at me. “But I don’t like to go to movies by myself -- my mother wouldn’t

think that was proper. So I never get to go.” She stopped walking and looked at me,

evidently expecting me to follow her line of thought.

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with seeing movies by yourself,” I allowed judiciously.

“As long as you are careful, of course.” I still didn’t know what she was getting at.

“Of course,” Robyn agreed. “I know we already saw one movie today, but I was kind of

hoping you might want to go to one now, if you’re not too busy. I know I’m keeping you

from working.” I managed to cover my surprise, and my pleasure at her wanting to spend

more time with me. Trying not to appear too eager, I assured her that I had blocked off

the rest of the day, and when we got to my car I showed her how to use the Fandango app

on her phone to check movie times and locations. She was suitably impressed, and

picked a romantic comedy, PG-13 rated, of course.

The movie was moderately funny, fairly predictable, and ultimately satisfying. The

lovers met cute, fell in love, had a comic misunderstanding that drove them apart, then

managed to get back together due to the machinations of their friends and to their mutual

recognition that neither was going to be happy without the other. At no point was I ever

in real doubt what would happen next, but I found myself rooting for them nonetheless.

The leading lady was adorable, and the man was goofy yet sweet. Both were a few years

younger than Robyn, and young enough to have been my children, I realized sadly.

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We had the theater mostly to ourselves. Mid-afternoon during the week in the fall is not

a peak movie-going time. There were maybe five other people there – an older couple,

two women who appeared in their fifties, and a man of indeterminate age sitting far in the

back by himself. I figured the first four were taking advantage of the bargain fares, while

the man was maybe unemployed and just trying to fill his days.

I surreptitiously watched Robyn watch the movie whenever possible. She watched it

almost like a child – the experience evidently was rare enough that the immersion in the

story that the dark theater and big screen offered swept her away. It made her seem even

more innocent than usual, and towards the end I thought I saw her eyes water at some of

the crucial moments. She reminded me a little of the leading lady, except for the fact that

Robyn was missing finding her chance at love. It made me sad.

“Did you like it?” I asked needlessly as we left the theater.

“It was good,” she allowed. “I mean, they were kind of silly about everything, but

everything worked out in the end.”

“If only real life was like that,” I teased.

“If only…” she replied, sounding more wistful than anything else. I wondered what love

stories she might have experienced, what mental models for successful ones that she

might have, and found myself afraid she might not have either. We walked a few more

steps before Robyn added, “mother would never let me watch that at home, of course.”

I thought back to the movie, reviewing what Robyn’s mother might have found

objectionable. There had been moderate swearing, implied nudity, but neither out of the

norm. “Why not?”

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“Well,” she answered in mock surprise. “They had sex. And they weren’t even

married!” I was left to wonder if her mother also disapproved of the suggestion of sex

between couples even if they were married.

I halted outside the theater. “What now?” I asked. “Do you want to hang out here a

while, maybe get some dinner?”

Robyn looked at her watch, more to confirm what time she knew it must be than to find

out what time it was. “I don’t think so. Mother will be expecting me soon.” She gave

me a rueful smile. I nodded and we walked to my car, then I drove us back to my house.

The ride there was largely quiet.

I pulled in my driveway and we got out. We walked over to her car. “I’m sorry we can’t

have dinner,” she told me, holding her car keys in her hand and looking away. “I would

have enjoyed it.”

“My loss,” I agreed gallantly. “Maybe some other time.”

“Maybe,” she said forlornly, without any real expectation or hope to her tone. She

looked at her car, then at my house. Robyn seemed reluctant to go, but too guilty to stay.

Getting in the car meant going back to her normal life, and to her mother. She smiled

bravely at me, although her eyes were anything but smiling. “Your wife probably

wouldn’t like it.”

I shrugged. “My wife trusts me.” I sounded more confident than I felt.

Robyn nodded sagely, not expecting to be the object of amorous intentions. “Should

she?” she asked softly after a beat.

I was surprised, and ran my hand over my head. I didn’t get the impression she was

referring to herself. “She’s never had a reason not to.” She seemed to accept that,

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without necessarily being convinced. She unlocked her car and sat inside. “I had a nice

day,” she told me, staring ahead through her windshield. She turned her head and looked

at me. “I really did.” Her expression was almost fierce, like it was very important that I

understand and believe her.

“Me too,” I agreed. “Although it got off to kind of a bad start.”

Her face fell a little at the reminder of Sue’s death. She put a hand to her face. “I let

myself stop thinking about that. It doesn’t seem fair to Sue.”

I smiled wanly at her. “I think Sue would be happy that you had a good day,” I told her

gently. “And maybe she was ready to die.”

Robyn seemed taken aback at the concept. I had the impression that her mother was the

kind of person who would keep holding on for dear life, regardless of the impact on those

around her. “Do you really think so?”

The day sort of caught up to me then, the day and all the days leading up to it. I thought

about all the ways I’d thought about dying, and about my chagrin that Sue had managed

to achieve the quick, painless death I thought I wanted. As a result, I didn’t choose my

words carefully enough. I shouldn’t have said what I did, and she shouldn’t have been

the person I’d say it to if I did. But I did and she was. “I don’t know. I just know I am.”

Chapter 35

The phone woke me up later that night. I was dreaming, walking through some woods

and certain someone or something was following me. The underbrush was very thick and

I couldn’t see very far, but I was convinced that I was being tracked. I walked as quietly

as I could but it was impossible to make headway without making noise. There should

have been sounds of birds or insects but the forest was deadly silent, as if aware of the

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hunt. Every so often I’d hear a noise made, I assumed, by whatever was pursuing me.

I’d freeze, listen intently, but my stalker was too good.

It wasn’t so much that I was afraid for my life as it was that I was frustrated that I

couldn’t figure out from where or from what the attack might come. I knew I could be

totally caught by surprise, either find myself suddenly facing my would-be killer or

caught unawares from behind. It didn’t seem fair; I wanted a chance to be ready, maybe

even defend myself. It wasn’t death that scared me; it was my helplessness at

confronting it.

“Hello,” I said dully, picking up my phone after finally realizing that the noises were not

part of my dream but were, in fact, Karen’s ringtones.

“I was getting worried about you,” Karen told me, sounding serious. “I thought it was

going to go to voice mail.”

“I fell asleep,” I explained. I was on the couch in my study, and the television was on. I

quickly muted it; an old movie was on. I remembered that I’d sat down to watch a Paul

Newman movie on TCM around nine, but this movie had actors I didn’t recognize.

Looking at the clock, I saw that it was almost eleven thirty.

“I’d sent you a couple text messages and you didn’t reply. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to

wake you up.”

“Sorry about that,” I apologized. I quickly checked her texts, which explained she’d try

to call later but she was thinking of me. “Where are you?”

She explained that she was in San Francisco, had had meetings in the afternoon and had

just gotten back from dinner. For her, that was an early evening. “I wanted to see how

you were doing before I went to bed.”

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I had to admit I was still kind of groggy, but wasn’t sure why she would be bothered by

that. Then I remembered the eventful morning I’d had, and decided that was the more

likely concern. “I’m all right.”

“Any more…news?” she asked delicately.

“No, no, not really. It will probably be a day or two before there’s arrangements or an

obituary. I don’t think her kids are local.”

She asked if I’d thought any more about going to the funeral, and I hesitated before

replying. In truth, I didn’t know Sue very well, certainly had never met her friends or

family or done anything with her outside the club. “I still don’t know,” I replied at last.

She considered this, and the conversation paused. The connection was good, with just a

hint of background noise. She could have been next door, but somehow she sounded

every bit of the three thousand miles away she physically was. “What did you do the rest

of the day?” she asked at last. “Did you take it easy after all?”

“Is this like the old joke about Mrs. Lincoln?” I quipped mildly. “You know – aside from

the play, how was your evening, Mrs. Lincoln?”

“Ha-ha,” she said, trying to sound stern but a hint of amusement peeked through. “No,

seriously?”

I told her that I’d had lunch out and saw a movie. “A movie? During a weekday? That

is unusual for you!” She asked what I’d seen, and when I told her there was another

pause as she processed the answer. The movie was something Robyn had suggested, not

anything I’d normally have opted for on my own and something that I would have agreed

to go to with Karen only in return for some other concession. “I see,” she said, although

her tone suggested that perhaps she didn’t, not at all. “Feeling romantic?”

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“Maybe I was in shock,” I suggested meekly. “It wasn’t so bad.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Karen was quiet again, and the distance between us seemed to

lengthen. She took a deep breath. “You doing OK?”

I took stock before answering. The lights in the study were dim, and the flickering of the

television screen illuminated the room in odd bluish tones. I could have turned off the

television but then the house would have seemed even more dark and empty. On the

screen, a man and a woman were talking very dramatically. Maybe they were in love or

maybe they were in trouble, or maybe both. In the movies one seems to come with the

others. “I’m all right. It was just kind of a surprise. Not the way I like to start my days.”

Karen agreed in a subdued voice, and there was another long pause before she spoke

again. “I was thinking all day – what if I’d gotten a call like that, about you?” Her voice

sounded uncharacteristically shaky.

I immediately felt guilty; if she only knew how often I imagined ways I might die,

resulting in exactly that kind of call. “Don’t think like that,” I demurred. I stood up and

went over to my desk, leaving the television to make its case to the empty couch. I pulled

out a pad of paper and a pen, and idly started to draw some lines.

“I didn’t like thinking about something happening to you, especially with me so far

away,” Karen confessed. “Who would you call if something did happen to you?”

I tried to make light of her question. “Well, if I died, I wouldn’t call anyone.” It was a

mistake; she exhaled heavily and I could tell I’d hurt her somehow. “I mean, what if you

got really sick or hurt or something,” she persisted. “Not dead.”

I told her that I hadn’t given this a lot of thought, not wanting her to know I thought about

this kind of thing way too often. “I don’t know,” I admitted grudgingly. “Maybe

Trevor.” It occurred to me that this might come as a surprise to Trevor.

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“He’d be good,” Karen agreed thoughtfully. “I’m sure he’d contact me.” She sounded

comforted by Trevor’s potential involvement.

“I’m sure he would.”

There was another protracted silence. I tried to imagine her in her hotel room. I pictured

the lights being on. Her suitcase would be open, with her clothes neatly put away or

hung up. Since she’d just returned from dinner, she might still be in her business attire,

although she’d have taken her shoes off and put them in the closet. Maybe she’d changed

into her travel pajamas or a robe before she called; that made for a more intriguing mental

image. It was early yet in San Francisco; in theory, she could be going out again after she

talked to me, especially if she did, indeed, have a lover and he had managed to be in San

Francisco with her. But tonight I didn’t believe she was just checking off her wifely

phone call before screwing some stud. Tonight I believed she still loved me and was

worried about me. So, tonight I thought of her in the robe, and it made me smile a little.

“Do you ever worry about me while I’m away?” Karen asked softly.

That surprised me more than anything else she’d said so far. I wasn’t sure if she was

expressing vulnerability or reciprocity. “Not really,” I admitted, trying for a light tone

and mostly succeeding. “Hard to imagine anything happening to you. I think even

tornados would be afraid to take you on. An earthquake would level every building

except for the one you were in. You’d surf on the top of a tidal wave --”

“Oh, stop it,” she protested with a laugh, regaining most of her normal cheer.

“No, I mean it,” I told her seriously. Oddly enough, I did mean it. In all my thoughts

about dying early, it never occurred to me that something might happen to Karen first,

leaving me alive and alone. In all her travels, all the plane rides, different cities, various

strangers – all the various risks she was exposed to; I never really worried about Karen.

Men are supposed to be protective of their women, and I’d been that way about other

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women in my life, but there never had been a point in being that way with Karen. She’d

already had her traveling lifestyle when I first met her, and her fearlessness and aura of

invincibility were, quite honestly, two of the things that had attracted me to her -- and still

did. Still, it marked a difference between us, one that I was only recently becoming

aware of. She was a survivor, in a way I wasn’t and could never be. I shook my head.

“You’re a force of nature.”

The lines in my doodle had coalesced into two boxes, on opposite sides of the page. I

started filling in the bottom of the page with curvy lines.

“I’m glad you think so,” she told me. I could almost hear her mentally shift gears. “Hey

– any word from Tondo or Patrick?”

I had to force myself to make the same shift. “Um, I don’t think so. I might have gotten

a little behind in my voice mails and emails today, but I don’t think I missed any from

them. I’ll check in with them tomorrow.”

“Yeah, that’d be good.” Karen sounded very nonchalant, and I thought it was too much

so. There was something she wasn’t telling me. I couldn’t have explained how I knew,

but I knew. “Anything going on?” I asked cautiously, filling in the stream at the bottom

of my drawing. One box was floating in it. I started to add a building, a tall building,

around the other box.

“You know, I want to see how far they’re going to take this AD DX thing.”

“Have you decided what you want to do?” I asked, trying to sound calm, as if whatever

decision she made wouldn’t make any difference to me.

“Not yet,” she said equally casually. “The thing is…I may have some other options.”

“Other options?” I repeated stupidly.

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“Well, you know, I mentioned to a few people that I was thinking about this job, and

once word got out that I was open to changing jobs I got some feelers.”

I shouldn’t have been surprised – what she was describing happened all the time – but it

was a wrinkle I hadn’t considered. Once someone like her went on the job market a

feeding frenzy followed. She might not take the AD DX job, but it was almost certain

now that she’d take some new job, somewhere. Our comfortable life here together

wasn’t just tearing, it was ripping. “Of course.”

“I had dinner with some folks tonight,” she allowed, and proceeded to tell me a few of

the details. I knew one of the people she’d met with, and knew his company, but they

weren’t people I’d ever worked with. They were a very credible company and the

position she briefly described sounded like something she would find interesting. It

wasn’t clearly better than the AD DX job – both had pros and cons – but it wasn’t clearly

worse either.

“And you’re considering this?” I concluded when she finished telling me about her

discussion.

“Sure. Why not?”

“It’d be out there, I assume.”

Karen paused. “Yes, it would. But maybe a little less travel.”

That would mean even less chance of doing the job remotely, from here. She was going

to move, I knew, one way or the other, and I told myself that meant either with or without

me. Neither was something I wanted. The silence on the phone sounded even further

than three thousand miles away. “Well, I’ll talk to Tondo or Patrick tomorrow, and let

you know what they say. Keep me informed about this other thing.”

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Karen assured me that she would, and said she should let me get to bed. It was well past

midnight now. I was tired and had been sleeping not that long before, but I didn’t want to

let Karen go, not quite yet. I thought about suggesting we go to video, just to see her

face, but I wasn’t quite sure what she’d see in my face. Longing, resignation, a little guilt

– all things that it seemed better for her to suspect than to see. “Where’d you go for

dinner?” I asked instead.

Video or not, I could almost see the surprise on Karen’s face; it was unlike me to ask for

that kind of detail. But she answered anyway, telling me about the restaurant, what she

had, even the kind of other people she saw there. It was an expensive place, but, it being

San Francisco and all, there had been some colorful eccentrics in the place, whom Karen

took great pleasure in describing to me. It made me smile. “Remember that little place

we ate in on our honeymoon?” I asked, thinking back fondly.

It had been a hole in the wall Chinese place just outside Chinatown. They served the

greatest potstickers I’d ever had, and we were convinced that the chicken dishes we both

ordered came from a chicken that we’d heard squawking in the back earlier. We were the

only people in the restaurant who didn’t speak Chinese, and we were convinced everyone

else was talking about us, which encouraged us to invent whispered stories about who

they were and why they might be interested in us. We could barely contain our laughter,

which served to actually attract attention from those other patrons, creating a feedback

loop that eventually caused us to spill out onto the street practically in tears from our

laughing so hard.

“I still feel bad for that chicken,” Karen said.

“I still want to know if that Chinese intelligence agent ever caught the dissident

intellectual.”

“Probably the undercover FBI agent arrested the spy.”

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We both laughed, easing the current tension and making me smile.

We’d taken a ten day honeymoon, starting and ending in San Francisco with a tour of the

wine country in Napa in between. It had been a great trip. Traveling with Karen was still

new to me, and I still recalled the awe I’d felt in watching her everywhere we went – so

beautiful, so effervescent, the belle of every ball, and everyplace we went turned into a

ball. It had amazed me that I was the one married to her, that I was the one with her and

would end the night with her. It was a great honeymoon.

We reminiscenced about the honeymoon for a few more minutes, its memory even more

rosy with time. It wasn’t that long ago in the scheme of our lives; I had plenty of other

memories from plenty of years before that. Still, it astonished me that so many years had

passed since we’d gotten married, that life had rushed by like a roaring river. Too many

memories, over too many years; how did I accumulate so many?

It was getting late and we agreed we had to end the call. “I miss you, Marc,” she said

tenderly, and I could almost see her face.

It wasn’t like Karen to say things like that, not with that degree of emotion. Maybe it was

Sue’s death, or maybe she was realizing that our lives might be moving in different

directions with increasing velocity. “I miss you too,” I replied, and I couldn’t have

adequately expressed the depth of that hole. I missed her not just for her being away on

this trip, but for her moving on in her life without me, and for me wanting to leave my

life. I missed the life we’d had and I was not looking forward to the lives we had ahead.

We hung up, and I looked down at my doodle. The box in the upper corner was a

window in a tall building, with a face – a woman’s face – portrayed in it. The box in the

stream was an open casket, and there was a man in it, slowly floating downstream and

soon to be out of sight.

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I didn’t need to guess who the people were.

Chapter 36

I made it to the pool the following morning. Robyn was in the pool swimming intently,

oblivious to my arrival or anything not in her lane, but Marty was at the edge of the pool,

his back to the wall with his arms on the edge and his legs kicking idly in the water. He

seemed forlorn, alone in a way that reflected not just that he didn’t have anyone to talk to

at the moment. He looked up with a relieved expression when I walked over. “Good to

see you, Marc,” he said heavily. “I was afraid that yesterday’s…‘trouble’ might have put

you off.”

I sat down next to him, just my calves in the water. “Hell of a thing, wasn’t it?”

Marty watched Robyn stroke away smoothly. He seemed envious. “I knew she had

some heart problems, but nothing like that. Her doctor wanted her to get more exercise.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “I never…”

I patted him on the shoulder. “No one could have predicted this, Marty. If her doctor

had thought it was dangerous he would have warned her.”

“Maybe her kids should talk to a malpractice lawyer,” he mused half-heartedly.

“Maybe she was ready to die,” I offered lamely, no doubt projecting my own attitude on

Sue. Marty looked at me with a look that was initially incredulous, then transformed into

something else. Sympathetic or melancholy, I wasn’t sure. He shook his head. “I don’t

know too many people who are ready to die. Most people I’ve known, even the ones

with really painful conditions, fight for another day, another breath.”

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“Sometimes people get tired of fighting,” I argued half-heartedly, not sure why I was

getting into this, not now and not with Marty.

Marty ran his hand through his wet hair and looked at me for a long moment. “I don’t

know about that,” he said quietly. “I know I wish I didn’t have to get up in the night a

couple times to take a piss.” He flashed a weary smile. “I wish I had the energy I had at

twenty-five. And I sure miss all the days I had with my wife.” He grew very serious.

“Man, I wish that. But, despite all that, I get up every day, and there’s something to look

forward to.” He gestured at the pool. “I look forward to coming here, for example.”

I felt appropriately chastened. “I’m sure Sue did as well,” I agreed. “And I’m sure you

are right that she had a lot in her life that she looked forward to. She died too soon, and

she’ll be missed.”

Marty seemed mollified. He went on to tell me what he knew about the arrangements.

One of Sue’s children had arrived the previous evening, the other one was due this

morning. The services were going to be at the end of the week, with the viewing the

night before, and he told me where and when. I looked at him in amazement. “How do

you know all that?”

“I have my sources,” he replied with satisfaction. He asked if I was going to the viewing

or the service, and if Karen would be in town to come with me. I told him Karen was out

of town, and I didn’t know if I’d attend or not. He nodded, but seemed disappointed

somehow. Perhaps he’d hoped to meet Karen at long last, I speculated, immediately

mentally slapping myself for making it about me and my life.

“I’m going,” he asserted. He looked at me with a bashful smile. “Sue and me – we kind

of went out sometimes.”

“I didn’t know that,” I told him, although I wasn’t entirely surprised.

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“She was something,” he told me with a sad expression, looking out at the pool and not

seeing her there. “A special lady.”

I clapped him on the shoulder again and agreed with him. He looked over at me shyly.

“I wish…”

Since Marty didn’t continue, I prompted him. “You wish what?”

He looked away, not at Robyn but, I thought, maybe at a memory of Sue swimming here.

“I wanted there to be more with her, you know. I was taking my time, being a

gentleman.” He shook his head and snorted. “I thought there was plenty of time.”

“I guess you never really know,” I said inadequately.

“No, you never really do,” he agreed somberly. He looked over at me with a paternal

expression. “Don’t make that same mistake.”

I wasn’t entirely sure what he was getting at – a life lesson, the state of my marriage,

perhaps even something about Robyn? – so I just nodded in agreement. I took a deep

breath and stretched my arms. “You going swimming today?” I asked, just to change the

subject. “In a little while,” he said absently. “Right now I’m just going to stay here.”

I said my good-byes, got up and went over to a vacant lane, then got in the water and

started my workout. It was nice to have something to focus on, something to distract me

from thinking about Sue or Karen – or my life. I just swam, trying to keep my strokes

clean and even. I wasn’t particularly pushing it, I was just doing my time and trying not

to do it too badly. For my forty-five minutes or so my world was just that lane, me

chopping through the water. It was a nice respite, but when it was time I was glad to be

finished. I stood at the end of the lane, a little out of breath, and was sorry to not see

Robyn anywhere. Marty was still there, having moved further from the water, now

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sitting up on the edge of the pool watching Carson do his laps. I got out of the water and

grabbed my towel.

“Good workout?” Marty asked.

“Hard,” I huffed, toweling myself off quickly. I looked around again to make sure I

hadn’t just overlooked Robyn in my previous check. Marty caught the gesture and knew

what I was doing. “She had to leave,” he told me, a half-smile on his face. “Said she had

to get to work.”

“Oh, sure,” I said, as if it was of no matter to me. I had to admit, though, that I was

disappointed. I didn’t know what I was expecting, but I had been hoping to talk to her for

a little while.

“It was something, how she tried to save Sue’s life yesterday,” Marty commented with

understated feeling. “Too bad…” He looked down into the water, and it was possible

that his eyes were watering.

“I know,” I agreed quietly, wondering how deeply he was feeling this loss. I stood for a

couple seconds, making sure he didn’t look like he was going to do anything crazy, and

told him I needed to get going. Marty just nodded, not looking up at me as I walked

away.

I managed to get myself back to work once home, trudging through my emails and

deciding which voice mails I needed to return quickly. There were none from Tondo or

Patrick, so I called Tondo’s office and got his assistant Linda. “Hey, Linda,” I said, “It’s

Marc Wheeler. I’ve called Tondo a couple times and haven’t heard from him.”

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“Oh, yes,” Linda replied smoothly. “He’s traveling. I’ll tell him you called.” She

sounded chipper yet managed to relay her regrets through her tone that I hadn’t been able

to reach him yet.

“How about I try again on his mobile?” I suggested, pushing her a little. I’d already left

two messages on his mobile, with no response.

“Well,” she said dubiously. “You’re welcome to try, but he’s overseas, so he may be on

a plane or not have service. I’ll make sure he gets your message, Marc.”

Early in my career I would have accepted this at face value, but I’d learned assistant-

speak. Tondo was never not connected. His mobile had worldwide service. He checked

his messages at every opportunity, and when he wanted something, he got back to people

right away. My conclusion was inescapable: Tondo was ducking me. “All right, Linda,”

I conceded, sounding reluctant. I tried another tactic. “Tell him I have an update on the

AD DX job.”

“Why don’t you give me the update, Marc?” she suggested. “I’m sure I’ll be talking to

him later today, and I promise I’ll make sure he gets it.”

If I actually had a specific update, I would have, but I was just probing. “Well, it’s kind

of complicated. It’d be best if I could talk to him about it.”

Linda hesitated, then her cheerful tone kicked back in. “Whatever you think best, Marc.

I’ll tell him you called. Have a great day!”

I hung up the phone and thought. Tondo’s ducking me could simply be due to his being

busy on another matter; he always had lots of balls up in the air at any time. Both he and

Patrick not returning my calls and emails, though, and his using Linda to screen him from

me, made me think that something else was up. I just didn’t know what it was. I didn’t

like it.

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Right about then I got a text, from Robyn. “Sorry I missed you today. Had to get to wk.”

“No prob. You OK?”

“Fine. Too busy for lunch today too. ”

I wondered if yesterday had pushed her too far. Maybe she’d told her mother about what

she’d really done and had been, in effect, grounded. Maybe she just was scared about her

life opening up in ways she couldn’t control. “No problem.”

I thought that would be the end of the exchange, but I was wrong. It took a couple

seconds, but when the message came in I was shocked. “How about dinner tomorrow

night?” it asked. I thought carefully before responding. “Are you sure? Not in trouble?”

“. No – all OK.”

Those alarm bells were going off again. Lunch was innocent; yesterday had been an

aberration due to Sue’s death, but dinner? True, Karen was still going to be out of town,

a fact I had let slip during our prior day’s outing, but it certainly could be construed as

going too far. Robyn was, after all, a pretty, young, single woman, and that was no good

explanation for a dinner together. Still, I could comfort myself that I certainly was too

old for her, not that she seemed to have any romantic interest in me or anyone else, and I

knew I didn’t have any intentions of cheating on Karen. Well, no serious intentions; I

was only human, after all. “Sure,” I texted back, sounding more casual about it than I

actually felt.

We agreed to make plans the following day, something after her work.

The rest of the morning was anti-climatic. I put some effort into working, making myself

concentrate. I got mostly caught up, made a number of phone calls. It was nice to catch

235


up with some of the people. I noted a few entries in my database about people who

seemed interested in changing positions – none that fit my current searches, but worth

noting who wouldn’t be a waste of time to talk to when I got a new search. Or rather, if I

got a new search; none of the calls I made to potential clients had turned up any new

assignments, just vague promises to keep me in mind if they had the right openings. I

finished the morning feeling kind of depressed.

I went to lunch at a sub shop a few miles away, a local place tucked away in a bland strip

mall, between a nail salon and a barbershop. The former was always busy, the latter

rarely so, and the sub shop somewhere in between, with virtually no overlap between the

patrons of the three establishments. The shop was a little place, with plastic tables and a

colorful menu above the counter. The woman who took my order was middle-aged and

efficient. I’d seen her before, and was under the impression that her family owned the

place. She flashed me a quick smile and said hello when I walked in. I asked after her

kids; she had two boys, who used to work here in the summers, but who had each gone

off to college in the past two or three years. She told me they were both doing well and

seemed to fill with pride just talking about them. I figured it never hurt to remember

these kinds of details; it hopefully kept my order from getting screwed up. She took my

order for a turkey sub efficiently, and we made idle conversation about the weather. She

always seemed to be here, working harder than any of the other employees, her sons

included. Making sandwiches was probably second nature for her. The cashier was a

young guy, someone who was or should be in college, perhaps community college, but

was earning some money here. He seemed cheerful and happy to take my money. He

wore a t-shirt that appeared to be about a band I’d never heard of. I thought of

commenting on it, but realized I could only make myself look even older than he already

thought, so I simply thanked him for my sandwich and found a seat.

The shop wasn’t very busy. There were a couple of stocky men who looked like maybe

they worked construction, plumbing or some other sort of manual labor, judging by their

clothes. They were eating heartily, arguing about football. There was another man, in

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his mid-thirties, with pressed slacks and a white shirt. His tie was neatly tucked between

two buttons of his shirt. He spent as much time on his Blackberry as he did eating,

texting or doing emails. If he felt out of place among the blue-collar guys, he didn’t let it

show.

I took a seat by the window and got to work on my sandwich and chips. They didn’t go

in for toasting their subs the way some chains did, but they didn’t skimp on their

ingredients. It was all I could do to finish their six-inch versions, yet I noticed the other

three patrons were all eating the nine-inch ones. Give it a few years, you guys, then

you’ll see that you can’t eat the same way, not without ill effect.

I couldn’t help thinking about what Robyn’s invitation meant. I flattered myself that

maybe I was the only person she could talk to. Maybe I was the only person she felt

comfortable doing anything with. Maybe she had some deep, dark secrets she needed to

unload on someone, had been waiting for the right person to come along, and had decided

that person was me. I liked to think I had a sympathetic ear all right, but there were some

secrets I might not want to know. What if it was something really disturbing? What if

she got dependent on me? What if she decided to start calling when Karen was in town?

There were lots of ways this whole thing could go bad. It made me nervous.

Besides, how would Robyn take it if something did happen to me? I’d seen how upset

she was about Sue’s death, and she barely knew Sue. The more Robyn got used to

talking to me, the closer we developed our friendship, the harder it would be on her if I

were to have an untimely demise. Did I really want to create new ties to someone, more

reasons to continue dragging out the years? I was so ready for a clean break; Karen off to

a new life, me closing off this life of mine that I’d grown so tired of. Things were falling

into place, except for the minor detail of what specific mechanics were for how my life

would actually end. Becoming friends with Robyn would be a complication I didn’t

need. Plus, I could imagine Karen’s confusion and natural suspicions if Robyn showed

up at my funeral, with Karen not previously knowing anything of Robyn’s existence. It

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would muddy her recollection of me, make her wonder about my faithfulness, and cast

doubt on the truth about our marriage. I didn’t want that.

Still, I didn’t see how I could just turn Robyn away. The poor girl – and I thought of her

as a girl; she was older than that but as innocent as a girl – had such a constrained life.

She’d enjoyed the lunch at The Mint, the movie out, and, I liked to think, conversation

outside of work with someone other than her mother. If she was going to open up to

someone, I reasoned, why not me? After all, I had no ulterior motives. I wasn’t planning

to seduce her or take advantage of her. I was above reproach here, just wanted to help

her.

Of course, if I was so above reproach, why was I already assuming I wouldn’t mention

the dinner invitation to Karen when we talked?

When I left I realized that I’d doodled on my napkin. In the middle of the picture was a

woman that I assumed was meant to be Robyn, sitting alone at a table or desk. Her table

was under a kind of dome, barely visible but traced out enough to know it was there. On

one side were the two workers who’d been at the sub shop, sitting at their table, while on

the other side was the other patron at his own table. All three of them were completely

oblivious of Robyn sitting in between them. And above Robyn was an older woman,

whom I assumed was her mother. She was aware of Robyn, looking down at her with an

expression I thought of as haughty. I didn’t quite understand that expression – was she

pleased at Robyn’s isolation, was she too proud to do anything to break it, what? I shook

my head at the fruits of my overactive imagination, and started to crumble the napkin up.

What if Robyn somehow saw it? What would she think?

I threw my trash away, but at the last minute pulled back the crumbled napkin with the

doodle back. I wasn’t going to start self-censoring myself now.

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Chapter 37

Laura called me the following afternoon, which surprised me. After we established that

she was, in fact, calling for me and not Karen, she asked if she could stop by the house

for a few minutes. “If you’re not too busy,” she added, sounding a little nervous. I was

at a loss as to why she would want come over to talk to me, but I naturally agreed.

Maybe she was working on some sort of surprise for Karen; maybe Karen was being

honored by one of Laura’s charity organizations. I reminded myself to ask Karen how

much she’d been donating lately. More likely, Laura might be planning some sort of

surprise for Trevor that she wanted my help with. There could be a hundred good

reasons for her to visit, even if she’d never visited me alone before. I told Laura I’d be

home all afternoon.

In the meantime I checked in with Ken Swanson, who’d started his new job. “Ken, it’s

Marc Wheeler,” I started once he answered the phone. “How are you doing?”

There was a slight pause. “Oh, Marc, nice to hear from you.” He didn’t sound surprised,

but he didn’t sound entirely pleased either.

I asked if this was a good time to talk, and he assured me it was fine. I told him I was

just checking in, wanted to see how his first few days were going. “Oh, it’s been hectic,”

he admitted. “Lots to catch up on, lots to do. I’m still mostly meeting people and trying

to get up to speed.”

“I’m sure it won’t take you long,” I assured him, starting to doodle. I drew a square that I

quickly decided was going to be a window. I asked how Brian was, half-fearful that Ken

might have already experienced some of Brian’s tendency to micromanage. Ken perked

up right away. “Oh, Brian’s been great,” he gushed. “He’s spent lots of time with me,

and he and his wife took me out to dinner Monday night to Eli’s, the steak place

downtown. We’re going to a Pacers preseason game tonight.”

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“That’s great. So you’re liking Indianapolis so far?”

“Yeah, it’s fine so far. I rented a nice condo in Carmel, not far from the office. It’s

pretty near this nice bike trail, an old railroad line that goes for miles. I still don’t really

know my way around but I can get to the places I need to.”

He was saying the right things, but there was some reserve in his voice. “Different from

Seattle, though, I’m guessing.” I started to fill in my doodle with the upper body of a

man standing in the window.

“Different, yeah, but not worse, not really,” he remarked thoughtfully. “People here are

very friendly, and it’s really easy to get around. There’s actually a lot to do.”

I still thought there was something he wasn’t saying, but as long as he was happy with his

job, that was all that really mattered to me. “You’ll have to tell your wife,” I added

lightly, getting ready to get off the call.

I should have stopped while I was ahead. “I have,” he told me, and there was a pang of

pain that I couldn’t miss, try as I might.

“She’s still not ready to move?” I asked sympathetically.

“No, no, she’s not.” He sounded suddenly weary.

“Once she gets out there with you, she’ll like it,” I proposed with the voice of experience.

Spouses almost never want to move, but it usually works out. Usually.

“I don’t think she’s coming out,” he replied forlornly. “I knew that when I came.”

His announcement didn’t come as a surprise, but I was sorry to hear it nonetheless, if for

no other reason than it made the odds that he’d survive a year there lower. After a year

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my fee wasn’t at risk, so I very much wanted him to stay. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I told

him diplomatically. The man in my doodle now had a face, and he was frowning

slightly, looking off in the distance. “I hope things work out.”

Ken sighed. “I miss her.”

“I’m sure you do,” I agreed, suddenly reminded of Karen’s distance from me. She felt

far away and connected too tenuously to me. I had to pull my focus back to Ken’s

problems. “Things will get better once you get more used to things there. Plus, I’m sure

Brian is going to keep you pretty busy.”

Ken laughed self-consciously. “I’m sure he will.”

I told Ken I’d check with him in a couple of weeks, although I was already dreading what

I might hear. He agreed without enthusiasm and we hung up.

Laura stopped by about three, ringing the doorbell. I’d upgraded both my shirt and slacks

to ensure I didn’t look too ratty, but I knew I was always going to suffer by comparison,

not just to her but to Trevor as well. She looked stunning even in a pair of casual Capri

pants and a white top that clung to her body very nicely. I mentally congratulated Trevor

again for marrying her and invited her inside. She came in, but seemed uncertain where

to go, so I led her to the kitchen. I asked her if I could get her something to drink, not

sure I meant alcoholic or not. She said she’d take some water, so I got some ice cubes

and poured her a tall glass of our filtered water. “Have a seat,” I suggested, nodding to

the kitchen table. I got a can of diet soda for myself and joined her at the table. “This is

a nice surprise,” I told her.

Laura seemed distracted. She ran her fingers on her glass and wouldn’t make eye

contact. Her being nervous made me more nervous. I couldn’t help but think how

strange it was that I’d had two different beautiful young women in the house within two

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days, both while my wife was away, neither of whom I really understood why they

wanted to be there. I decided one key difference – more important than the fact that I’d

known Laura much longer than Robyn -- was that I’d taken Robyn up to my study,

whereas Laura and I were sitting here in the kitchen. “I’m not interrupting you too much,

am I?” she said at last, glancing at me obliquely. “I mean, I know you’re working.”

I should be, I thought glumly. I assured her it was fine, and silence enveloped us again.

She took a drink and looked out the window at the back yard, such as it was. There

wasn’t much to see but at least there was some green. “You have a nice home,” she said

absently.

“Well, thanks. You have a pretty nice one yourself,” I countered, thinking about their

much larger house and grounds. They could put our townhouse on their property and

never even notice it was there, not if they landscaped it well. Which their gardener

would.

She smiled wanly and returned her attention to her glass. I wasn’t sure how to proceed,

and the longer she went without talking the worse I figured it was going to be, although I

couldn’t imagine what it would be. I wondered if she somehow had gotten wind of

Karen having an affair and thought she should tell me. Maybe my assumption that it was

someone Karen knew on the road had been incorrect and it was someone local, someone I

might even know. I frowned slightly, running through the new prospects. It surprised me

that Laura might feel compelled to tell me; I’d thought of her as more Karen’s friend, and

Trevor mine, but maybe I’d been underestimating Laura’s affection for me.

Laura cleared her throat. “The thing is, Marc, I was downtown yesterday.”

That made my brow wrinkle. I was sure – well, pretty sure, I thought darkly – that Karen

was out of town, so I didn’t immediately see where this was going. “Yes?”

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She peeked at me. “I, ah, I saw you. At The Mint. With another woman.” She looked at

me longer, almost fearfully.

I sat back in my chair, embarrassed. I hadn’t expected that, and now I had to mentally

kick myself. Raleigh is a small town. I hadn’t seen her, or anyone else I knew, but did I

really think I could go to a very public, very popular place with a woman who was not

my wife and not have anyone see me? I shook my head at my naivety. “It’s not what

you think,” I told her, realizing even as I said it how lame it sounded.

She looked at me hopefully. “It’s not?”

“No, honestly – it’s not.” I gave her my most convincing look, because, in fact, I was

innocent.

Laura looked at me intently. “Marc, I saw how she looked at you. I saw how you looked

at her. I could tell it wasn’t a business lunch or a couple of old friends getting together.”

She allowed herself a small smile. “Give me some credit.”

“Yeah, well, we’d had quite a day.” She let a cloud of doubt pass over her face, and I

wasn’t sure if she was relieved or if she was disappointed. I went on to explain to her my

horrific morning, with Sue’s death, Robyn’s and my role in dealing with it, and how

shaken up we both had been. “So we ended up going to lunch. Neither one of us was up

to working.”

Laura was nodding in agreement and in relief. “I can see that,” she agreed. “I can

understand that. It must have been terrible.” She’d evidently been hoping for a plausible

reason to believe I wasn’t cheating on Karen, and I’d given her one. It had the added

advantage of being true, or mostly so. I could see tension drain from her face. Whether

it was make-up, good genes, her youth, or perhaps some expensive skin conditioning,

Laura really did have great skin – soft, smooth, and wrinkle-free. I reached over and

patted one of her hands. “Nothing to worry about.”

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I didn’t tell her the part about Robyn and I going to a movie, or that I was going to have

dinner with her in a couple hours. I didn’t have anything to hide, mind you, but I didn’t

see any point in confusing the situation further.

“I’m so relieved,” Laura told me earnestly, finally looking directly at me. “You and

Karen have such a great marriage.”

Great marriage? I only got to see Karen a couple days a week, I feared that she might be

having an affair, I was resigned to the possibility that she would move away without me,

and I would take it as a blessing should the light fixture fall from the ceiling and kill me.

I thought these views, like my impending dinner with Robyn, were safer not expressed.

“Thanks, Karen,” I told her instead. “You and Trevor do too.”

It should have been a good thing to say. I was expecting her to beam with pride and gush

about how much she loved Trevor. I was not expecting her to put her hands to her lovely

face and burst into tears. She started sobbing.

I was too stunned at first to respond. Trouble in paradise? That was my immediate

impression. Trevor hadn’t mentioned anything when I’d seen him a few days prior. I

thought I knew Trevor well enough to recognize the signs when he was getting a

wandering eye, and I hadn’t noticed anything. I guessed people can always fool you.

“Laura?’ I probed softly. “Laura, what is it?” I got up and fetched a box of tissues, and

put then down in front of her. I resumed my seat. “What’s wrong?”

She stopped crying long enough to take a tissue. She blew her nose, then used another

tissue to daub at her eyes and cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Marc,” she apologized between

sobs. “I really didn’t want to get upset like this.” Her eyes watered again and she

grabbed another tissue to try to staunch the tears.

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Most women look worse when they’ve been crying. Runny noses, red eyes, and flushed

faces don’t usually improve most people’s looks. With Laura, though, it did. If her looks

had had a flaw, it was that she was too perfect. She’d always looked just so, like an

airbrushed, untouchable model. Now she looked like a real person – a fragile young

woman, full of life and vitality and with her emotions playing over her face. It made me

like her more and the vulnerability allowed her beauty to come through.

I considered that my first reaction might have been wrong, that I wasn’t giving Trevor

enough credit. She could have been the one who’d strayed, and now was regretting it.

Or – God forbid – maybe she or Trevor was sick. Maybe one of them had been

diagnosed with something terminal. That would explain Laura’s reaction just as well.

“Laura, what is it?” I asked delicately. “What’s wrong?”

She blew her nose again and took a deep breath, trying to pull herself together. She let

her breath out and took a drink to calm herself. “I think -- I think that Trevor doesn’t

love me any more.”

“What? Why would you think that?” I replied, trying not to sound like I was taking a

position either way. I trusted Trevor in most things, but I wouldn’t stake my life on his

not wanting to go for wife number three.

She shook her head and looked dully at the glass in front of her. Her hands circled it,

holding it tightly, as if it might try to leave her. “Little things.” Her tone made those

things sound not so little.

“Like what?”

She shrugged and looked embarrassed to talk about it. “Just little things. He finds all

these organizations to get involved with, so he’s out of the house more. And he still

keeps talking about being more active.” She looked at me with plaintive eyes. “Why

wouldn’t he want to be home with me? I think he wants to be out of the house because

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he’s bored with me.” She buried her face in her hands and started crying again, softer

now.

Personally, I thought Trevor was crazy. If I’d made my nut the way Trevor had, so that

money was never going to be an issue, and then married a fine looking young woman like

Laura, I’d be at home, in bed, with her all day if I could. But I wasn’t Trevor. I got up

and went over to her, crouching and putting my arm around her. “Laura, Laura, you’ve

got it all wrong.”

From behind her hands Laura responded. “He doesn’t love me anymore.” She sobbed

harder. “Laura, look at me,” I commanded kindly. That failed to have any impact, so I

gently pulled her hands away from her face. “Listen to me. I’ve known Trevor a long

time. He loves you.”

“Then why doesn’t he want to be with me?” she asked in bewilderment, her eyes red and

her cheeks wet.

“He does, he does,” I assured her. “You knew the kind of man he was when you married

him. He needs to be doing something; he needs to be proving himself.”

“Not to me he doesn’t!” Laura objected. “I already love him!”

I nodded sympathetically. “He knows that, and I’m sure it helps him. You have to

remember that this is about him and how he thinks of himself. He’s a guy used to

building things, getting things done. He probably figures if he sits at home he’s

worthless – or, worse yet, that you’ll think he’s worthless. He might be afraid you’ll stop

loving him if he isn’t the successful man you married.”

She seemed astounded, with her eyes going wide in surprise. “I would never think that!

I would always love him. I just want him to be happy.”

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I squeezed her shoulder and sat back down, holding on to her hands. “And he wants you

to be happy.” She absorbed this and we sat together quietly, her hand in mine. She

finally roused herself and withdrew her hand. She took a tissue and wiped at her face. “I

must look like a mess,” she said in embarrassment.

“You’ve never looked more beautiful,” I expressed with complete conviction.

Laura made a face that indicated she didn’t believe me but appreciated the words. She

finished with her face and looked around the kitchen, as if surprised to find herself still

there. “You’re so sweet,” she told me, returning her gaze towards me.

I wanted to change the topic; her rapt attention was intoxicating “Hey, Trevor told me

about maybe running for office,” I said casually. “Pretty exciting.”

It took a second, but Laura let a conspiratorial expression cross her face. “I’m so proud

of him. I’d vote for him, even if I wasn’t his wife.”

“And you’ll make a perfect candidate’s wife,” I assured her. “People will turn out just to

see you.”

“Oh, you’re too much,” Laura teased me, tapping my hand in a mock scold. She wiped

her face one more time, and seemed more her old self. She smiled at me with a mixture

of relief and fatigue. “I’m so glad we had this talk. It really helped.”

I assured her that the pleasure was all mine, and after some obligatory small talk – how

was Karen doing, did we have any big plans coming up, we must get together soon, and

so on – I escorted her to the door. She gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and

thanked me again. I watched her walk to her car with a bounce in her step and a sway in

her hips that made me think Trevor was going to be a very lucky guy when she got home.

I hoped she would forget about seeing me at The Mint.

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Chapter 38

I made sure Robyn and I went to one of the chain restaurants near the mall. It was a nice

enough place, but I was pretty sure we wouldn’t be likely to be seen by Laura or any of

Karen’s other friends. She was sitting in her car when I pulled up, right on time. I saw

her put away her phone before getting out of her car. “You know it’s not safe to text in

your car?” I kidded her.

Robyn looked momentarily flummoxed, before she realized I was teasing her. “I think

they mean if you’re driving.”

I shrugged, as if to say I wasn’t so sure, then we both broke out in smiles. It was nice to

see her smile. “C’mon, let’s go inside.”

Robyn was still dressed for work, wearing a skirt and light sweater. Both were eminently

conservative, but I knew that if I had been a coworker I’d have enjoyed watching her

whenever she walked by. I settled for watching her walk in front of me as the hostess led

us to a table, which I had requested be one of the booths near the back. No sense taking

chances.

We started to look through the huge menus, filled with colorful food and sheathed in

plastic. One had to doubt they could do justice to such a wide range of cuisines, but by

the size of the crowd it appeared they managed to satisfy the tastebuds of a large enough

share of the local population. A cheerful waitress soon appeared to take our drink orders.

I ordered a beer, while Robyn settled for a glass of water, making me feel a little stupid

about my own choice.

“What do you recommend?” Robyn asked as she paged through the menu. I told her I

didn’t know the menu very well, but that I was leaning towards something simple, like a

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burger. Karen would disapprove but I thought she’d not be too keen on my dinner date in

the first place. Robyn nodded at my suggestion and continued her study. “Good day at

work?” I asked.

Robyn let a small smile peek through. “A day,” she sighed. “It’s over now.”

We talked about our morning workouts; Robyn skillfully minimized hers, while I skipped

over how tired I’d been. Either I was going to have to swim for shorter periods or to slow

down even further; I feared that in a few years I’d be like Marty. The waitress

reappeared with our drinks, and we ordered. I did, in fact, order the burger, with fries,

while Robyn ordered a southwestern chicken salad whose picture had appeared

particularly tasty. After the waitress had scuttled away with our orders and our menus I

took a sip of beer. “So, dinner,” I pronounced.

Robyn had a curious expression on her face, kind of a mixture of excitement and

embarrassment, like a teenager cutting school might have. “I told my mother I had a

work function,” she admitted with a guilty smile.

It made me a little sad, and a little alarmed, that a woman her age would have to make up

stories just to have dinner on her own. “She’d be upset if she knew what you were

doing?”

Robyn took a drink of water and a long look around the room before replying. “She’d

have insisted on coming, and we still would have argued about having dinner with you,

since you’re married and all.”

“What does she do when you go out on a date?” I asked curiously.

Evidently that was the wrong thing to bring up. Her face fell and she looked down at the

table. “She doesn’t like that either,” she replied carefully. She looked back up at me and

shrugged with a resigned expression, not even sad. “So I don’t.”

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My mouth may have gaped open a little. “Never?” She shook her head.

I didn’t really have a follow-up question for that. Or, rather, I had too many to know

where to begin. Fortunately, our waitress interrupted us with our food, bustling over us

like a mother hen making sure her chicks had plenty to eat. We assured her that it all

looked fine and sent her on her way, then each of us started in on our food. “How’s the

salad?” I asked after a few bites.

“Not bad,” she said automatically, without quite giving a true endorsement. She nodded

towards the burger I had in hand. “How’s that?”

“OK,” I allowed generously. “It’s not MoJoe’s or Char-Grill, but, hey, what is?”

I wanted to go back to the topic of her not dating, but Robyn preempted me. “I love my

iPhone!” she exclaimed, this time with an enthusiasm she hadn’t expressed for her food.

“It’s really great!” She went on to tell me how she used it every night to go on the

Internet, had started to download music on iTunes. She’d even watched a movie on it,

and claimed that the quality was surprisingly good.

“I’ll bet it was something your mother wouldn’t like.”

Her eyes twinkled, but she restrained her smile. “It was “Up in the Air,” the George

Clooney movie,” she told me, and amplified her smile a bit. “Now I see what all the fuss

is about.”

“Now there’s a single guy even your mother wouldn’t object to your dating,” I said with

mock seriousness.

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She rolled her eyes. “Are you kidding? One, he’s an actor. Two, she would think he is

way too good looking for me. And, three, he has dated all those gorgeous women. She’d

be sure he was up to no good.”

“Yeah, but you’d have a good time in the meantime,” I pointed out, thinking that wasn’t

such a bad thing. I noted, but didn’t know what to make of, that she hadn’t mentioned his

age as a drawback. Robyn smiled sadly and returned to her salad, apparently wanting to

end the dating discussion, or at least any dreams of George Clooney. I wasn’t quite ready

to let it go. I put my burger down. “Robyn, honestly – doesn’t your mother want you to

be dating? Most mothers want their daughters happily married and producing

grandchildren.”

Robyn stopped her fork midway to her mouth, and it hung there for a moment, unsure if

it was going to continue to her mouth or return to the plate. She finally lowered back

down, watching it go with a sad expression. “My brother is married, and she’s got

grandchildren from him,” as said, as though that explained everything.

“It’s not an either/or,” I noted helpfully.

“It is if it means leaving her alone,” she stated. She said this as if this was an inalterable

fact, something that she had no control over. She looked up at me, and I thought her eyes

were the saddest thing I’d ever seen. “She doesn’t want to be alone.”

I watched her for a few long moments, enjoying her beauty, her grace, and, most of all,

her vulnerability that she hid so well but which was always there. “Can I ask you

something?” I asked at last.

I thought initially that she would decline; she was afraid to say yes, but somehow fought

down her worry over what I might ask. “Sure,” she replied, trying to appear nonchalant.

“What is it?”

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“You told me once that you’d lived on your own a few years ago, but that it hadn’t

worked out. What happened?”

Robyn acknowledged the question with a small nod, not surprised by my question. She

pushed the food on her plate around aimlessly, then sat back in her chair and essayed a

smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Oh, I was just young and foolish. I wasn’t ready to be

on my own.” She looked away rather than meeting my eyes.

“You weren’t ready, or your mother wasn’t ready?” I pressed her, taking a wild guess. If

I thought I might provoke a reaction, I was disappointed. She smiled weakly and looked

over at me. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said without any bite.

“I think you do.”

Robyn nodded slowly, with a sad smile. She looked down at her plate, her body entirely

still otherwise. “I had, well, kind of a bad break-up, and mom was worried about me. It

ended up just being easier to move back in with her.”

Even not knowing her mother, I could see how that might have gone, her mother using a

time of emotional distress as a way to lure Robyn back home. The only bright spot was

Robyn’s admission – which ended up more as an incidental part of the whole story – that

she had been involved at least once with someone. I’d been worried she’d gone her

entire life without dating. I had to wonder if her mother had played a role in the break-

up, perhaps without Robyn realizing it. I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded and

watched her sympathetically.

She looked up and studied me steadily. “You think I shouldn’t be living at home, don’t

you?”

I shook my head. “It’s not really for me to say.”

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“But you don’t, do you?” she pressed politely.

Telling the truth can be a tricky thing, and knowing what the truth is isn’t always so clear.

But there was only one way I could answer her. “No. No, I don’t. Unless your mom is

maybe on a ventilator or something, I think she should want you to be out on your own,

living your own life. And I think you should want that too.”

Robyn picked up her fork and rolled it idly between her fingers. Her head started

nodding, almost imperceptibly at first, then becoming more pronounced. “I do,” she

admitted at last, her voice hoarse with emotion. I saw some tears in her eyes. “I do want

to, and I’ve been thinking about it more and more lately.” She looked up at me quickly,

catching me by surprise. “Ever since I met you.”

Oh, that’s going to cost me, I thought to myself. I wasn’t sure if she was suggesting I

opened up her world in some way, or if this was a kind of flirtation. Either way, it was

trouble; probably another eternity in hell if her mother had anything to say about it. I

shook my head. “Don’t put this on me. You should move out if you want to, when you

want to. That’s kind of the point – it’s not up to your mother, and it’s not up to me or

anyone else.” I held her eyes, and added gently, “it’s only up to you.”

She nodded, with understanding and something like relief. “I know. I’m just saying, I

wasn’t ready, or maybe I just didn’t know I was ready. But now I think I am.” She

reached into her purse and pulled out her iPhone. She flashed it towards me with a smile.

“Besides, now I can use this to help find a place.”

That broke the tension, and we both laughed nervously. She told me she’d been looking

at the apartment ads, and had found some promising places. “They have videos and floor

plans and all online,” she exclaimed.

“Technology,” I noted modestly. “Your friend.”

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Robyn seemed to summon up her courage, and asked if I might be willing to go with her

to look at a few of them. Part of me, and it was not a small part, thought that this was

really going too far. For example, if Laura or anyone else saw me checking out

apartments with a pretty young lady like Robyn, there’d be hell to pay. Lunch together

was one thing, this dinner was something more but still on the defensible side of the line,

but apartment shopping would inevitably lead to suspicions that I was keeping a mistress.

Despite those objections echoing around in my head, I told her of course, as though it was

no big deal at all. Her smile was worth it.

I finished off my burger, and heard the sound of a text arriving. It was from Karen.

“What’s up?”

“Excuse me,” I told Robyn apologetically. “My wife.” I texted back. “Out to dinner.”

“Where?”

I hesitated on this, but replied back with the name of the restaurant. Sure enough, her

reply was quick and to the point. “????”

“Something different.”

“I’ll say. LOL!!!”

I looked up at Robyn, who was pretending to not be watching. “Sorry,” I said,

shrugging.”

“Hey, it’s your wife,” she told me. “If you want to call her, that’s fine.”

“She’s probably busy anyway,” I replied, and looked back at my phone. “What are you

up to?” I texted.

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“Taking break. Call later?”

“Fine.”

I put my phone away, and apologized again. Robyn waved my apology away with her

hand, and seemed to feel awkward about being there with me. “Everything OK?” she

asked nervously.

“Fine, fine,” I assured her. “She was just checking in.”

Robyn nodded, and there was a longing in that nod. “It must be nice.”

“What’s that?”

“Knowing someone cares about you like that.”

“Like your mom,” I said flippantly, wishing I hadn’t said it almost as soon as the words

were out of my mouth.

“Let’s hope not,” she responded dryly, but her eyes were downcast. She took a deep

breath and looked up at me. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” I answered, trying not to show my reluctance. I’d opened the door to her asking

about my wife, and what going through that door might reveal to her wasn’t certain.

“The other day,” she said quietly, “what did you mean about being ready to die?”

I hadn’t expected that. In fact, I’d tried to forget that I’d said it, and hoped she had too.

“Oh, that,” I said lightly. “I didn’t mean anything. Just a bad joke. Bad day, bad joke.”

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Robyn shook her head solemnly, not letting me get away with a flippant response. She

looked at me with a steady gaze. “No, it wasn’t.”

Her certainty unnerved me. She’d called my bluff and I had no more fakes in me. I put

my hands on the table to ensure they wouldn’t shake. The trouble was, I wasn’t sure how

to explain. “I’m not suicidal or anything,” I started, wanting to assure her. “Nothing like

that.” Robyn just watched me with those clear eyes, full of concern and of feelings I

didn’t understand. But she didn’t say anything, so I tried again. “It’s just, well,

sometimes it just gets to be a lot.”

“Are you worried about something?” she asked.

I paused for a few seconds, and now it was me who couldn’t meet her eyes. I tried a

weak smile. “You’re too young. It’s just getting old, getting older.”

“You’re not old,” she protested. “I hope I’m doing as well as you are when I’m your

age.”

I felt old. My smile broadened yet was more wry. “That’s the thing. You can’t really

understand it, not until you get to my age.” I thought about telling her about the little

indignities I was already facing, like hair growing in my ears and nose where they never

had before. Like feeling creaky when I got out of bed. Like falling asleep in front of the

TV by ten o’clock. But I decided not to go into specifics. I thought instead about telling

her about the memories of the younger me, the guy who did fun things and took chances,

the person I liked and thought fondly of but whom I saw little of myself in now. I

thought she’d have liked him, although she might have been shy around him, and I knew

he would have been interested in her. I thought about trying to explain that, while on the

whole things were actually better now – would anyone seriously opt go back to black and

white TV or without the Internet or mobile phones? – the past held a curious and

increasing allure to me, making it harder, not easier, to live in the present. There was just

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so much of it, and the knowledge that more was going to accumulate made the burden

even heavier.

But I didn’t, of course, say any of these things. “Do you know Clint Eastwood?” I asked.

Robyn actually had to think for a moment. “Oh, yes. The director, guy. He won an

Oscar a few years ago. That movie about the paralyzed girl, the boxer.”

“That’s right,” I said. “He’d won before, too, for Unforgiven.”

“I never saw that one,” Robyn admitted. “It’s a western, right? Mom thought it was too

violent.”

“It was pretty violent,” I agreed. “See, to you Clint Eastwood is a director and an actor

who plays these old man roles. To people my age, he’s this good looking action star,

like in Dirty Harry or the spaghetti westerns.”

Robyn tilted her head slightly, somewhat puzzled. I continued. “He was young and

tough and macho and good looking. He may still be tough and macho, but he’s for sure

not young. Or take, I don’t know, Kirk Douglas, or Sean Connery.”

“Sean Connery is still good looking,” Robyn protested. “I saw him in that movie

Entanglement. He even gets the young girl.”

“Who in real life is married to Michael Douglas,” I pointed out. “Another young stud

who no longer is.”

“But he’s still married to Catherine Zeta Jones, so his life can’t be too bad.”

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She had a point, I had to admit, but I plowed ahead. “I look at these guys, these movie

stars from when I was young, and I think, wow, if this is what happens to them, if they

look that old and get that decrepit – what’s going to happen to me?”

She smiled tolerantly at me. “It’s worse for women, isn’t it? You don’t see older women

movie stars getting the young costar, do you? If they can get parts at all, I mean, other

than the mother or grandmother.”

“It is worse for women, I suppose, at least in Hollywood,” I agreed. “You should enjoy

being your age. This should be a great time in your life, a time you should be making

memories for later in your life. Enjoy it while you can, because before you know it, you

will be my age, and nothing will be as easy. You’ll have little aches and pains that don’t

ever quite go away, and you’ll wonder if you made the right choices in your life.” I lost

my smile. “And you’ll look ahead and see that it’s all downhill from there on. So enjoy

being you, now.”

Robyn seemed neither surprised nor alarmed at my little outburst. For a moment I

thought she was going to reach over and put her hand on mine, but then the moment was

past and she was back within her own head. “I know what you mean,” she said, dropping

her gaze towards the table wearily.

I shook my head, feeling the weight of my years. “With all due respect, you can’t really

know, not at your age.”

She smiled in kind of an anti-smile, letting the sadness out. “I know about not wanting to

go on,” she said in a dull monotone, her eyes hopeless. “I know about your life stretching

out ahead of you, days and days and years and years with no hope of anything better.”

She sounded old beyond her years, and it troubled me – no, it scared me – that she

seemed to understand my dilemma so well. She was too young, too full of life yet to be

lived. She shouldn’t be privy to this kind of despair. I wondered again about her life

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with her mother. Perhaps the prospect of taking care of her mother for the next, say,

thirty or forty years was as daunting as anything I faced. We were fellow inmates on

death row, and no one on the outside could truly understand. “Like being in jail, with no

parole,” I offered in a near whisper.

Robyn nodded in agreement.

Chapter 39

Sue’s funeral was Friday morning, at a Presbyterian church not far from the health club.

Karen had surprised me by offering to fly home early for it, even though she only knew

Sue by my occasional updates about the pool crew. I’d told her not to worry about it, so I

ended up sitting in a back row of the church by myself. I thought Robyn might be there,

and had seen her at the pool earlier, but she’d told me work was too busy for her to come.

In truth, I thought she’d had enough of both thoughts of death and of being around too

many people in a non-work situation. I might have boycotted the funeral on the same

grounds, but lacked the nerve.

Marty, Mary and Carson were in attendance when I arrived. Carson had someone whom

I assumed was his wife with him, a cute blonde woman about his age. She looked like

she was wondering what the hell she was doing there, so Carson had a firm hold on her

hand. Marty had been keeping an eye out for me and waved me over to where they were

sitting, but I shook my head and sat in the back where I could just watch.

To no surprise, Sue had a lot of friends present, some of them I suspected were former

students. It figured that she’d have been the kind of teacher that students remembered

years later, and would come to pay their respects to. Her kids were there too, of course,

with their families, and I had to smile at the happiness her young grandchildren must

have given her. The oldest of them appeared to be ten or so, a young boy awkward in his

Sunday best, who looked like he didn’t quite understand what had happened but had seen

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enough television or movies to know the world wasn’t going back to what it had been.

He was trying to be brave about the whole thing and almost pulled it off. The smaller

grandchildren could have just been at church or any other grown-up affair for all they

took in. They sat moving with barely contained nervous energy, anxious for the adults to

stop talking and let them go somewhere and play. It must be nice to have that innocence,

I thought, or maybe it was indifference to things that happened to anyone other than

themselves. It might not be a virtue in the strict sense but it probably would make for

fewer distressing times.

The church was very understated suburban, with high eves, tasteful but not ostentatious

pews, a commanding pulpit, and various crucifixes and pictures of Jesus hanging on the

walls. It was not an ornate sanctuary, reflecting the Presbyterian modesty, but it was

somehow comforting nonetheless. I found myself thinking about Sue sitting here every

Sunday, praying to her God and enjoying the comfort of her congregation. Sue seemed

like the type of person who belonged to things. Churches, clubs, civic associations; you

name it. I wasn’t, and I couldn’t help but wonder what place a service for me would be

held in, and who might come and sit for me. Karen might be gone by then. Most of the

people I knew didn’t live close, aside from a few friends like Trevor and Laura. There

might be a few people from the health club, assuming I kept at it. Maybe they could

spread my ashes in the pool, I thought grimly.

It didn’t really matter to me about my own service, whenever it came. I certainly didn’t

care about a religious service, and didn’t belong to any church anyway. Maybe it would

be nice if someone like Trevor or even Marty said something nice about me, but it

wouldn’t really matter what they said. I’d be dead, and no one would be impacted by

anything good or bad they had to say. Death to me was walking off a cliff; once it

happened, I was gone, and there would be no sugarcoating of it, no moral to be drawn

from it. So it goes.

During the service, I found myself debating if it would be better or worse if I died while

Karen was still in the picture. I didn’t think she’d take any comfort from any words

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anyone would say, but I wasn’t sure how hard she would take my passing. Perhaps she

was as ready for me to die as I was – not that I thought she wanted me dead, but I could

see how my no longer being alive could open up her life to new possibilities. She would

miss me at first, grieve for an appropriate period, but doubtlessly would adjust quickly

and completely.

The selfish part of me pictured her in tears, totally distraught at my no longer being part

of this world, but I didn’t like to think that this was something I’d ever want. Just

because I was ready to not go on living didn’t mean I wanted to cause anyone any harm,

least of all Karen. I loved her too much to want her to suffer any pain from the

satisfaction of my death wish; no lasting pain, anyway. Well, maybe a little, just to

demonstrate that my life had some importance to someone other than myself. I’d been to

several funerals with Karen – at our age you couldn’t really avoid it – and she always had

a dignified but sad mien. Only once, at her father’s funeral, had I seen her really ruffled.

She’d sobbed quietly during the service, even during her reading in the service, and I’d

been proud and pleased to hold her hand in hopes of comforting her. I wondered who

might hold her hand during my service. Perhaps no one, perhaps her mother or sister.

Maybe things between us would be long enough over that a lover would be there with

her, and he could comfort her. Whatever; the point was that I wanted her comforted by

somebody.

I didn’t pay too much attention to the service itself. I’d been to more funerals than I

cared to remember; each was different in its own way, each had its own story, and yet

each reminded me that no one can escape the same fate. Sue’s service featured a

minister, who obviously had known her well and spoke in something more than the usual

hackneyed clichés about her life. He was a man about my age, familiar with death and

professionally thrilled for anyone fortunate enough to be on their way to see God.

Various other people spoke on Sue’s behalf, including her two kids, responsible looking

adults that I liked upon sight. It was funny, well, not so much funny as strange, that Sue

had always been just a nice lady at the pool to me, but to the rest of the audience she was

a mother, a grandmother, a friend, an inspirational colleague or teacher. The ways in

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which she’d impacted other people’s lives seemed to be endless, and it made me regret

that I’d only known her in the limited way that I had. The body in the casket, wearing a

nice dress, with make-up and jewelry, was nothing like the woman in the swimsuit I’d

known. It was ironic that her former students probably would have been shocked to think

of her in a swimsuit, yet that was how I’d remember her.

I made sure to shake Sue’s children’s hands and to mumble my condolences to them after

the services, without trying to explain how little I truly knew their mother or how I’d

been there when she died. Neither fact would help their grief. They seemed numb but

grateful for my being there, and I felt better about myself by just having attended.

Marty caught me outside the church, Mary trailing in his wake as if afraid to be left

behind. Carson and his wife were standing near them, the latter looking eager to be on

her way. I wondered what would happen to our informal swimming club without Sue.

I’d always thought of Marty as the social leader of the group, but perhaps he’d always

just been the vocal one. In retrospect, Sue was the one who put everyone at ease,

including Robyn, and I thought the pool wouldn’t be quite the same ever again. “Marc,

over here,” Marty called out, extending his hand towards me. “I’m sorry your wife

couldn’t come with you.” I took it and shook, with him holding on longer than a casual

shake would warrant. “Nice service, don’t you think?” he said decisively, speaking from

too much experience with them. He was dressed in a black suit that looked like his

funeral suit, one that had had too many prior opportunities.

“That it was,” I agreed. I nodded towards some of the other mourners. “I’m glad to see

she had so many people come.”

“Did you meet her family?” Mary asked. She had on a dark dress that only accentuated

her stockiness. I thought Sue would have come up with a compliment about it, finding

something nice to say that Mary would feel better about. “They’d want to meet you.” I

indicated that I had, without going in to detail how cursory the introductions had been. I

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wished I could find that right thing to say to her too, but instead just mumbled something

about how I was sure Sue would be happy she was there.

“How are you doing, Carson?” I called out, trying to pull him and his wife into the

conversational circle. They took a half step towards us, and he introduced us to Adele.

She was blonde and had the wiry build of an aerobics instructor, although not shown to

her best advantage in her dark blue suit. She shook hands with each of us dutifully, while

still giving every indication that she was ready to go. Marty apprised her wit interest, as

if confirming a mental picture, while Mary seemed slightly discouraged by the sight of

yet another woman more attractive than she was. Adele barely took notice of us, and I

had a sudden moment of insight, that it wasn’t just the funeral that Adele was ready to be

gone from, that their marriage was on its last legs. I wasn’t sure if Carson knew. “Your

husband is quite a good swimmer,” I told her, trying to get a better sense of her.

Adele’s eyes flashed over to him quickly. “Is he now?” She sounded slightly surprised,

and almost amused, as though she’d given up on the idea that he was good at anything.

“He sure is,” Mary added helpfully, oblivious to the undercurrents I sensed. “Only

Robyn is better.”

Adele’s eyes narrowed slightly, and she again glanced over at her husband, mentally

asking who this Robyn person was. “She’s new,” Carson hurriedly clarified for her,

looking sheepish. The frown that appeared on Adele’s face didn’t have anything to do

with Sue’s death. I gathered Carson hadn’t mentioned Robyn’s prowess, or appearance,

at the pool to his wife, and I had to wonder how much he’d told her about any of us. I

also had to remind myself that I hadn’t told Karen about Robyn’s appearance at the pool

either. At least she knew about the other swimmers.

“Robyn couldn’t make it this morning,” Marty informed her, acting as the social

secretary of the group. He made a sad face. “Too bad; Sue really liked her.” He kept an

eye out on the departing crowd, watching the knots of people form, dissipate, and re-form

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in new social circles, like a village dance the steps of which we weren’t privy to. “Are

you going to the cemetery?” he asked me, trying to move on to a new topic.

I told him I was going to pass, and he seemed disappointed. The others also indicated

that they were skipping that part, which made me feel less guilty. He told us the

ceremony had been a beautiful one, one of the nicer ones he’d seen, and I got the feeling

he had formed opinions about many of the internment options available locally. I

wondered if I lived to his age, God forbid, if I’d become a connoisseur of funerals and of

cemeteries like he seemed to be. The laws of averages meant that the older one got, the

more likely it became that someone they knew wouldn’t, and so the exposure to these

death celebrations got increasingly common. I didn’t want to become inured to death,

and I dreaded going through life watching other people I knew go first. There was

nothing about the death process I wanted to be part of except having it happen to me.

I said my good-byes, and made my way home. I stayed in for lunch.

Karen arrived home that night, too late for dinner and too tired for me to realistically

consider that we might make love. I was disappointed but too tired myself. She did ask

me how the funeral went. I told her it was fine, lying. “She had lots of people there.

She’ll be missed.”

“You always said you liked her,” Karen noted. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

I assured her that it hadn’t been necessary, that I’d been fine on my own, and hadn’t even

really stayed too long, but I wondered if I would have accepted her offer to come had I

known Robyn wouldn’t come. Then again, I reminded myself, what would the point of

introducing Karen to the group if she was leaving me soon?

Karen was up early the next morning to work out, shaming me into going to the pool,

where I found myself alone for a change. I wondered if it was a sign of the future, if

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none of the regular group would continue their swimming workouts. It wasn’t like

anyone drew inspiration from Sue, mind you, but having someone die right in the pool

like that wasn’t something that could just be ignored. Except maybe by me.

The rest of the day was a fairly typical weekend day for us. Karen and I ran errands in

the middle of the day, retreated to our respective offices, in which I suspected she

actually worked, whereas I mostly puttered. My mind wasn’t really on work. I wasn’t

belaboring Sue’s death any longer – I didn’t think – but somehow nothing seemed very

important. So I just fiddled around pursuing idle tangents, wondering which tangent

Karen was at the end of.

It was nice having her home, even when she wasn’t directly with me. The house felt

fuller somehow, more alive. I heard little sounds as she moved around in the house, and

every so often one of us would stop in the other’s study on some pretext or another. I

found myself looking forward to those exchanges, trivial as they might be. The sheer

sight of her, in the flesh, warmed my part, as well as other parts of me. Then she’d go

back to whatever she was doing and I’d feel her absence, just not as pronounced as when

she was traveling.

We went out to dinner at a nearby restaurant, one of our favorites. Karen looked great in

slacks, a sleeveless top with a sweater, and sandals. It was a casual ensemble worn

casually, but I took some pride in noticing other men’s heads turning when we got to the

restaurant. Some of them were with women many years junior to Karen, and it gave me

almost as much pleasure to watch them cattily check out the would-be competition posed

by my wife. Our dinner was good, with the conversation nothing of any significance. I

kept trying to read her like a detective, watching her for any sign that she no longer loved

me, or that she’d found someone else to love. I wanted to see if she felt sorry for me

now. Surely there must be some signs if she had decided this life was the past, that her

future lay elsewhere and with someone else?

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But if there were signs, they were invisible to me. She was, after all, a salesperson by

profession, so convincing people the story she wanted them to believe was the truth, even

if that truth was at best exaggerated or at worse not true.

Nothing in our conversation was very memorable. I told her a little more about Sue’s

death, drawing a gasp from Karen when she understood that Sue had essentially died in

the pool I used several times a week, and a little about the service. She was impressed

that Sue had so many people there, and I wondered if she ever gave any thought to who

might come to her funeral, or mine. Probably not, I decided.

Karen told me a few details from her travels – some of the people she’d met with whom I

knew or knew of, a couple meals she liked, a woman she chatted with on one of her plane

trips. We talked briefly about some house projects she had in mind, like painting her

study or buying a new chair for our bedroom. Just mundane conversation, the kind old

married couples have learned to do, unless they have exhausted all topics of mutual

interest and ate in dull silence. I knew couples like that, and thought that being alone

must be preferable to living alone with someone. Then again, I realized grimly, live long

enough and just having someone nearby, as sort of a way to confirm your continued

existence, might make even those long silences bearable. Just another reason not to live

that long.

We went home and then stayed up too late watching a movie, going to bed again too late

to make love. I didn’t know if I was disappointed or relieved, but as we laid there I

listened to the sounds of Karen’s slow breathing and I felt distant from her. She was in

our bed, within reach, yet we each stayed on our own sides of the bed. The gap in the

middle felt like the entire Midwest.

On Sunday we went to Chapel Hill and had brunch at Crook’s Corner. It was crowded,

of course, but we managed to get a table after not too long a wait. We eventually decided

on Feathered Eggs for Karen, Baked French Toast for me, Hushpuppies as an appetizer,

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and, of course, a side of biscuits for each of us. It wasn’t a meal that would do our

arteries much good, but it did our stomachs wonders.

It was a nice day outside – not too hot, sunny with only a few clouds in the sharp blue sky

– so we walked over to Coker Arboretum. It was one of the favorite places we’d

discovered in our time in the area, and we didn’t get there as often as we always said we

should. There were plenty of other people walking around or sitting on the benches or in

the grass, but not so many as to make us feel crowded. “Look, a wedding party,” Karen

exclaimed, pointing to a collection of formally dressed young men and women.

“I think they’re just taking pictures,” I said, since the only people present were the bride

and groom, the maids of honor, the groomsmen, and the photographer. They all looked

ridiculously young and the bride looked radiant, even from where we were standing.

“Were we ever that young?” Karen asked, more sardonically than wistfully.

“Not when we got married anyway. You married an old man.” I smiled at her, expecting

an affectionate demurral, but she just took my arm and started us strolling again.

Our wedding had been a small affair, just a few friends and family. Karen had worn a

nice dress, but not a traditional wedding dress and not even white, as I recalled. I’d worn

a suit, not a tuxedo. It wasn’t as elaborate as either of our first weddings, but I had fond

memories of it nonetheless. I’d thought myself lucky to have found her in my middle age

and still a little amazed that she’d wanted to marry me. Walking with her, I still felt the

same, only I wasn’t so sure Karen did. “She wasn’t as beautiful as you were when we got

married,” I offered gallantly. “Or as beautiful as you still are.”

She squeezed my arm. “Aren’t you sweet?” she gushed with a smile, and this time it did

seem genuinely affectionate. Evidently, though, I was no longer as handsome, as she

didn’t point that out, but I’d have to admit the point if pressed.

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We strolled for a few minutes largely in silence. The trees hadn’t really started turning

yet, so the twinge of fall in the air was probably more my own imagination than anything

visible. Still, it clearly wasn’t spring, when colors seem most vibrant and everything

bursts out with new life. The trees, the plants, the flowers – like me, they’d had their

bloom, but were facing an inevitable decline. Unlike them, though, there would be no

renewal for me once I went into the winter of my life. And it was getting pretty chilly

already.

Still, I was here, now, and I was enjoying Karen’s arm in mine, as well as the occasional

brush of the side of her breast. Still firm, still sexy to me. The silence seemed amiable,

not forced. Had we been dating, we’d been forced to make inane conversation, killing

time until the issue of sex came up next. Not that I wasn’t interested in that topic as well,

but I was content to just be with Karen right at the moment, and she seemed to be

relaxing as well.

The Arboretum seemed filled with couples. A few families, some with strollers, but for

the most part couples. The majority were younger than we were, although we were far

from the oldest. There was a freshness, an eagerness, to the young couples – most of

them, anyway – that I envied. They walked hand-in-hand, or reclined on a blanket

together, and you just knew that they thought the world was their oyster, that they’d be

happy forever. The girls wore short shorts, the men mostly longer baggy ones, and it

both cases it was more about wanting to look cool than to be practical. At their age, they

could get away with it, without looking ridiculous or, horror of horrors, trying to appear

younger than they really were, the way some older people did. Present company

excluded, of course. They were never going to get old, until suddenly they were.

Karen caught me eyeing one attractive couple in particular. “Pretty, isn’t she?” she asked

neutrally.

I shook my head. “It’s not that. I mean, yes, she’s pretty, but they just seem so, I don’t

know, in love, I guess.” Or maybe it was just that they were so young.

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Karen laughed. “Passionate, anyway.”

I stopped and turned towards her. “Maybe they have a good idea,” I suggested, and

leaned in for a kiss. I’d meant it to be just a quick kiss, a playful kiss, but her lips felt so

inviting that I lingered longer than I’d planned. She didn’t pull away. “It’s been a long

time since you’ve kissed me like that in public,” she said when the kiss ended and we still

stood close together.

It’s been a long time since we were together, I thought sadly, surprised at my reaction. I

smiled at her and did a small bow of my head. “At your service, madam,” I offered

gallantly. She smiled warmly back at me and gently led me back to walking on the path.

She pointed to a small bench under a trellis and suggested we sit. “Too old for sitting on

the grass,” she teased.

From the bench I could see a family gathered for a picnic in the grass. The parents were

a young couple, perhaps even graduate students. They had a boy and a girl; both

appeared to be under five years old, with the girl a year or two older. He toddled around

after her, trying to keep up with her as she skipped and jumped around in the grass as her

parents kept a tired but happy watch. “Don’t they know the odds against them?” Karen

asked in a mock whisper. “How much would you want to bet they’re still together when

those kids graduate college?”

“They’re brave, all right,” I admitted, thinking how I’d certainly never had that nerve.

I’d wondered, off and on, if I’d have enjoyed being a father. Maybe if I’d met Karen

when we were much younger I might have fallen into fatherhood. That was, assuming

she would have wanted children. It might not have impeded my career that much, but

Karen’s life would have been different. The couple on the blanket might be resigning

themselves to ham sandwiches and carpools for the next twenty years. One of them

might have to defer their degree, or their career track. Would he or she resent the other

for this? Would that ultimately come between them, such as when they finally were

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empty nesters and had to remember what life with just the two of them was like? Karen

noticed my silence and prodded me playfully. “Penny for your thoughts.”

I smiled at her gently. “Hard to explain.” I forced my attention away from the family

and took in the surroundings. “It certainly is pretty here. Why don’t we come more

often?”

Karen shrugged with a casual smile. “It’s pretty lots of places that we don’t get to very

often. We’re just always busy on the weekends.”

Because you are always away during the week, I felt like noting, but didn’t. There was

no point to it, nothing to be gained. Karen was who she was. Her ambition was part of

the vivacious personality that had drawn me from the first time I talked to her, even on

the phone. I could no more blame her for the ultimate consequences of that ambition

than I could blame the ocean for the occasional hurricane.

She leaned closer against me and tilted her head against my shoulder and neck, like we

were a couple of high school kids, or like the younger version of us. Neither of us could

stay in that position indefinitely – my neck would get a crick that would take me days to

recover from -- and not even as long as we could have when we first met, but for a few

moments I found myself wishing time would freeze and we could stay like that forever.

If there was a better feeling, outside of sex, I’d like to know what it was. I just didn’t

want to know right then.

Today was a pretty good day, I reflected. Karen and I were having a nice time together,

and were actually together, in person. It was a lovely day, in a beautiful setting, and we

were sitting together like young lovers whose unclouded futures lay ahead of them.

Tomorrow Karen would be off again and all my doubts and worries would be back, but,

for today, everything was good. It was the kind of day that at the end of one’s life I

might find myself recalling fondly. Lives were made of days like this, moments like that,

and there weren’t as many as anyone might wish for. Maybe there were but we didn’t

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take the time to realize them at the time. Maybe that was why old people spent so much

time looking back in their life, looking for the times like this that had been special, yet

hadn’t been fully appreciated at the time. In looking through one’s life, one had to sort

through a lot of boring times, a lot of bad times, a lot of times one would rather forget, to

get to these special times.

I looked over at the other couples. I suspected none of them were thinking of special

memories they should hold on to and be able to look back at. Most of them were still

young enough that they took good times for granted. They thought the days ahead would

be filled with time after time of special days, of happy times. None of them were

watching us, envying us. Objectively speaking, they should have. We had a longer-

lasting, proven relationship; we had plenty of career success; we had a nice home and a

comfortable financial situation. We had all the things they might be wishing for, except

for youth. And that trumped everything else. The ignorance of youth gave them an

arrogance about their place in the world, so it was me sitting here envying them, not vice-

versa.

It was funny. When you were young you were always in a hurry to get older.

Preschoolers want to get to school, elementary school kids can’t wait for high school,

high schoolers envy college life, and college kids just want to get out and on with their

real lives, none of them realizing how good they had it right where they were. It was

only when you got older, when you realized your life had achieved all or most of what

you were going to achieve, that you realized your life had started on its downward path

without your having noticed. Your body started to crumble, your relationships started to

fray, your career came to an end, and the past started looking better and better.

So today was a day I already knew was going to be a special memory. I really didn’t

want to have to go through all the remaining bad times or even the boring times yet to

come just to be able to remember this time. I didn’t want to go through all those other

times hoping there might be a few more times like this one; there might not be, and I

could spend decades waiting for another time like today. People lived their lives like

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obsessed gamblers. They always thought they’d win the next hand, that the next roll of

the dice would triumph, that continuing to play was the best strategy. There would be

plenty of good times, so why quit the game? I was sitting here at the blackjack table

holding a good solid fifteen, maybe a sixteen. Lots of people would go for that next card,

sure they could get ever close to the magic twenty-one. Me, I was smart enough to not

keep pursuing perfection, to take my hand and call it a day.

It would be a good time for things to end, I thought philosophically, a good day to die. I

wasn’t sure what might happen in that specific moment that would allow me to exit life

without ruining my appreciation of the time, not unless maybe a meteor plummeted right

on my head and killed me instantly, without managing to hit Karen. I found myself

looking up out of some involuntary reflex, but the skies were clear and I was stuck here

for the near future, alas.

Of course, I liked to think that my dying might ruin Karen’s memory of the day, but I

could console myself that Karen was going to have good times ahead, with or without

me. She was like a cat; she’d have nine lives.

It suddenly came to me that I didn’t think Karen did, in fact, have a lover. I might have

been fooling myself, but I just didn’t think she could have pulled off a special time like

this if she was truly emotionally out the door. She wasn’t that good an actress, and

certainly wasn’t that hard-hearted. She might be ready for a new job, and she might be

prepared for me not to come, but that didn’t mean she didn’t still love me. It was

possible, I had to admit, that she had a lover with whom it was purely physical, getting

sex from him that she no longer wanted from me, but that didn’t seem like her. Karen

didn’t do anything by halves; if she was going to cheat on me, she was going to fall in

love with someone. It was a blessing and a curse, I thought glumly. In the meantime, I

had this time, this morning, and I wanted to treasure it.

The thing about special memories is that they do end. Reality sets back in eventually. As

nice as sitting here with Karen was, we couldn’t sit here forever. We had discussions to

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have, and at least one of us had a life to live. I brought myself back from wallowing in

my own thoughts and knew it was time to talk with Karen about the future, about her

future anyway. “Would you miss it if you didn’t live here?” I asked, carefully using

“You” instead of “we” and wondering if she would noticed.

Her face grew more thoughtful, as the smile faded away. She looked out into the trees.

“It’s very pretty here,” she said carefully, “but it’s pretty lots of places. I’d miss things

about living here, but I like to think that my happiness isn’t based on a place.”

Or a person, I wondered, keeping my face impassive. “Are you thinking you’ll end up

taking one of these jobs?” I asked in a neutral tone.

Karen let a slow smile come across her face, a smile that was both audacious and

relieved. “Yes, I think so. It’s not that I’m unhappy where I am, but, you know, once

you start thinking about a new job – or a new car, or a new house – it’s hard to think

about keeping the old one.”

I supposed husbands fell into that category, and tried to keep the disappointment from my

face. Karen didn’t seem to notice. I felt oddly disjointed, as though I’d missed a

conversation, the one in which she’d decided she wanted to leave here and, presumably,

me as well. I felt as though I should have been part of such a conversation, yet felt pretty

sure I hadn’t been. But that was Karen; once she’d made up her mind about something,

she was off to the races. I sometimes wondered how many of her sales left the customers

scratching their heads after the fact, not able to recall exactly when they’d agreed to the

sale but convinced by Karen’s certainty that they had. She had that kind of force of

personality. I loved her for it, but that didn’t mean she could run me over with it like she

could other people.

Having started talking about her career choices, Karen was on a roll. “I think Tondo’s

blown it, sorry to say. He’s just waited too long.” She gave me a quick glance. “Maybe

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that’s good news for one of your candidates. I’ve got actual offers, or outlines of offers,

from the other two.”

That was news to me. “So that’s, what – San Francisco and Chicago?” I asked. I

remembered the San Francisco job was another start-up, with a fairly broad set of

responsibilities, while the Chicago job was for a more established company but a small

scope, although with more people reporting to her. She’d never mentioned the money for

either, but I assumed either would mean more. I should have felt angry, or sad, or

something, but I just felt numb. It was as if I was talking to someone else’s wife about

someone else’s life, rather than participating by default in the destruction of our life

together. “Awfully cold in Chicago in the winter.”

“Yeah, well, it’s awfully hot here in the summer and we survived. Plus, you always said

you liked living in Chicago. I love Chicago too, and it’s not like I’d get to spend much

time in San Francisco itself.” The start-up company was closer to Palo Alto, whereas the

office of the Chicago company was near the Loop, so city living was more of an option.

Of course, I reminded myself, I was still making lots of assumptions. Karen could just be

assuming I’d agree to whatever job in whatever location she decided on. She might think

I would want to stay here and have us live a two-city lifestyle. She might still want me in

her life, in some manner yet to be determined. All she had to do was say something, and

I might agree to just about anything, if she’d just ask. But I no longer believed she was

going to, and I felt lost without that belief. “Are you going to make up your mind based

on the location, or on the job?” I said, forcing a smile, and biting my tongue about asking

how my wishes and the impact on our marriage might enter into her decision.

Karen looked back at me with a coy expression. “Lots of factors, my dear. Lots of

factors.”

She didn’t elaborate.

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Chapter 40

I went to see three apartments with Robyn over the next week, each time during lunch. I

felt a little funny doing it, but Robyn insisted that she wanted my opinion. She’d done

her research on the apartment market, but she told me she needed someone who’d

actually rented an apartment before. I didn’t want to remind her that it had been a couple

decades since my renting days, so I met her at the mall and drove together to her pick of

the day.

I was initially confused that Robyn was focused on furnished apartments. “You know

that limits your choices, right?” I pointed out after she told me on the ride to our first

viewing. It meant that most of the available units were condos whose owners were

renting them out, and it put some entire apartment communities off limits. It also meant

her rent was going to be higher, although in the short term it reduced the amount of

furniture she’d need to acquire. She just shrugged. “I know,” she replied tersely. “I

don’t have much stuff.”

“Don’t you want to get some things of your own?” I asked her, watching her as she

drove, her eyes focused intently on the road ahead. “Maybe your mom would let you

take some of the furniture from your house.”

A faint smile passed across her face for just a moment. “I’m going to be lucky if my

mom doesn’t disown me. I’m not expecting any furniture from her.”

I let that one go.

It turned out that Robyn didn’t really need much help from me. I knocked on walls to see

how thin they were, flushed toilets to check the plumbing, turned on the showers to see

about water pressure, things like that. Robyn observed my little tests with grave interest

and made notes, which she declined to show me. She approached the task with a serious

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attitude. She had a checklist of questions of her own, which she went through with the

agent showing each apartment. Listening to the questions, I found myself trying to guess

which ones she’d uncovered somewhere on the Internet or in a book, and which were her

own. I couldn’t really tell, which made me feel this was all kind of impersonal for her.

She inspected each unit thoroughly, paying particular attention to the doors and their

locks, including balcony doors. I wondered if prior bad experiences had made her

security conscious, or if her mother had indoctrinated her about the dangers of the world.

I had to admit I didn’t think she was being overly cautious; I wanted her to be safe as

well. I made sure to inspect the windows, not for their view but for risks of any exterior

access, just to be on the safe side.

Robyn asked my opinion about each apartment. The three we visited were not too

dissimilar. They were all one bedroom units, with well-equipped kitchens, their own

HVAC, and a washer and dryer. All were in apartment communities that had a pool, a

fitness center, even a business center. And, honestly, they all felt like extended stay hotel

rooms to me – impersonally decorated, neutral colors, nothing objectionable but nothing

memorable either. None had any personality of its own, and certainly wouldn’t reflect

Robyn’s personality. Or, worse yet, perhaps they all reflected the drab, guarded

personality Robyn let the world see.

By the second one I’d forgotten most of the specific details of the first one, and both of

the first two were fuzzy when we got to the final option. “Well, do you like hardwood

floors or carpeting?” I asked, trying to give her some criteria. “Do you care about being

on the ground floor or not? Do you care which direction the living room or bedroom

faces?”

Robyn shook her head. “Not really. I was even thinking maybe I could get a studio.” I

dissuaded her about that, recalling my first couple apartments. It was just nice to have

another room to go to, and much nicer if one brought home a date, not that I believed this

was an important component in Robyn’s thought process. A studio would be cheaper for

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her, of course, but I wasn’t able to get a sense of how much Robyn thought she could

afford. I consoled myself that, as methodical as she was, she would only be visiting

apartments she believed were within her price range.

All three rental agents gave me interested looks, trying to figure out if Robyn was my

girlfriend, my daughter, my mistress, or family friend. I flattered myself that they might

see me as her lover, but more realistically thought they saw me as a father or uncle.

Robyn refused to enlighten them, simply introducing me without further elaboration. If

they were to see me, Karen’s friends would simply assume I was setting up a girlfriend in

an apartment, or even planning to leave Karen and move in with Robyn. I had to admit

that I felt funny about being there, especially when we were looking at the bedrooms. In

them I took extra care to make sure I kept a healthy distance from Robyn; no testing of

the bed together, for example. It seemed better to be safe.

If Karen did leave me, we’d probably have to sell the house, I thought forlornly. I liked

our house, but doubted I’d want to buy Karen out of what would be her half of it. And it

would be too big for me, as well as filled with too many memories. So I realized that I

might soon be shopping for places to live on my own, perhaps apartments much like the

ones Robyn was looking at. As happy as I was for Robyn to be looking to get her own

place to live, hovering over me was the dark possibility – no, the likelihood -- that I

might soon be forced to do the same. I tried not to let any of this foreboding show to

Robyn, but it certainly colored my enthusiasm for our visits.

We finished up her list of three finalists on Thursday, and stopped at a Chipolte to get

something to eat. For once, she hadn’t brought her own food. I was amused at how

carefully she evaluated the menu choices and available options. “You know,” I teased

her, “it’s not going to make that much difference what you choose. This is not exactly

fine dining.”

She looked at me askance. “Still, I should get something I think I’ll like best.” I couldn’t

argue with that. I tried my very limited Spanish on the guy who took our order, and got a

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disdainful look. “Yeah, like you’re the only guy who’s tried that,” he sneered. I admitted

I’d exhausted my repertoire, and asked his advice about the burrito versus the tacos. On

his advice, I got a steak burrito, while Robyn got a vegetarian burrito bowl.

We sat in a booth and unwrapped our food. I asked her if she thought she knew which

apartment she liked best, and she nodded, chewing on a bite. Once she’d finished, she

told me, “I like the one closest to the mall. It’s close to work. Plus it had the best

security.”

I thought back to Tuesday’s visit – it had been the first she’d visited, as though she had

known in advance location would be the prime factor – and nodded. “That makes sense,”

I agreed diplomatically. I actually didn’t like the apartment as well as one of the others,

more to do with the décor than the size or layout, but I didn’t want to interject my tastes

into her decision. “It’s very nice.”

Robyn seemed pleased that I’d validated her preference, and took another bite. She

chewed it thoughtfully, and I worked on my food as well. “Maybe I’ll go back after

work,” she said at last, “give them a check for the deposit.”

I cleared my throat. “You sure you are ready for this?” She nodded, but seemed

tentative to me. “Have you told your mother yet?” I asked gently, looking her in the

eyes. She broke contact and looked, embarrassed, at her plate. She shook her head.

“She’ll just have a fit,” she predicted dejectedly. “I wanted to have everything all set

before she finds out.”

On an impulse, I reached out and patted her hand, pulling my hand away when she

looked up in surprise. I liked to think there was also a touch of relief on her face as well.

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” I told her firmly. “You have a right to live on your

own, to have your own place. You’ve been very patient with her all these years.”

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Robyn’s eyes teared slightly at this, and she wiped at them with her hand. She shook her

head. “So why do I feel so guilty?” she asked in a small voice.

I smiled at her. “My parents couldn’t wait for me to leave home – and I couldn’t wait to

get out.” She took this in with slightly wider eyes, then furrowed her brow in thought.

“You should be excited,” I concluded with a cheerfulness I didn’t fully feel. I hadn’t met

Robyn’s mother, but somehow I had the feeling Robyn’s move was not going to go

smoothly. I tried to change the subject away from her mother’s reaction. “Are you sure

you want a furnished place? You could have a lot of fun buying your own things.

Craigslist, yard sales – lots of places you could get nice things pretty cheaply. You could

rent stuff until you get your own.”

Robyn shook her head. “No, I’m happy to get a furnished place. I’m not really used to

picking my own furniture.”

“And you don’t want to start?”

Robyn balled up the remains of her sandwich, which she’d only eaten a little more than

half of. She took a deep breath and gave me a brave smile, while her eyes said something

different. “No, no – it’s all right. I don’t want to accumulate a lot of things.”

I must have looked surprised, or puzzled. Robyn reached over and patted my hand with

surprising gentleness. “I’m not planning to be there that long.”

Chapter 41

“What do you mean?” I asked fumbling to understand. My first thought was that she was

going into this move expecting it to fail, thinking that her mother would successfully pull

her back into her world, like the earth inexorably pulling an underpowered rocket back to

it. The rocket would crash, and I feared Robyn might do the same, heading back into her

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tightly constrained life within her mother’s orbit. I tried to keep a cheerful expression on

my face and put a positive spin on her statement. “Oh, I get it – you want to buy a place,

right? You’re just doing this as kind of an interim step while you look for a place to buy?

You’ve picked a great time; this is a buyer’s market.” I chattered away, trying to ignore

the initially surprised, then somewhat tolerant expression on her first. “Might as well get

used to living alone while you find the right place. That makes a lot of sense.”

Robyn waited me out, letting me run out of conversational steam on my own. She looked

a little, I didn’t know – pensive? Amused? Sorry for me? It wasn’t an expression I was

expecting and I couldn’t quite place it. She shook her head at last, and for a split second I

thought she wanted to reach out and touch my hand, but she didn’t. She gave me a tight

smile instead. “No, I’m not planning to buy anything.”

So my first worry, about her expecting to move back with her mother, must be right, I

concluded, trying not to reflect the disappointment I felt. “Why don’t you think you’ll be

staying in your new apartment long?” I asked, not wanting to know the answer.

Robyn looked down, then out the window for a few seconds, and finally back towards

me, meeting and holding my eyes. She essayed that small smile again, but the only

humor in it seemed to be at her own expense. She took a deep breath. “When you are

ready to go, I’ll go with you,” she told me in a small but steady voice.

I was quite confused. Was Robyn propositioning me, telling me she wanted to run away

with me? It seemed ludicrous, out-of-the-blue, and out of character for her. I kicked

myself for agreeing to go on these apartment-hunting excursions; obviously I’d been

giving her unintended signals. I’d been worried about what Laura or Karen might think,

but obviously hadn’t been thinking enough about how Robyn might view my

involvement. “What -- what do you mean?” I fumbled. “Go where?”

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Her smile faded away, as if it had just been a mirage all along. She looked down at the

table again. “For when life is too long,” she said in a conspiratorial tone. “For when you

are ready to do something about it.”

I was dumbstruck. My mouth literally dropped open in surprise. I snapped it closed

before she raised her eyes again to look at me. There was something different about her

now, as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “I don’t know what you

mean, Robyn,” I objected weakly, although I did. It was just that I didn’t want her to

know that I knew, that I didn’t want to admit that I understand exactly what she meant. If

the weight had been lifted from her shoulders, I knew where it had landed. It was all I

could do not to buckle from the burden.

“Yes, you do,” she assured me. She sounded sad but certain about it, not wanting me to

feel that way but relieved, in a way, to have this in common with someone. She leaned

closer to me, her eyes sympathetic. “For when life is simply too long.”

I shook my head. “I told you – I’m not suicidal or anything like that. And you’ve got a

long life ahead of you, a happy one.”

My words didn’t seem to cheer her in the least. She inclined her head just slightly to

acknowledge my comments, but shook her head the tiniest bit to refute them. “That’d be

nice,” she said wistfully.

“Your moving out on your own is just the start,” I assured her. “You’re going to have

more fun, meet more people. Start dating some lucky guy. Probably started a family, the

whole bit.” I smiled brightly at her, with a confidence I did not feel.

“Yes,” she said faintly. “And you’re going to live to be an old man.”

The thought seemed grim, and I found myself frowning involuntarily. Robyn watched

me with an understanding expression. “You said you were ready to die,” she reminded

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me. “All I’m saying is, when you decide you don’t want to wait any longer – if you want

to do something about it – then I’m ready too. We could help each other.”

It was a bizarre conversation, and it couldn’t happen in a more incongruous location. We

were sitting with half-eaten meals in a booth with plastic seats and table, in a fast food

restaurant that was indistinguishable from thousands of others throughout the world,

along with indifferent employees and oblivious other patrons. The other patrons were

probably talking about work or football or television, while we were discussing suicide.

We probably looked normal, if slightly mismatched, to them. Maybe they were talking

about drug dealing or murder and thought we were the innocent ones. Neither Robyn nor

I appeared emotional or excited about our discussion, so, for all they knew, we were

having a conversation about the weather. I would have laughed had I not been afraid

Robyn might be insulted.

A sudden fear struck me. “You’re not moving out just to, you know, make it easier, are

you? Like you don’t want your mom…” I couldn’t finish my statement; the image of her

mother finding her lifeless body made me shudder. It took Robyn a moment to realize

what I was asking, and she let out a small gasp, her eyes widening. “Oh, no, no – not at

all!” she exclaimed, appearing shocked at the idea. She paused for a brief moment to

more fully take in what I’d said. “I can see what you mean, though,” she continued

thoughtfully. She smiled weakly. “I guess I’m not that nice a person. Do you worry

about that for your wife?”

I almost didn’t respond. Talking openly felt like making my morbid thoughts too real.

But Robyn was watching me with such interest, and evidently sharing some of the same

pain that I’d been feeling for so long, that I couldn’t resist. “I do think about how I’d

rather not have her find me dead,” I admitted delicately. I shrugged. “But I haven’t

come up with a good way for her to find out. Not unless she’s out of the picture

somehow.”

Robyn furrowed her brow. “Out of the picture how?”

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I wasn’t sure I really wanted to get into it, but holding back about the state of my

marriage seemed petty given the main topic of our conversation. “Well,” I said as

casually as I could, “I still love my wife, but I’m not sure she still loves me, at least not

the same way as she used to. I think maybe she’s ready to move on – to a new job, a new

location, a new life.”

“With a new man?”

“Maybe.”

Robyn looked at me thoughtfully. “I’m sorry, she said at last.

“Me too.”

“Is that why, you know, you don’t think you want to go on?”

I didn’t quite meet her eyes. “It’s kind of tied in together. Maybe I gave up and she’s not

ready to, or maybe I gave up because she’s ready to move on and I’m not. It’s hard to

say. All I know is that I think she is moving on. Whatever; I wouldn’t mind sparing her

any gory details of my early demise.”

“How considerate.”

I looked up at her, but I couldn’t tell if she was being sincere or sarcastic. I decided the

former; I wasn’t sure I’d seen a sarcastic side to her, and nothing in her expression

indicated she was judging me in any way. “But no,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m not

moving out to spare my mother any gory details if I pass away.” She flashed a smile.

“You, um, kind of convinced me I should have more of a life of my own, so I thought I

should do that while I still can.”

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It was sort of funny, how serious she looked. Then again, she didn’t say she was moving

out to enjoy life more, just to live it more on her own, so maybe having more fun wasn’t

part of her plan. “You should. Maybe you’ll enjoy it so much that you’ll forget all these

morbid thoughts.”

“Perhaps.” She sounded more tolerant than convinced; I didn’t get the impression she

thought she was going to change her mind. She looked around. “I better get back to

work,” she said reluctantly. It sounded like an impossible transition to me, going from

this conversation back to her job, but at some point she had to. I started to wrap up my

trash, but she interrupted me. “Wait – what did you draw?” she asked curiously.

I hadn’t even noticed that I had been doodling, even more oblivious than usual. I looked

down at my napkin in surprise. “Well,” I started, trying to decipher my own doodle.

“That looks like you on a couch, in front of a big screen television.” I stopped to smile at

her. “That must be you in your new apartment.”

“What are those?” she asked, pointing to the portion of the drawing outside the confines

of her loosely sketched living room.

I wrinkled my brow in concentration. “Hmm. That looks like a storm gathering.”

“How symbolic,” Robyn declared tongue in cheek. “Is that you, then?” She indicated a

figure sort of hovering inexplicably outside her window. It wasn’t clear if the figure was

watching her, the threatening storm, or something else entirely.

“I suppose so,” I agreed. “I don’t think it is your mom.”

“I hope not!” Robyn said with a quick laugh. “Are you supposed to be protecting me

from the storm, or are you trying to get inside from the storm?”

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“Who knows? Maybe I’m looking at something else entirely,” I told her, even though I

was struck by the perceptiveness of her question. I didn’t want to have to make a guess.

I gave her a look. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“I suppose not,” she replied, not sounding convinced.

I tucked the napkin away, which Robyn noticed but didn’t comment on. We got up and

went out to the parking lot. We stopped by our cars. “So, did you make a decision about

the apartment?” I asked with forced cheerfulness.

“I did. I’m going back to the last one tonight and put my money down. Then I’ll tell

mom tonight.” She gave a wry smile. “I might not have to worry about life being too

long.”

The very thought of that discussion filled me with dread, and I wasn’t even going to be

part of it. Maybe her mother would react more positively than I feared; maybe she

wasn’t the dragon-lady I’d built her up to be. But I still worried. “Be careful.”

“I will,” she said, already seeming cowed by her upcoming discussion. She perked up

enough to look at me straight on, a determined look on her face. “But I’m not changing

my mind.”

“Good for you,” I encouraged her. “Maybe I’ll get you a housewarming gift. A print, or

maybe a vase or something. Maybe a puppy.” That caused her to smile impishly, if

briefly. “I’d like that. Well, maybe not the puppy, but something from you. That means

you’ll have to come over sometime to see my new apartment.” She seemed excited about

the prospect, except for the part about her dealing with her mother.

“I will,” I assured her, meaning it.

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“You could give me one of your drawings. I’d like that.” Robyn gave me a smile that

seemed as deep and as genuine as I’d ever seen from her, and it warmed my heart. It was

good to see her looking forward to something, practically glowing with excitement. I

hoped the apartment would be the start of a new, better, life for her. That plus the

iPhone, of course.

She unlocked her car and started to open the door to get in, but paused. I was in the

process of doing the same, so I stopped getting in my car as well. “And don’t forget

about the other thing,” she warned me seriously. “When you’re ready, I’ll be ready too.”

She drove off, leaving me with that thought. It was one I wished I could forget.

Chapter 42

Friday ended up being an unsettling day.

I went to the pool, where Marty and Mary were in attendance. Mary was kicking away

dutifully in the pool, but Marty scurried over towards me when I got there. “Hey, Marc,”

he greeted me. “How’s things?”

“Things are rusty,” I complained, not feeling quite ready to swim yet. Then again,

getting up and going was becoming tougher and tougher. I complained that I was afraid

if I didn’t keep up the swimming my joints and muscles might just freeze up entirely.

Marty chuckled and rubbed his own elbow to indicate sympathy. He asked after Karen,

and was pleased to hear that she’d been in for the weekend. We talked idly about her

current trip, marveling at how easy it was to traverse the country and how some people

thrived on the non-stop travel. I couldn’t tell if he approved of my wife’s time away from

home, but he always seemed impressed by it.

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We watched Mary trudge away in her lane, and I couldn’t help but contrast her laborious

efforts to Robyn’s. “She was here before,” Marty informed me, as if reading my mind,

and pleased to be able to pass along some information about Robyn. He didn’t need to

elaborate who “she” was. “Said she’d be busy today.”

I wondered at that, if it was just work or if it related to her impending move. I was

interested to hear how her conversation with her mother had gone; I’d hoped to hear from

her last night, but I hadn’t, which worried me. For all I knew, her mother had locked her

up in her bedroom, without her phone, or maybe they’d stayed up all night, her mother in

tears. I could send her a text but thought it better if I waited for her to contact me.

Besides, I figured that if she’d seemed upset or otherwise different, Marty would have

been unable to contain himself. Knowing Robyn, though, I wasn’t sure he could read

her. Me either, for that matter. We chatted a couple more minutes while I stretched

some, then I started my laps. When I finished, both he and Mary were gone.

Shortly after I was home and cleaned up, Karen called. “Hey, boyfriend,” she said coyly.

“How are you this morning?” I told her I was fine, and asked her how her evening had

been. She was in Pittsburgh, and we’d chatted last night before a dinner she was having

with one of her customers. She’d warned me that she’d probably be out late, without

feeling any need to explain, and so would just talk to me in the morning. Now. “Oh, the

usual. I’m on my way to Chicago.”

“Are you now?” I asked mildly, trying to remember if I’d known that part of the itinerary.

“Yeah, it’s kind of last minute but I’m going up to negotiate an offer about that job,” she

told me, barely containing her excitement.

“Are you now?” I repeated, slightly less mildly.

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Karen didn’t seem to notice my subtle reaction. “Yes, I’ve got a session late this

afternoon, and it will probably go into tomorrow.”

That came as even more of a surprise than the fact that she was going to Chicago to

negotiate a job that we hadn’t really discussed. “So, what, you’re coming home Saturday

night?”

I heard her take a quick breath. “That’s the other thing I wanted to mention. I thought I

might as well stay the weekend, since I have to be in Phoenix on Monday.”

Another weekend away from me, I thought glumly. And, considering the fact that she

was negotiating for a job in another city, it seemed like a foreboding prospect. Curiously,

I didn’t feel much reaction. I was kind of numb. There was a crash coming that I felt

powerless to avert. I was in the car on the way to its inevitable wreck, but still sliding

slowly enough that I hadn’t hit anything and nothing hurt. Yet. “I see,” I mumbled at

last.

“You don’t seem very excited.”

That was the truth of it. “I’m just taking it all in,” I admitted. “Just trying to absorb

everything.”

“I figured I’ve been talking about these other jobs for a while – it was time to make a

decision.” I felt like reminding her that I should have been part of that decision, but it felt

like water over the bridge at this point. I shrugged, a gesture she couldn’t see, and

murmured, “I suppose so. You like this job, huh?”

“Yes, when I factor in everything, I keep coming back to this one. You like Chicago,

don’t you?”

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I tried to parse those few words like a Talmudic scholar. Was she asking me my opinion

of the city generally, how I thought she’d like living there, or was she suggesting she

assumed I’d be there with her? At this point, I wasn’t sure which I hoped she meant;

whether she was leaving me behind or whether she was indifferent to my opinion about

where we might live as a couple, either way it meant that she had all the power in our

relationship, and I didn’t like that. “Great city,” I said at last, keeping emotion out of my

voice. “Especially in the winter.”

“It is pretty in the winter,” she teased back. “Especially Michigan Avenue.”

“Flying out of O’Hare is always fun too.”

“Good thing they have Midway as well,” she countered easily. “You can’t deny the

cultural life is pretty great – theater, museums, concerts.”

“If only you went to those.”

“Maybe we would in a city like Chicago.”

I paused for a moment. The banter seemed like normal times, and her last comment

almost sounded like I was part of her plan. Was she trying to convince me, or was she

just talking? I couldn’t read her. Then she muddied the water further. “Hey, listen, why

don’t you come up for the weekend?” she suggested. “I mean, I don’t know how much

of tomorrow I’ll end up being tied up, but we’d have Saturday night and most of

Sunday.”

I was taken aback. I did like Chicago, and it had been too long since I’d been back. An

impulse decision to go away for a weekend was something we would have done in the

early years. But I found myself hesitating. I wondered if it was truly a last minute trip

for her. I wondered if she really wanted me there. And, sadly, I wondered if she was

going to be there alone. The green monster was back, its irrationality encouraged by this

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new twist. Maybe she was bluffing in her suggestion that I come, proposing something

she doubted I would accept just to cover her tracks. It almost made me say “yes” just to

hear her reaction.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t explain why, but picking up and flying to Chicago for a weekend

on the spur of the moment just seemed impossibly hard, and spending a weekend there,

with her potential new job and move there, was impossible to imagine. Best case

scenario, I foresaw some big fight at some point in the weekend, when everything came

to a head somehow. Worst case scenario, I’d go there and discover she did have her new

boyfriend ensconced somewhere after all. Perhaps her supposed job meetings were

simply liaisons, and my presence there might simply be as a beard. Maybe he was

married too. I didn’t want to find out. The doubt was preferable to the certainty that

could hurt, a lot. “I think I’ll pass,” I said at last. If I had to stake my life on it, I would

bet that there was no boyfriend, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t preparing for a new life

that might not include me, and it didn’t mean I could find the nerve to help her prepare

for it.

“I see,” she responded with a neutral tone of voice that revealed neither disappointment

nor surprise. “Too bad, but it’s all right if you don’t want to. I’ve got to get going – I’ll

be in touch.

We hung up, and I wondered if our marriage had just ended.

Later in the day Ken Swanson called me. “Marc,” he started, “I have some bad news.”

Uh-oh, I thought to myself, trying to anticipate where this was going to go. My

immediate thought was that he and Brian Culpepper had finally had their first major

disagreement. “What’s up?” I responded as coolly as I could.

“You’re going to be mad at me,” he warned me.

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This was going to be bad news, I thought to myself. “Don’t worry about that. What’s

up?”

“I’m going back to Seattle.” His voice was flat and definitive.

I wasn’t sure what this meant, or why it was bad news. Some crisis with his family,

perhaps? “What do you mean?” I asked. “For the weekend?”

I could practically hear his head shaking. “No, no. Well, yes, actually. This weekend.

I’m going back to Allison.”

“To see Allison, you mean.” It felt like pulling teeth.

He exhaled heavily. “I’m moving back,” he announced, his voice thick with emotion. “I

want to be with my wife.”

I was silent for a moment, trying to work out how to respond. “What’s going on, Ken?

Why all of a sudden?”

“It’s not all of a sudden,” he objected. “I thought she’d change her mind. I thought she’d

come out here.”

“Maybe she still will,” I advised, already knowing it was futile. “Take a week or two off,

talk things out with her. Tell her about how much you like it in your new job. I’m sure

Brian wouldn’t mind.” Brian was going to be furious, I knew, with Ken and with me if

Ken did back out, but I also was sure he’d gamble on the week or two away from work if

it meant a chance of not having to find a replacement for Ken. It had taken long enough

to find him, and it was going to be harder to find a new replacement. Wife problems or

not, the rumors that Brian was hard to work with would just grow larger.

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“We’ve talked for hours on the phone. More and more in the past week. Bottom line,

she says she still loves me but she doesn’t want to leave her life out there. She wants me

to come back to it.”

“Ken, you took a new job, a big job. You may not have a job to go back to, and it’s

going to look terrible that you left this job so quickly. To be honest, it may hurt your

career enough that it will be years – if ever – that you get another opportunity like this

one. I’m just saying – are you sure you’ve thought this through?” I was trying to sound

as rational and helpful as I could, but part of me felt terrified by his impulsiveness, or

what seemed like his impulsiveness. No, not so much impulsiveness as recklessness. He

was risking his job, his reputation, and his career on his desire to be with his wife, a wife

he couldn’t even convince to move along with him to further his career. Some men

would have seen her unwillingness as a sign of her lack of love for him, but Ken was

abandoning his professional prospects to concede to her preferences about where to live.

What was he thinking?

“ I love her,” he told me plaintively. “That’s all that matters.”

I was not going to talk him out of it. Love didn’t put food on the table, or pay for the

table, much less the roof over it, but I could tell there was no point in arguing. In point of

fact, he was still young enough that his career could survive this kind of mistake,

although it would cost him. Perhaps it would even be worth it. I no longer had the time

to recover from that kind of mistake, but Ken and his wife still had a chance. “Does

Brian know yet?” I asked at last. Ken told me he’d talked to Brian, and that I could

expect his call. I asked how Brian had taken the news, and Ken laughed in a way that

indicated it hadn’t been funny. “It’s not a conversation I’d ever want to have to do

again,” he admitted. I laughed with him to show that I understood, meanwhile imagining

the conversation Brian and I were going to have.

“I hope you’re not mad at me,” Ken said earnestly. “I really enjoyed working with you,

and it was a great job. It just wasn’t…”

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“I know,” I consoled him. In truth, I wasn’t mad. I’d been through enough candidates’

changes of heart to be philosophical, or at least resigned, about this kind of setback. All I

could do was make sure the candidate in this situation understood the consequences of his

decisions, and in Ken’s case I was pretty confident he did. “It just wasn’t meant to be.”

Ken thanked me for my understanding. We exchanged a few concluding formalities –

best of luck, nice working with each other, keep in touch and so on – but neither of our

hearts were in it. His heart was already in Seattle, with his wife, the stubborn Allison.

My heart – well, my heart was barely beating, between Ken’s sudden news and Karen’s

apparent defection. The irony of my candidate bailing out on the job I’d placed him in to

be with his wife while my own wife was in the process of bailing on me and our life here

was just too much.

Brian Culpepper did indeed call, within the hour, and he lived up to his reputation for

anger. Mostly he was angry at Ken, but my role in delivering Ken to him to create the

situation didn’t escape his attention. I mostly just listened and tried to ride it out. “It’s a

loss, all right,” I told him soothingly, once he’d wound down some. “Probably not the

first time either of us has seen something like this, and probably not the last either,

unfortunately.”

“Last time I take a chance like this,” he growled. “I thought the wife was going to be a

problem, but Swanson said he could handle her. If he can’t handle his wife he wasn’t

right for the job in the first place.” His indignation had a self-righteous tenor to it.

I reminded myself not to tell him about my problems with Karen. “So, should I get

started on finding you a replacement, Brian?” I asked, trying to sound upbeat. My

contract called for me to be liable for a replacement should a candidate leave within the

first year, so I was on the hook for the work. Since my conversation with Ken I’d been

thinking of who I’d reach out to; the pool was not deep, and I’d already fished it once.

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“No, I don’t think so,” he told me flatly. “I think I’m going to go in a different

direction.”

That was not what I wanted to hear. A small sense of doom started to loom. “Brian,

you’ve already paid me. Our contract obligates me to find you someone else. I’m

already on it,” I said, slightly overstating my efforts.

“Forget it. Just send the money back and I’ll figure out where I want to go from here.”

Send the money back? I’d been counting on that payday. It literally was in my bank

account. Recruiting 101 was “Never return the fee.” It was just like Brian to be

irrational like that. “Brian, I know you’re upset right now, and you have every right to

be,” I said soothingly. “But we have an agreement, and the agreement says I work for

you to find you another candidate.”

“I just want a refund,” he growled. “It didn’t work out.”

“There are no refunds, Brian. You know that.”

There was an ominous silence on his side, and when he spoke again his voice was icy.

“Marc, you are in a relationship business. Reputation, word of mouth, that kind of thing.

I don’t think you want to get into a pissing contest with me. Just return the money and

what happened with Swanson stays between us.”

Yeah, between us and whomever you’re in the room with next time you get mad about

this, I thought. If Brian started a pissing contest I could poison his well too, making it

tough to get another good candidate to come there. But it wasn’t a war either of us would

win. “Tell you what, Brian, let’s talk on Monday,” I suggested in a conciliatory tone.

“Give us both a chance to let things cool off a little bit.” He hemmed and hawed but

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eventually grudgingly agreed, although not giving me much hope that he’d change his

mind.

The day had gone badly enough already, but the bad news wasn’t over. Late in the

afternoon Tondo called. “Hello, Marc,” he chirped. “I’m so sorry I’ve been so hard to be

in touch with.” He didn’t sound particularly sorry.

“That’s all right,” I told him, more graciously than I felt. “I know how busy you are.”

“To be sure. But we’re ready to move ahead on the AD DX job, and we want Karen.” I

could feel his beaming smile even over the phone.

“I see. Have you, umm, talked to Karen about this?”

“No, Marc – I wanted to talk to you about it first. I’ll call her next.”

Good luck with that, I thought. “Yeah, well, you might be a little too late about that.” I

quickly filled him in about Karen having other opportunities and that she was close to

finalizing one of them, without revealing whom they were with or where.

Tondo paused before responding. “I see. That will be very…unfortunate if Karen has

accepted another position. I will call her as soon as we get off the phone and see what

she thinks.” His voice was calm and emotionless.

If Karen had told me the truth, she would be in discussions about her new job, so Tondo

was going to have trouble convincing her, or even getting in touch with her. “Yeah, I’ll

be curious to hear. Don’t forget my other candidates,” I reminded him. “Adam and Tom

would both do great.”

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“Yes,” he said smoothly. “We liked them very much, and if Karen is, indeed, not

interested we will be sure to give them every consideration.” I felt reassured by that; they

were great candidates, and with the prospect of Brian’s payday evaporating I didn’t want

to think about Tondo’s disappearing as well. I shouldn’t have been comforted. Tondo

continued in an apologetic tone, “you see, we have identified another candidate on our

own, someone Patrick and I both know and have a great deal of respect for. We would

have to give that person extra consideration as well.” This time Tondo did sound

genuinely sorry about the fact, but I knew him well enough to know that he wouldn’t let

that deter him from picking their person if that’s what he thought was the right business

decision.

I quickly mentally reviewed the agreement. I did have the exclusive, but nothing

prohibited them from filling the position with a candidate I hadn’t brought to them – nor

did I get paid in that case. “I see,” I said at last, not attempting to mask my

disappointment.

“Let’s see first what your wife says,” Tondo insisted, his tone back to its normal cheerful

levels. “If she isn’t our person, then we’ll see about the other candidates. And if things

do not work out for your other candidates, well, there will always be other things we can

work on together.”

It sounded logical and conciliatory, but I knew Tondo well enough to know that what

Tondo was really saying was that if Karen bailed on the job, they were going to their

candidate as their next choice.

Neither situation was definitively decided yet, but with a sinking heart I knew that in the

space of an afternoon I’d lost one actual fee and one expected fee, neither of which I

could afford to lose – especially if I was soon to be a divorced loser on my own. I didn’t

have much in the pipeline, partly because these past few weeks I’d been neglecting

pursuing new engagements, too distracted by the other things going on in my life and

feeling pretty good about the two fat paydays that had now, regrettably, evaporated.

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I hung up the phone feeling broke and more than a little afraid for my future. Old age

had never seemed as threatening as it did now.

Chapter 43

I spent the weekend in a funk. I skipped the pool both mornings, didn’t go out for meals,

and didn’t do anything productive. A more far-sighted person, such as I once thought I

was, might have used the two professional setbacks as incentive to start working on what

I was going to do next to create some revenue opportunities. After all the time I’d been

in business, I knew the drill – go through my contacts, identify people I hadn’t touched

base with lately or people who’d mentioned they might have something, follow-up with

people at companies where I’d seen there had been some turnover or major changes.

Maybe even call in a few favors, if it got that desperate. I’d done well over the years, not

just for myself but also for my clients and my candidates, and liked to believe I had a

reservoir of goodwill waiting for me.

But I just didn’t care. Not at the moment, not for the weekend, and I wasn’t sure I was

going to again.

I can’t claim that I was a recluse all weekend. I didn’t spend the weekend huddled in a

dark closet, and I answered Karen’s few calls and texts over the weekend. She knew

something was off with me and pressed me on it, but I told her I was just feeling punk

and she didn’t push it. She seemed a little distracted by whatever she was doing there, to

be honest. She just told me to get some rest and stay hydrated, but I had the feeling she

didn’t think that was going to solve what was wrong with me.

Robyn also texted me to tell me she was in her new apartment, giving me the address and

telling me I should stop by when I had the chance. I told her I was happy for her – which

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I was, despite my own malaise – and waffled as to exactly when I might stop by. I didn’t

feel up to going there this weekend.

A man’s house was supposed to be his castle, according to the hoary old adage. While I

didn’t feel like going anywhere else, I couldn’t honestly say it felt like a castle or that I

was the king of anything. I stayed there not because it felt so much at home there or even

safer there, but because it just seemed like too much effort to go anywhere else. I didn’t

want to run into people I knew or would have to even casually interact with, and I

definitely didn’t want to see other people leading their happy lives. Maybe if I knew I

could watch a bunch of unhappy people moping around reflecting on their even worse

lives I might have made the effort, but there weren’t any foreign art films showing.

I felt weighted down by life, and silly about feeling that way. Karen’s life had

momentum, and now was acquiring more. It should have been easy for me to coast along

in her wake, let her carry me through the next few years of life. Moving shouldn’t be

such a big deal. We could move there, I could pick up some new assignments, and life

could be good. Why wouldn’t I look forward to more happy days together, like the one

we’d had at the Arboretum?

Instead, I felt like doing nothing. Nothing to get myself psyched to move, nothing to get

myself set-up for some more work, nothing to congratulate Karen on her big new job. I

didn’t even feel like checking in on Robyn to see how her move had gone. I just wanted

to wallow in my self-pity. Well, I didn’t want to, but that’s what I was doing.

When I let myself think rationally about it, I decided again that I didn’t think Karen had a

new man. She wasn’t a mean person, and I couldn’t believe she would talk about her

new job and moving in the way that she had unless she expected I’d come with her. She

thought that I would be OK with wherever she wanted to live, move whenever she

decided it was time to change. But she wasn’t doing that to shed me, I didn’t believe. In

a way, that made me feel worse. She must feel sorry for me, and was willing to carry me,

even as the deadweight I’d become.

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It was possible, I allowed glumly, that she had not yet realized what a loser I’d become.

I hadn’t really told her about how few assignments I’d been working on, or that my two

current ones had fallen through. She hadn’t been around enough to realize how I wasn’t

working as hard as I should have been, and used to. Our texts and phone calls weren’t

enough for her to discern how scared I was about the rest of my life, and in our periodic

times together either I hid that fear well or she chose to not see it. Knowing Karen, she

might not even recognize what it was.

I wandered through the house, thinking of the years we’d spent here. To be fair, Karen

had spent much less actual time here than I had, due to the combination of her being

away so much and me working from home. Still, I liked to think we had good memories

here, that she could think of our life here as having been good. I couldn’t quite

understand why I didn’t want to move from here, though. The house was comfortable,

but, at the end of the day, it was just a house. There would be nice places to live in

Chicago too. Cary was a good place to live, but so was Chicago, with all the added

advantages that a big city like Chicago had to offer. I was no stranger to moving, and

Karen’s new employer would no doubt hire a moving firm to make the move as painless

as possible. We wouldn’t have to do the packing or unpacking ourselves. All we’d have

to do was tell them when to come and where to take our processions. All the logistical

things, like putting the house in the market, looking for a new place in Chicago, changing

addresses, getting new drivers licenses and such – it was a bother, but nothing that

thousands or tens of thousands of people didn’t do every year, and nothing that I hadn’t

done several times before. It just wasn’t a big deal.

But it was. Somehow, I felt incapable of even starting the series of steps that would be

required. I didn’t see the point, and I didn’t feel able to make the effort. Karen might not

be done with me yet, but I felt she surely would see through me soon. She hadn’t signed

up to be with a washed up old man. She wouldn’t tolerate it, and I didn’t want her to

have to. I could move there with her, only to watch her grow increasingly frustrated,

dissatisfied, and unhappy with me. I wasn’t the man she had married, much less the man

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she deserved. Really, she was a saint for even wanting me to move with her. I shook my

head; all right, I was married to a saint, but that didn’t mean I wanted to be a burden for

her. Better to have a clean break. Better to let her start her new life on her own. She’d

be surprised, I liked to think, and maybe she’d have a good cry, but I had no doubts that

she’d quickly regroup, and go on with the rest of her life.

I wasn’t going anywhere. Not moving, not in my career, not in keeping my marriage

alive and well. This house felt less like a womb and more like a tomb. I tried to think of

how the house would feel once Karen had gone, all her things with her. I wondered if I’d

just leave the vacated spots empty, or if I’d end up filling them with decorations as

impersonal as the furnished apartments I’d seen with Robyn. I knew I wouldn’t have the

ambition to redecorate on my own; acquiring new furniture, new mementos, new

evidence of a life after Karen, all seemed ludicrous to me now. What would be the point?

Who would that person be? Before Karen I had been a person who took trips, had

adventures, did things with friends, and filled my own homes with accumulated physical

memories. But that person had been a younger person, a person with hopes and, dare I

say, dreams that I somehow no longer had. It wasn’t Karen’s fault; she hadn’t robbed me

of those. My lack now was my own fault.

I could keep on muddling through the rest of my life. I had some money, and sure some

new jobs would come along with a modest amount of work on my part. I didn’t think

that Karen would take me for much, if anything, in the divorce. She might let me keep

the house, or maybe we’d sell it and I’d end up as Robyn’s neighbor in one of those

impersonal furnished places. It wouldn’t make a lot of difference to me; without Karen, I

was numb to whether I was here or somewhere else.

Some people didn’t know when to stop their lives. Look at Jack LaLanne, working out to

the very end. Look at Jack Nicholson, still a hound well into his seventies. Both of them

fought aging and at least didn’t let it stop them from the things they enjoyed. Then there

were people like Elvis or Orson Welles, who each lasted a few years longer than they

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should have. James Dean, Galois, Mozart – those guys did it right, making their mark but

not outliving their talents.

If I didn’t do something, I was in real danger of outliving my life. I’d already had my

best years. There had been good years, with lots of good memories, but it seemed all too

obvious that I was on the downside of my life and slipping fast. Once Karen was out of

my life, things would really fall apart. It made me sad to think that there’d be no one to

truly mourn me. It would have been nice, I thought, to have someone at my funeral who

would really miss me, who would be impacted by my passing. Maybe Robyn might miss

me, but, after our recent odd conversations, even she might not be around. It didn’t really

matter who was or wasn’t going to be there.

I sat in the kitchen with a beer Sunday evening. I could blow out the pilot light of the

oven, let the gas fill up the house and slowly put me to sleep for good. There were plenty

of sharp knives in the kitchen, any one of which would do the job. It wouldn’t hurt too

much, I tried to assure myself, once I made that first big cut. I’d surely grow numb as the

blood ran out, all over the kitchen floor or, if I wanted to be neat, in the bathtub. And, of

course, there were plenty of belts around if I wanted to try to hang myself.

Sadly, I wasn’t going to do any of those. I didn’t know where the pilot light was, or how

long the gas would take to do the job. I hated knives. And hanging was so problematic;

it might be a long, agonizing death if I didn’t manage to break my neck right away. My

best bet was that a prowler would break in and kill me, but the neighborhood was way too

safe to make that likely. So I’d sit here brooding, day after day. I’d end up an old man,

sighted occasionally by neighbors as I furtively went out for odd errands. I’d probably

stop the swimming, of course, as I wouldn’t want to talk to other people at the gym. So

I’d get fat and out of shape, piling on to the ongoing aging of my body that would happen

under the best circumstances. Friends and colleagues would try to keep in touch, but

would slowly drift off as I stopped responding or making any efforts to be engaged.

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Not a pretty picture, the rest of my life. Say I went with Karen. It wouldn’t change

anything. She’d increasingly carry me more and more, as I disengaged, and to my

inevitable decline I could add the disgrace of knowing she was witnessing it firsthand. At

first she’d feel concern for me, then pity, then finally disgust. She’d feel guilty about

feeling that way, and I’d feel bad for making her feel that way. It would make an already

unpleasant end all the more ugly. Bad for me and worse for her.

No, I wouldn’t be going to Chicago with Karen.

Chapter 44

I managed to drag myself to the pool the following morning. I didn’t feel like it – not in

the least – but the thought of another entire day inside the house filled me with dread. I

walked into the pool and spotted Robyn stroking away gracefully in her lane, oblivious to

anything else. Carson was in the pool chatting to Marty, who was sitting at the edge of

Carson’s lane, a few lanes away from Robyn’s, so I headed towards them. “Hey, guys,” I

called out.

Carson nodded, while Marty gave me a long look. “You look like hell,” he noted.

“Yeah, well, you should see it from inside my head,” I responded glumly.

“Too much partying?” Carson asked with a sly expression, suggesting he’d been there.

“Not exactly. Long story.”

Carson pulled himself out of the water and retrieved his towel. He quickly dried off and

told us he had to go meet Adele, so Marty and I told him goodbye. “Give Adele my

best,” Marty added.

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As Carson walked away I asked Marty if he knew Adele, other than just meeting her at

Sue’s funeral. “I’ve met her a couple times,” he told me. “Nice girl. She kind of wears

the pants in that family, I have to say.”

I wondered how he knew that, and couldn’t help but wondering how he would assess the

pants-wearing situation in my household; I didn’t really want to know. In any case, it

would be moot soon enough. I didn’t respond to Marty, and glanced over at Robyn

swimming away. Marty followed my gaze. “What is it with you and Robyn?” he asked,

surprising me.

“What do you mean?” I tried to not appear defensive or feel guilty.

Marty gave me a reproachful smile. “Come on, Marc. I’m old but I’m neither blind nor

senile.”

“There’s nothing going on with us,” I responded at last. “Honestly.”

Marty studied me for a long few moments, to the point where I was uncomfortable.

“Maybe,” he allowed, sounding unconvinced. “Maybe not for you, but I’m telling you,

Marc, she’s different lately.”

“Different how?” I wondered if he’d picked up on Robyn’s declaration of independence

from her mother somehow, although it had been pretty sudden.

Marty shook his head, and looked over at Robyn. She was so graceful and smooth,

making it fun to watch her. It looked effortless, although I knew full well that it wasn’t.

It required coordination and conditioning that I not only lacked now but never had.

“Little things. She used to keep her head down, just get in the pool and do her business.

Now, she looks for you when she comes and when she’s done. She even smiles at the

rest of us.”

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“What makes you think it has anything to do with me? Maybe she’s just shy and it just

took awhile to start being friendly.” It sounded plausible to me, and Marty considered it

at some length before responding. “Maybe,” he responded at last, not sounding

convinced. He turned his attention back at me. “But I see how she lights up when she

sees you. She hides it well, I’ll give her that, but it’s there.”

I flushed a little, both embarrassed and pleased by his observation. “I don’t know about

that. Sure, we talk. We’ve had lunch a few times.” I shrugged. “But there’s nothing

going on.”

Marty looked at me, and I wasn’t sure if there was a twinkle in his eye or if he was just

letting me off the hook. “Maybe from your side, you being happily married and all. I

don’t know about from her side, my friend.” His face was serious, even worried, as he

looked back at Robyn. “She’s a good kid,” he added softly.

“She is,” I agreed, wondering if I was helping or hurting her.

“You better be careful with her,” Marty warned me, his voice slightly gruff.

I looked over at him. “Believe me, the last thing I’d want to do to Robyn would be to

hurt her.”

Marty nodded, but kept watching her. There was a fondness in his eyes that almost

seemed paternal. Or perhaps it was sadness, I couldn’t really tell. “You might not mean

to, but she’s more fragile than you think.”

I let out a quick laugh. “Fragile? Just look at her. She’s strong as a horse. I wish I was

that strong.”

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Marty shook his head, as if disappointed in my naivety. “I didn’t say she was frail,” he

corrected me. “I said she was fragile. It’s not the same thing, not at all. She could get

broken very easily. And I’d hate to see that.”

I understood that, and it was a picture I didn’t want to see. Marty had somehow

transformed from just a chatty guy at the pool to a wise man, or, rather, it had been there

all along and I’d been too self-involved to notice it. I nodded my wordless agreement.

Marty looked over at me kindly. “You’re a strong one – you have to realize not everyone

is as strong as you.”

“Me? Strong?” I laughed. “I don’t think so!” If there was anything I didn’t feel,

especially lately, it was strong. Maybe it was all relative, with Marty comparing me to

himself. Marty just smiled at me. “You’re the guy in those war movies, the average guy

who ends up being the unexpected hero. The Tom Hanks character.”

“I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”

“Do I?” he asked cryptically, keeping his eyes locked on mine. If my life was a war

movie, he’d be the tough old sergeant, or maybe the general, who’d seen it all and still

was capable of surprising people by letting them know he cared. I stared at Marty but

didn’t say anything in response. His assertion seemed so out of the blue that I didn’t

know what to make of it. I didn’t feel like a hero, I didn’t feel strong, and if I was a Tom

Hanks character it’d be more like the guy in The Terminal than the captain in Saving

Private Ryan. Marty watched me and seemed to read my thoughts. With an encouraging

smile, he turned his attention back to Robyn, still swimming away steadily. There was

nothing more to say.

With a last look at Robyn, I got in the pool and started my workout, trying to block out

the rest of the world, which seemed heavier to me than ever before.

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When I finished, Marty and Robyn were both gone, but Mary was kicking away two

lanes away. I was a little surprised Marty wasn’t still around. For all I knew, he’d

shanghaied Robyn when she got done with her workout in order to have a fatherly – or,

rather, grandfatherly – talk with her. I wondered what he might say, and how Robyn

might characterize our relationship. Marty seemed to think she had some sort of crush on

me, which was flattering but which I doubted. On the other hand, I didn’t have a better

word for what she might feel towards me.

When I checked my phone I found a text from Robyn, suggesting we have lunch at her

apartment. I paused for a long moment, thinking that if Marty was right things could go

bad in a hurry. I could have made excuses, told her I was too busy or had another lunch,

but I figured I might as well face things head on. I had so many problems already that it

didn’t seem like things could get any worse. So I hoped.

I texted back fine, and asked if I could bring anything. She replied almost immediately,

saying she’d just order a pizza and asking my topping preferences, which I sent back.

The rest of the morning I puttered away aimlessly. I at least started going through my

emails, replying to some of them and updating my databases. I listened to some

voicemails but didn’t make any return calls. I felt like I was waiting, not so much for my

lunch but for what I couldn’t quite say. The other shoe to drop, perhaps?

At noon I found my way to Robyn’s new apartment. “Come in,” she said at the door,

smiling a proud smile and appearing pleased to see me. She dressed neatly in her work

clothes, presumably planning on going back to work after lunch, and she looked like the

proverbial million bucks. “The pizza is already here.”

“So,” I said, stepping inside as she closed the door behind me. “Is this the new food

court?”

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She led me towards the kitchen area, where the pizza box sat on the counter, with plates

out already. “Well, I do have rent to pay now.” She didn’t sound too worried about it.

“I’d give you the grand tour but you’ve pretty much seen it, and I don’t want to let the

pizza get cold.” She directed me to a chair at the kitchen table, and dished out a slice of

pizza. She also got me a soda to drink – giving me a glimpse of her mostly empty

refrigerator – and sat down next to me with her own slice and a glass of water. I couldn’t

help but notice that she must have bought the soda for me, as I’d never seen her drink a

soda. I felt both complimented and slightly worried about it.

“Your place is nice,” I complimented her. In fact, it looked very much like the unit in

this complex we’d visited. This one had a slightly brighter color scheme, different

kitchen appliances, and a bigger flat screen television in the living room, but it still felt

like an extended stay hotel. I couldn’t really see any personal touches, aside from some

flowers on the table, which could have come from the rental agent for all I knew. They

had a card on them, although I didn’t want to be so crass as to try to read it, so even they

didn’t quite count as a personal touch. Perhaps she had photos in her bedroom. “I like

it.”

She beamed at me, her eyes lively. It was fun to see her so animated, without her typical

reserve. “I want to show you my other new toy.” She practically leapt out of her chair,

went over to the counter to get her purse. She pulled an iPad out of it. “I got it this

weekend.”

“Oh, those are cool,” I gushed, taking it from her as she handed it to me to look at.

“You know,” she told me. “I thought about getting a laptop, but I decided why get a

laptop and then get an Internet connection for here, when this will do everything I want?”

She looked very satisfied with her decisions, and I couldn’t fault her logic.

“I’ve thought about getting one of those, but haven’t gotten around to it,” I confessed. I

moved my fingers. “Too much typing; I like a physical keyboard.”

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“I don’t even think I’ll get cable,” she said, holding the iPad proudly in front of her. “I

don’t watch much TV, and if I want to I can watch it on this.”

“Most things, anyway,” I agreed.

We ate our pizza largely in silence. She only had one slice, while I was a little more of a

glutton and ate most of three pieces. “So, how do you like living on your own?” I asked

as she was munching carefully. “So far, anyway?”

Robyn seemed to give my question careful consideration, or maybe she was just finishing

chewing before responding. “I like it,” she told me simply. She looked at what we could

see of the rest of the apartment. “All these rooms, just to myself! I can walk around, sit

wherever I want. I can play music as loud as I want – any music I want.” She smiled

happily.

“It’s the little things,” I agreed, although I was having a hard time imagining her playing

loud music. I wondered what music she might listen to. Had her mother conditioned her

to music from her – i.e., my era – or was Robyn discovering new music of her own? I

smiled back at her. “How’s your mom taking it?”

Her smile faded to something that could be characterized as polite. “Oh, it’s hard for her,

I guess,” she conceded a little glumly.

“Let me guess,” I said casually. “The flowers from her?”

Robyn barely suppressed her smile. “It was her excuse to stop by. I think she wants to

help me redecorate.” She shrugged. “It’s not like I was that crazy about how she

decorated our house. Her house.” The distinction seemed important.

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“Well, I expect you’ll add more of your own touches to the place, after you are here

awhile.”

“We’ll see.” Her tone was curiously enigmatic – why wouldn’t she make the place more

her own over time? -- but I let it go. I helped her clean up, talking her into putting the

remaining slices in the refrigerator. We stood awkwardly in the kitchen. I wasn’t sure

how quickly she wanted to get back to work, or if she wanted to show me the rest of her

apartment. I suddenly felt extremely self-conscious, standing in the apartment of a

young, attractive, single woman. Robyn wasn’t dressed provocatively in any way, just

slacks and a conservative blouse, but she looked as fresh and, well, healthy as always.

I could kiss her, I thought out of nowhere. I could simply lean over and kiss her. It

wouldn’t be the strangest thing anyone had ever done. Not even the strangest thing I’d

done, to be honest. Maybe she was even expecting it, I rationalized. Maybe she would

be disappointed if I didn’t make a pass of some sort. After all, I was presumably the first

man she’d had over to her new apartment, and that was the kind of behavior that one

usually did in one’s own place. I found myself studying her face very closely, thinking of

how soft her lips looked, how tender her cheeks would feel. I thought about how it

would feel to take her in my arms, to feel her body against mine. It had been a long time

since I’d hugged – really hugged – any woman other than Karen. Sure, I hugged Laura

when we got together, but those were friendly, lean-in hugs, not hugs designed to

maximize bodily sensation. Karen still had a great body, but she wasn’t an athlete in her

thirties, and there were no more new moments when it came to feeling her body.

Touching Robyn would be all new, exciting for any man and, I hoped, novel and thrilling

for her. I found myself getting aroused at the thought, and searched Robyn’s face

desperately for a sign, a clue, for any indication of what she wanted me to do.

While I was doing that, I thought of Marty’s warning, and, like that, the moment passed.

Maybe she wanted me to make a move, maybe she didn’t, but what mattered was that I

knew I shouldn’t. It might be what she thought she wanted, but I couldn’t fool myself

that it was what she needed. I exhaled heavily, as if releasing my disappointment, and

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looked over at the living room. “Well, I guess I better get going, so you can get back to

work.”

Robyn’s face grew unexpectedly tentative at this, like she wasn’t quite ready for me to

go. She held up a hand. “If you can wait a minute, there’s one more thing I want to show

you.” I told her that was fine, but as she headed back towards her bedroom I got worried

again. What if, I thought to myself, she reappeared in her bra and panties? Or a slinky

robe? I’d seen her in a swimsuit, of course, and she looked damn good in it, but on her it

just seemed utilitarian, an aid to her swimming, not a means to show off that lithe body.

Picturing Robyn in lingerie, with its implicit promise of seeing the most intimate parts of

her in short order, was a whole different ball game. Was there anything as exciting as

seeing a lover naked, or even half-naked, for the first time? Especially if she was young

and sleek as Robyn and he was an old married man like me. If she came out with signs

she wanted to seduce me, I admitted grimly, well – I was only human. Even Marty

would understand that.

To my mixed relief and, dare I say, regret, Robyn emerged dressed the same, and with a

serious, not seductive, expression on her face. She was carrying a small bottle, which she

handed towards me.

“What is it?” I asked, looking at it. It was a prescription, made out to her, dated the

previous Friday. As I read the detail on the bottle, I felt my face drain and thoughts of a

romantic interlude went completely out the window.

“They’re sleeping pills,” she told me, confirming what I’d already deduced. “For when

we’re ready.”

I handled them back to her numbly. My mind was racing faster than I could find any

words. I looked at her apprehensively. “What, what do you mean? Ready for what?”

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Robyn looked at me reproachfully. “For when you’ve had enough. For when you tell me

you want to go to sleep and not wake up.” She nodded her head at the rest of the

apartment. “I have a nice, neutral place here. We wouldn’t spoil any memories for

anyone else, won’t leave a mess for anyone we care about to clean up.” She smiled

brightly at me, a smile without fear or artifice.

I could scarcely breath. “Is that – is that why you got your own place?” I asked, stunned

at the possibility.

She shook her head. “Not entirely,” she replied carefully. “It was time to move out, like

you said. But I thought I could do that while you were making up your mind.”

I found myself shaking my head. ‘Aren’t you happy? You’ve got your own place, your

iPhone and iPad. You can make friends, start a new life.”

Robyn frowned, not sure why I was objecting. Then her face softened, as if she suddenly

understood. Much to my surprise, she reached out and touched my cheek, ever so softly,

with her hand, cupping my cheek with the palm of her hand. I found myself closing my

eyes, just for a moment, as I took comfort in that gentle and warm touch. “It’s all right,

Marc,” she told me softly. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

Chapter 45

I drove home in a state of confusion. Robyn was presenting me with a perfect way out of

the mess of my life. Of course, it would be suicide, when all along I’d been pretending I

was waiting for random fate, an act of God, if you will, but at some point the distinction

became silly. Robyn was giving me an easy way out. I wouldn’t even have to face my

passing alone; I could slip away in the company of a like-minded person whom I cared

about. That was the problem.

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Robyn was too young to want to die. She had just started her own life. I didn’t know

what kind of happiness she’d had so far in her life, but I had high hopes that she could

find it now. The new apartment, the new technology toys with their access to different

kinds of media and social interaction – it all should open up her life. She could make

friends, start dating, go out and do all the things that young, single, attractive people do.

Eventually she should fall in love, get married, have kids. Her life was in front of her.

Not so with me. I’d lived my life, enough of it anyway. I could live another thirty years,

but it would all be downhill from here, with the slope starting to get increasingly steep.

Looking for an easy way out made all the sense in the world for me. Robyn was being

incredibly understanding and supportive by her offer, unconventional as it was, but that

didn’t mean I should be selfish and drag her down with me.

Plus, if I were to be found with Robyn, people would draw all sorts of incorrect

conclusions. They’d think we had been lovers. They’d probably conclude I’d somehow

lured Robyn into a suicide pact – first I drew her away from her doting mother, then I

took advantage of her innocence to talk her into ending her young, promising life. That

sort of thing. It would make for lurid headlines, be cited as an example of the type of

predatory men who existed in the world. My reputation would be sullied, and people

would pity Karen, all the while wondering how she could have married such a monster.

None of that would be true. We could leave notes to try to counter those accusations, but

no one would really believe them. If I read a news story with the same ending, it would

be what I assumed.

The worst of it would be that Karen’s memories of our time together would be clouded in

retrospect, unable to be sure she ever knew me. I’d lose not just my life but also the life

we’d had together, all those good memories we’d had.

I pulled into my garage and closed the garage door, but didn’t turn off the car. I should

stay in the garage, I brooded. Let the carbon monoxide gradually lull me into an

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irreversible stupor. Karen wasn’t home, I would only sully my car and, perhaps, the

garage. It would be painless.

The garage felt very quiet, even with the music from my car radio playing. It also felt

lonely. Some people like to hang out in their garage. They built workshops, practiced

with a band, turned them into a spare bedroom, or constantly reorganized them. I’d never

been such a person. The garage was just a place to shelter my car, plus store a few odds

and ends that didn’t belong in the house. Karen and I kept it neat enough, but there

wasn’t enough stored in it to make organization an issue. I didn’t dislike the garage, but

it wasn’t one of my favorite parts of the house either. The idea of killing myself here had

surfaced off and on in the past, idly, but the circumstances had never been such to

seriously consider it. Now they were.

I didn’t want to die here. It felt, well, pathetic to have this be my final place on earth,

ending up as a lifeless mass not so different from the shovel or the lawnmower. I hated

to admit it, but resting on a bed or a couch next to Robyn suddenly seemed much more

appealing – not as lonely, not as sad. After all, what did I care what people thought of me

after I was dead? What possible difference could their impression of me matter? Karen

would be leaving me anyway, so an end like that would give her all the more justification

for having made that decision.

I turned off the car and went inside.

Karen called later that night. I hadn’t made any progress on my decision about Robyn’s

offer. It wasn’t as though she was requesting immediate action. She wasn’t pressuring

me to hurry our mutual demise. I rationalized that she probably wanted to play with her

iPad for a while – watch some movies, download some music, explore a bunch of

websites she’d never known of or imagined previously. Heck, it might be weeks or

months before she got antsy about the suicide idea, or even raised it again. Then, again,

my own circumstances were somewhat more urgent, as Karen’s call reminded me.

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“Hey, there,” she said lazily. “What are you doing?”

“Brooding” would have been the most correct answer, but I didn’t see the point of

admitting that. I was sitting on the couch in my study, the television on but at low

volume and tuned to some detective show whose plot I’d long since lost the thread of and

whose main characters I could care less about. They were implausibly attractive, their

faces curiously unmarred by the violence they suffered through or inflicted weekly, and

oblivious to the point of being obtuse about the scripted attraction between them. Still, it

beat “Jersey Shore.” “Oh, the usual,” I replied, realizing it wasn’t so different from the

response I’d initially thought of.

“Good, good,” she hurried along, not seeming to really care what “the usual” might be.

“Listen – I’ve pretty much finalized the job negotiations. Great salary, nice stock rights,

and I arranged for a start date that would let us take a little time off if we wanted to.”

“Is that so?” I answered neutrally. “Good for you.” I heard but did not pay attention to

the use of “us” in her sentence. She’d jumped off her cliff, without waiting to see if I was

following or not.

Karen paused. “You don’t sound too excited.”

“Long day,” I explained half-heartedly. I found myself not wanting to get into it; I just

wanted to crawl further in my hole and not have to explain my reaction. “Long story.

Anyway, I’m happy for you.”

There was another pause before Karen responded. “I’m getting kind of a strange vibe

here, Marc. What’s going on?”

I hadn’t intended to get into this discussion right then, but after a day arguing with myself

about whether, when and with whom to commit suicide, putting it off didn’t seem

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advisable. In fact, I was happy for her, to the extent I could separate the wreckage of my

life, of our shared life, from the exciting next stage in her life. I tried to muster some

enthusiasm in my voice, even though I didn’t feel it. “Karen, I’m really happy for you. It

sounds like a great opportunity.”

“For me, you mean,” Karen said. She knew me too well; she inferred my meaning from

what I wasn’t saying. “Not for you?”

I sighed heavily. I figured I might as well cross the bridge. “It’s always been about you,

hasn’t it, Karen?” I said quietly. “I’m not blaming you – I’m really not – but the job, the

move; I don’t really figure into it, do it?”

“Marc, go to video,” Karen urged, and I complied, even though I dreading doing so at the

moment. It was hard to have the conversation, but it was going to be much harder doing

so while seeing her face. Karen looked great, as always, and the sense of her on the other

side of our conversation got so much stronger and more real as a result. Seeing the

concerned and confused expression on her face made me feel even worse. I felt a

familiar sense of pride that this woman was, inexplicably, my wife, coupled with the new

crushing knowledge that my time with her was borrowed and running out fast. I

wondered what she saw when she looked at me; the man she married, or a guy who’d

aged much more than she had expected. I didn’t want to know.

“What’s going on?” she asked. She looked concerned, as if I was hiding a terminal

illness or something. Something that would explain my reaction in a way she could

understand.

I shook my head in frustration. “Karen, I’m not even sure you want me to come with

you. All this talk about a new job somewhere else – I thought you wanted to go without

me.”

Karen’s face showed her shock. “Why would I want that?”

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I smiled sadly and shrugged. “Maybe you’ve outgrown me. Maybe, I don’t know,

you’ve found someone who fits into your life better. Maybe I’m just an old, tired guy

who can’t do another move.” I shook my head again in frustration and despair. “I

wouldn’t blame you,” I added kindly.

“But – Marc.” She shook her head, reflecting her lack of comprehension. “We’ve talked

about this. I’ve been telling you what I’ve been doing every step of the way.”

Glum as I was, I had to protest, albeit meekly. “You’ve been telling me, but we haven’t

talked. You didn’t ask what I was thinking.”

Karen’s expression grew even more bewildered. It was not an expression I was used to

seeing on her, and it threw me. “But, why didn’t you say anything?” she asked. “Why

did you wait until I’d accepted the job before you bring all this up?”

I had no answer to that. My face fell.

Karen’s face grew determined. “We’re not having this conversation on the phone. I’m

coming home.” She stopped and thought for a second. “I can’t make it tomorrow, but

I’ll be home Wednesday, and we’ll talk about it then.” Her face softened. I knew that

face. I was a problem that Karen had to solve, and she was sure she could. It did not slip

my attention that it wasn’t even important enough to break whatever she was doing

tomorrow to get home and have that conversation as soon as possible. She might be

coming home earlier than planned, but not necessarily with all due speed. I should have

felt mad about that, or at least sad, but at the moment I didn’t feel much of anything at all.

“It will be all right, Marc,” she added tenderly.

But I couldn’t see how.

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Chapter 46

I went to Trevor’s office around eleven the next morning. He’d called earlier in the

morning, and asked me to stop by. I was puzzled that he suggested his office, rather than

one of our more typical meeting places – his house, his club, a restaurant, the driving

range, and so on. The receptionist, his long-time assistant Beverley, greeted me

cheerfully when I walked through the doors.

“Hey, beautiful,” I replied, walking up to her desk. I’d known Beverly as long as I’d

known Trevor. She was Jason’s godmother, which some of Trevor’s friends had thought

odd but which spoke to their close relationship. There had long been rumors that they’d

been lovers, of course, and some thought that they still might be. Certainly Beverly was

still an attractive woman, even if now in her late fifties. She was tall and svelte, not an

athlete’s body but a nice one nonetheless. She was always dressed impeccably, and her

hair and make-up were always just so, whether she was in the office or at a casual

function. I couldn’t imagine her in, say, jeans or flip-flops. Trevor always denied the

rumors of anything more than a close platonic friendship between them, chuckling that

people might think there was more, but I’d always wondered too. I’d seen Laura watch

Beverly carefully when they were both around Trevor, and was sure she had her concerns

as well. Beverly had left her job as his assistant at Aeson when Trevor retired from there,

which surprised some of her compatriots, but not anyone who knew her well. She

viewed her mission as protecting and making life easier for Trevor, and she would follow

him wherever he went. She had a husband at home, no kids, but the man in her life was

Trevor.

Trevor’s office was in a nondescript office building in downtown Raleigh. He’d chosen

not to use an office at Aeson, as he was entitled to, knowing that as long as he stayed

around, people would be tempted to defer to him instead of looking to Jason for

decisions. He’d even chosen not to locate in Research Triangle Park, where Aeson was

located and where there were plenty of other companies he knew people at. Trevor had

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once told me he’d chosen his new space because it was closer to more nice restaurants,

which wasn’t implausible, but I always thought he liked making people come to see him.

The office space itself was modest but impressive – a comfortable anteroom for

Beverly’s desk and a waiting area for visitors, a large office for Trevor himself, a

conference room, and a small office just in case a visitor needed a place to work. All

were expensively furnished, and there was a great view. The building itself was an old

one that had been renovated, and the owners had done a nice job of it. A large law firm

took up several of the floors, and the rest of the building was filled with other law firms,

investment companies, or consulting firms.

“He’s almost ready for you,” Beverly responded, smiling at me. She was good at it, and I

never knew if I got a special smile or if she had an array of special smiles that she used to

make most visitors feel truly welcome. I could see some activity in the conference room,

and nodded towards it. “Trevor’s got company?”

Beverly didn’t bat an eye or look back to see what I was referring to. “Yes, full house

today. No long lunches this week.”

I leaned in a little closer. “Something going on?” I asked quietly, as if someone might be

listening. I had to admit that Trevor’s office often seemed a little subdued, as busy as he

kept himself with Boards and such. It was a far cry from his days at Aeson, but today

there was a spark of energy that I could sense. Beverly batted her eyes at me.

“Something’s always going on with Trevor,” she replied obscurely. “You know that.”

“Marc, sorry to keep you waiting,” Trevor said, coming out of his office. He was in his

shirtsleeves but still looked immaculate. A younger man followed him out. He was

dressed in an expensive suit and had the haircut to match. He gave me a once over,

evidently not very impressed and turned his attention back to Trevor. I suddenly felt

underdressed in my khakis and sports jacket, even though it was one of my nicer sports

jackets. Trevor wouldn’t care, but I was sure I’d lost points with his visitor, if anyone

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was keeping score. “Let me know what you come up with,” Trevor told him, clapping

him on the shoulder encouragingly. To my surprise, the younger man headed towards the

conference room rather than leaving.

Trevor ushered me into his office, closing the door behind him. He indicated I should

take a seat at the small seating area rather than in front of his desk, so I settled into one of

the comfortable leather chairs, which easily cost several thousand dollars each. “Get you

anything?” Trevor asked. “Soda? Something harder?”

“It’s a little early,” I replied. “Soda is fine. Diet if you have it.”

I thought he might call out to Beverly to get it, but he did it himself. He got out a can of

soda and a bottle of water from a small but well stocked refrigerator, then put some ice

from an ice bucket into two glasses. He filled each, and handed me the one with soda,

then sat in the chair perpendicular to mine. He looked at me with barely restrained

excitement.

“How about them Tar Heels?” I teased. Trevor was a diehard Duke fan, and he hadn’t

brought me here to talk basketball. He waved my comment away with a dismissive hand

gesture. “I want to talk to you about something,” he told me with an expression I

couldn’t quite read.

“I figured.” I took a careful sip of my soda. “So, let me guess – you’re going ahead with

this political run? What office?”

Trevor held his face expressionless for several long seconds, then his eyes gleamed and

he broke into a smile. He was like a kid with a big secret. “Nope. Better.”

I looked at him in surprise. “Better? You mean it’s federal?”

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He made a disgusted expression. “Damn politicians. Could you really see me sucking up

to all those donors and special interest groups?” He shook his head vigorously.

In point of fact, I could, having seen other successful businessmen get seduced by the

prospect of public service. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t, but I could see

Trevor making it work. “I guess not,” I replied politely.

He leaned in slightly closer towards me. “I’m starting a company,” he announced

eagerly. He seemed immensely pleased about the prospect. I thought about the guy in

the suit and his compatriots in the conference room and thought: of course, investment

bankers.

I didn’t really know what to say. Not what I expected but not as out of the blue as his

idea about running for office had been. “I see.”

He nodded sagely at me. “I know, I know. I told everyone I was retiring and going to

enjoy my life – but this is what I do. This is what I’m good at.”

I had to give him that. Trevor was a lot of fun to hang out with, he had a lovely wife and

great kids, but what he loved was running a company. I lifted my glass at him.

“Congratulations.”

Trevor filled in some of the blanks, without getting too detailed. He’d found a smart guy

with some novel ideas for mobile applications in the health care space. Trevor was

putting up about two-thirds of the money, and getting some additional investors to pick

up the rest of round one. He’d be the CEO, of course, and have a majority stake. “I

figure a year to be up and on the market, maybe two plus years to get positive, “ he

explained. “I’ve already had some preliminary conversations with some resellers and

they’re very interested in the concept.” He fairly glowed with excitement.

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“I’m really happy for you, Trevor,” I told him, meaning it. At the same time, I was

thinking – my wife is starting a new job, in a new city, and my best friend is starting a

new company, while I barely could get out of bed in the morning and faced the days

ahead with dread. Clearly, I was doing something wrong with my life. “What do Laura

and Jason think?”

He settled back in his chair triumphantly. “Jason wants to put Aeson money into it, but I

told him I wanted it to be clean. And Laura? Well, she’ll miss being a Senator’s wife but

she knows this is what gets me going.”

Whether it was life as a politician’s wife or as an entrepreneur’s, Laura must have

realized that any hopes she had of long lazy afternoons with Trevor weren’t going to

happen. I wondered how she truly felt about that, but decided, either way, she could have

worse choices. It didn’t mean Trevor didn’t love her.

I also wondered what I was doing here, and let the moment stretch out in silence until

Trevor realized I was waiting for him to fill me in. He swirled the water around in his

glass, making the ice clink. He looked at me with satisfaction. “So, I suppose you’re

wondering why I called you here today?”

I shrugged nonchalantly. “Just wanted to share the good news with a friend, I assume.”

Meanwhile, I was quickly trying to figure out if this might mean a nice recruiting

assignment on his behalf, helping him staff up his company. He’d be easy to recruit for;

Trevor had a great reputation, so if he believed the company had promise, so would

candidates. It’d mean a good chunk of change for me, plus working with Trevor would

be fun. It might take my mind off Karen’s leaving. On the other hand, it would be a lot

of work, which at the moment I didn’t have the energy for.

Trevor laughed politely, then grew serious. “Marc, listen: I want you to come work for

me.” He looked at me intently.

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I was still thinking in terms of recruiting, and struggled a little with his choice of words.

“Are there certain jobs you think you need help filling?” I plowed on doggedly.

He smiled I’d fallen into the trap he’d expected me to. “No. Not a recruiting assignment.

I want you to come work for me.” As the meaning of those words sunk in, and as I

visibly gaped to grasp the idea, Trevor quickly sketched out what he had in mind, which

was essentially the head of Human Resources, plus a few other duties to be determined.

“We’ll be a small organization at first,” he concluded, “so everyone will wear a few

hats.” He leaned in and patted my knee. “What do you think?”

I was floored. I hadn’t seen this coming at all. Trevor could tell from my reaction that I

was surprised, and I didn’t try to hide it. “I don’t know what to say, Trevor. It had never

occurred to me.” I shook my head, trying to process the idea.

Trevor looked very pleased with himself. “I was getting the impression maybe you were

getting bored with your recruiting. You’ve done it for a long time – and you’re good at it

– but maybe it’s time for a new challenge. Plus, you know, I know you and Karen have

some stuff going on.”

I didn’t know which hit me harder: my current antipathy towards new challenges, or the

reminder about Karen. Here was Trevor, older than me, but with a young wife and a

youngster’s fearlessness about risks and new challenges. I felt old, old, old. I looked

away from Trevor, and he sensed something was wrong. “What?” he prodded carefully.

“Karen told me last night she took a job in Chicago. Good job, I guess.” I tried not to

sound as forlorn about it as I felt.

“She want you to come?” Trevor asked delicately, sensing there were deeper waters than

it might appear.

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I shrugged. “She says so, but I’m not sure. She didn’t really consult me about the job or

the move.”

“I see.” Trevor’s face was entirely neutral. He rocked his head slightly from side to side,

weighing both sides. “Look, if you want to go with Karen, that’s great. I’m happy for

her and happy for you. Laura and I will be your first visitors, I promise you. But this

job – well, you can’t do it from Chicago. I need you here to help get things rolling.”

I let things stew for a couple seconds, then something occurred to me. I looked at him

carefully. “What is this, Trevor – some sort of consolation prize? You feel sorry for

me?”

Trevor scowled and got up. He paced over to the window, then went over to his desk and

leaned against the closest edge. “You know me better than that, Marc,” he told me

firmly. “Especially not with a new company, one I really believe in. I want you on board

because I think you’ll be good. You understand people. People like you. You’re great at

figuring out what jobs people are right for. Plus, I’ve always trusted your judgment.” He

shook his head decisively. “Not charity, not a ‘consolation prize,’ no hidden motives.

I’m building a team here and I think you’d be a great addition to it.”

His voice had grown softer and more personal, and I had no doubt he was being sincere.

He was a great salesperson, a great seducer, in business as well as romantically, and I was

seeing those skills worked on me. I was greatly flattered, and a few weeks ago I might

have agreed with his assessment. At the moment, though, I doubted I’d ever felt less

ready to take on such a challenge, nor less like I understood people – or myself. Still, I

didn’t want to disappoint my good friend. I peered up at him. “Can I think about it?”

Chapter 47

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The rest of the day was kind of a blur. I numbly tried to keep up with my emails, but

found myself poking around random websites that didn’t have anything to do with

potential searches or candidates. After a time I quit pretending I was trying to work and

tried watching some old movies on TCM, but it was just background noise.

Trevor’s offer had taken me by surprise indeed. I’d honestly never thought about going

back to work for anyone else, never considered any job other than recruiting. Recruiting

was my niche, something I’d been good at and had made a good living at. These days,

though, I was like a species caught in global warming or facing a new predator; my niche

was eroding rapidly, and I had to adapt or become extinct. Species usually didn’t have

the knowledge that they were dying out. They didn’t think about the future, and they

couldn’t do much to shape it, so when the future came it was too late. Humans are both

blessed and cursed by our ability to anticipate and, hopefully, try to prepare for the future.

Still, some of us still are frozen with that foreknowledge, and let the future crush us when

it comes.

That’s how I felt. Instead of feeling better because I had a new option, it just made me

feel worse. There were too many choices, all of them overwhelming. The logical,

expected choice, of course, would be to go to Chicago with Karen, but it just seemed like

it would make my current situation worse. I doubted the move would make me feel more

inspired about working, so while Karen was off on her great new job my own career

would go into an even faster tailspin. Whatever doubts Karen had about me would

intensify, and at some point her love for me would be overcome by something closer to

pity. Maybe that had already started to happen, and maybe I deserved it. It made me

shudder just to think about it.

Taking Trevor’s offer would mean lots of changes as well. Life without Karen, of

course. She’d still be off in Chicago, living her great new life and missing me less and

less every day. I’d think about that too much, and grow even more morose. Meanwhile,

I’d be trying to do a new job, using skills I hadn’t used in years, if ever. Trevor was my

good friend, but he was making a big bet on me. What if I disappointed him? I didn’t

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know which would be worse; him having to tell me he was disappointed in my work, or

him trying to pretend he wasn’t.

So my last option was to stay here and try to muddle on as I was, sans Karen. I was

having a hard enough time of it while we were still together, and couldn’t imagine how

much worse I’d function once we separated and inevitably divorced. Sitting here in my

study alone day after day – well, Robyn’s offer about the pills would become more and

more attractive, even at the cost of her young life.

So nothing appealing behind door number one, number two, or number three. Three

futures each involving downward spirals and vanishing hopes. I found myself fingering

my belt and speculating about what I could attach it to in order to hang myself.

Ken Swanson called in the mid-afternoon. I didn’t answer it, of course, but listened to

his message afterwards. He said he was back in Seattle, and glad of it. He was sure he’d

done the right thing, and that he and Allison were happy together. He asked that I keep

him in mind for future opportunities, but even in my current state I knew there was not

much point of it. It would take a lot to convince me or any other recruiter that the next

opportunity outside Seattle would be any different, much less persuading a potential

employer to take a chance on another relocation for him. No, he was better off building

up his network in Seattle.

I wondered what it had been that had finally pulled him back. At what point did his love

for his wife trump his career? Was Allison so tightly bound to Seattle that living

somewhere else wouldn’t ever an option for her, or was it just that Indianapolis hadn’t

been the right place for her? Why did she get to dictate where they live their lives rather

than him? How did he decide his marriage was more important than his career? I

supposed there were no lessons to be learned, that each marriage and each situation was

different. But I could hear the happiness in Ken’s voice, and grudgingly had to admit that

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his choice wasn’t entirely stupid, as incomprehensible as it might be to me or to Brian

Culpepper.

I found myself wondering if I’d rather be Ken or Allison in the situation. I couldn’t

imagine taking a new job and backing out because Karen was left behind and unhappy

about it, nor could I imagine asking her to give up a dream job to come back to me. I

knew I wasn’t going to tell her to not take the Chicago job. She’d think I was crazy, that

I was being selfish, and she’d be right.

Maybe I lacked sufficient imagination. I knew I’d give almost anything to sound as

happy as Ken had.

Karen called around six. “Bad news, darling,” she announced.

A-ha, I thought. She’s not coming home after all. She decided that I wasn’t worth trying

to convince, and was just going to cut her losses. I couldn’t blame her. “What’s that?” I

asked with a resigned tone of voice.

“I’m stuck in St. Louis. Thunderstorms.”

It might even be true. I could have checked the airline’s flight status, but if she was lying

to me I’d have just felt worse. I didn’t need that. “Is that so?”

“I’m not going to make it home tomorrow morning,” she explained. “I’m really sorry.

Really sorry. I’m hoping I can finish everything up and get there tomorrow night.”

“It’s all right,” I told her, feeling comfortably numb about the situation. It didn’t matter

if she didn’t make it home sooner. We were just going to have a conversation that was

going to make us both feel worse, and not change anything. I wished she was just

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continuing on her trip, or going to Chicago to start her new life. I picked up a piece of

paper and a pen and started tracing some lines.

“No, it’s not,” she insisted. “I want to come and talk about things, make sure everything

is all right.”

“We have a pretty long history of talking about things over the phone,” I reminded her,

realizing after I said it that I might have opened the door to us having the conversation

right then. I knew I wasn’t ready for that.

“Maybe too much history of that,” she replied, sounding uncharacteristically weary. Just

then I could hear the airport’s public address system making some announcement, which

I couldn’t understand and suspected most people there couldn’t either. Karen was silent,

trying to interpret the airportese, and she sighed at last. “Yeah, that’s it,” she conceded

once the noise had subsided. “We’re cancelled. Good thing I already rebooked and

made a hotel reservation, just in case.” No standing in long lines for my Karen, I thought

proudly. “This travel sure sucks.”

“You love the travel,” I pointed out mildly. The lines in my doodle had turned into

railroad tracks, stretching off into the distance. I’d learned as a kid how to add

perspective by drawing them closer and closer together in the distance, but remembered

how surprised I was to learn that, contrary to junior high school geometry, parallel lines

do meet. Or can meet, anyway. I didn’t believe it until my father showed me longitude

lines on the globe, and it was a revelation that the things I had taken as given were, in

fact, situational. Parallel lines, it turned out, can stay parallel, can meet, or can drift ever

further away, depending on the curvature of the local space. Very much like

relationships, I thought dispiritedly.

“I do?” she asked in surprise. “No, I don’t. Not any more.” She sounded simultaneously

indignant and world-weary.

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“Well, you’re in the wrong line of work then.”

There was a pause as Karen processed that. “Why do you think I’m taking this new job?”

she asked in a soft voice.

I honestly didn’t know. “Um, more money, more prestige – the usual?” I fumbled.

“Don’t be silly,” she chided me. “Well, I mean, that’s all true but so was Tondo’s job or

the job in San Francisco. I took this one because it means a lot less travel. A lot less.”

I was nonplused. “I did not know that,” I admitted at last. The railroad tracks had been

joined by a small railroad station, with two stick figures standing outside.

Karen sighed heavily. “You didn’t? I guess that’s my fault. I didn’t really tell you much

about it, did I? That’s what I mean about needing to come home and talk more about

this. There’s probably a lot I haven’t told you, a lot we should have talked about. I want

to make that right.”

A glass half-full kind of guy – and I was once a glass mostly full person – might have

heard that and assumed it meant she had more good news for me, wanted to tell me things

that I’d like hearing. Unfortunately, my glass not only wasn’t half-full, it was broken,

shattered in pieces. I heard what Karen was saying and thought about the other shoe that

was getting ready to drop, right on my head, or on my heart. I forced a smile that I knew

she couldn’t see, and that I certainly didn’t feel. “Well, then, I guess we’ll have a good

talk tomorrow.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” she promised, and paused for a moment. “How was your

day?”

I tried to decide if she was just being polite, or if she sensed something was off. “Oh, you

know, the usual?” I said vaguely.

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“Oh, really? Did you, um, go swimming?”

I had to confess I had skipped, but told her I’d try to go in the morning, wondering if I’d

have the energy then either. She asked how my assignments were going, and I somewhat

reluctantly told her about Ken Swanson’s message. “So he screwed me, screwed his

career at the same time, but he’s happy anyway. Go figure.”

“The important thing is that he’s happy,” she reminded me. “It sounds like they just

wanted to be together.”

I wanted to say something clever about us, but couldn’t come up with anything

appropriate. Instead, I told her something I hadn’t planned on. “Trevor offered me a

job.” My doodle now had a train on the tracks, although it was unclear if it was coming

or going. For that matter, I realized, it was unclear if the two stick figures were greeting

each other, or saying goodbye.

“Really?” she asked, sounding puzzled. “What, like to help recruit for the fundraising?”

“He’s decided against the political campaign. He’s starting a company.”

“Oh, really?” That got Karen’s attention, and I could practically hear her professional

gears engaging. “What does he want you to recruit for?”

I wondered if she was thinking about whether Trevor might have a role for her, despite

her just having taken the new job in Chicago. “He doesn’t want to hire me as a recruiter.

He wants to hire me.”

“For a job?” she asked in disbelief.

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“For a job, yes. Is that so hard to believe?” I was slightly offended that she found it so

hard to believe, even though a few hours before I’d been even more surprised.

“No, no,” she assured me. She cautiously asked, “what kind of job?”

I briefly explained the job as I understood it, leaving out the proviso that Trevor had

mentioned about the job needing to be local. I didn’t want to confuse our situation any

further. “Sounds great,” Karen told me, not sounding fully enthused; if anything, she

seemed more still slightly shocked. Or maybe just thoughtful, still processing the

concept. “What do you think?

“I don’t know,” I told her honestly. “I guess I’ll add it to the list of things I need to think

about.” I studied my doodle, and dutifully added it to my collection. I didn’t want to

think about it any more.

“We can talk about it tomorrow.” Karen sounded optimistic, or at least positive, but,

then again, that was how she sounded. She was, at heart, a sales person.

I was noncommittal, and I thought she would press me about that, but instead she let the

conversation wind down. We each probably had a lot to think about, more than either of

us was prepared for. I wished her a relaxing evening stuck in an airport hotel, and we

said our goodbyes, all the while thinking about what could happen to me that would avert

my being around for that talk.

Chapter 48

The pool had a full house of our little group the next morning, except, of course, no Sue.

Mary was dutifully kicking away on her board, Carson was doing his own laps; even

Marty was chugging away in his unique doggy-paddle. Several lanes from them, Robyn

was swimming her hard laps, oblivious to us. I paused for a moment to admire her. I

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thought I would never tire of watching her swim. It was like watching any craftsman

performing at the peak of their powers, I supposed – it could be Yo Yo Ma playing the

cello, Meryl Streep acting, a young Willie Mays playing center field, or Warren Buffet

deciding where to invest. You didn’t need to understand how they did what they did to

know you were in the presence of something special. Of course, I was biased; certainly

there were many swimmers who would put even Robyn to shame, but I didn’t know them

and none of them swam laps in my pool, so I was content to appreciate Robyn’s

virtuosity without further comparison.

I hit the water before Marty could make his way over to me, and focused on doing my

laps. I hadn’t slept well and was tired, which should have boded ill for my swim.

Somehow, though, it helped keep me concentrating on the swimming, in order to just to

keep going. I had too much to think about, too many worries, but it took all my attention

to keep my arms and legs moving forward and to ensure that I didn’t swallow the pool

when gasping for breath. I welcomed the distraction from my precarious real life, and for

forty minutes or so my world was limited to this lane and surviving the swim. Finally I

tapped out at the pool’s edge, hanging on while I waited for my breathing to go back to

normal and for my heartbeat to settle down.

Robyn and Mary had finished up and had both left. I felt a little sorry about not getting to

say hello to Robyn, but also slightly relieved, not knowing what to say. Marty was

talking to Carson a few lanes over. I tried not to stare and couldn’t make out what they

were talking about, but it appeared very serious. I could hear the name “Adele” once or

twice, which increased my curiosity. About the time I had recovered enough to feel like

pulling myself up out of the pool, Marty patted Carson on the shoulder, and they ended

their conversation. Carson walked off with a quick wave at me, and Marty looked my

way and headed towards me.

“You guys looked like you were deciding the fate of the universe,” I observed.

Marty smiled at me tolerantly. “Oh, he was asking my advice about something.”

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“You giving marital advice, Marty?” I said in what was supposed to be a jocular tone, but

which fell flat somehow.

Marty gave me a mocking look right back. “Why, you need some?”

I looked away and felt slightly flushed. It was probably just being overheated from my

workout, I told myself fiercely, hoping either Marty wouldn’t notice or he’d assume the

same. “What, me?” I countered, making my voice sound as light-hearted as I could.

“Nah, I wouldn’t think so,” Marty said smoothly, while continuing to study me with more

scrutiny than usual. “Not with that beautiful wife of yours.”

I grabbed my towel and started to dry off. I asked if he’d talked to Robyn or Mary before

they left, trying to pretend I was equally interested in the responses from each of them.

He indicated that he had, passing along greetings from both without any special

preference from either. Stalemate. I tried another tactic. “Everything OK with Carson?

I thought I heard something about Adele.”

Marty sat down on the edge of the pool and looked down at his legs, kicking them idly in

the water. “Oh, they’re both fine. They’re just, you know, young.”

“I think I remember being young,” I responded dryly. “I even remember being married

young. Younger than they are.”

He looked up at me. “Hard to remember, isn’t it?”

“It didn’t last,” I explained superfluously. He knew my marriage was a second marriage

for both, so I felt sure he could figure out that the wife in question was not Karen.

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Marty nodded sagely and went back to watching the waves in the water that his legs were

making. They were kind of hypnotic, cresting out and away until they hit a lane marker

and rebounded, interfering with the next set of waves. There was undoubtedly a very

involved physics to describe all that wave action, but physics had never been a strong

point of mine. It was cool to watch anyway. “Well, then you know young couples

usually go through some crisis points,” Marty explained. “Sometimes they make it,

sometimes they don’t. Depends on the couple.”

I knew Marty had told me all he was going to tell me about Carson and Adele, so I didn’t

press the issue. I had worries of my own, after all. It was a little awkward looking down

at Marty, but I had dried off now, and I didn’t feel much like getting my legs wet again

by sitting down next to Marty. I was about to say my goodbye when Marty looked up at

me with a sly look. “Sometimes older couples do as well.”

I froze. The smart thing to do would have been to leave then. Marty didn’t know

anything, couldn’t know anything, and talking to him or anyone else was the last thing on

my mind. Without understanding quite why, I sat down next to him, putting my legs in

the water as well. “What were you, a marriage counselor?” I asked, not entirely kidding.

“Sort of,” he told me with a stone face. “I was a judge.”

That surprised me. I’d never thought very much about what Marty had done for a living,

or still did, for all I knew. “A judge?” I repeated stupidly. It wasn’t as outlandish as it

was surprising. He did have a certain wisdom about him. It was just that he didn’t put on

airs like he was full of himself. “Really. Around here?”

He shook his head, smiling slightly – no doubt enjoying my surprise. “No, we lived up in

D.C. I moved here after my wife died. My son and his family live here.”

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I was mildly surprised. He didn’t have much of a southern accent, but that was true of a

lot of people living in Cary. I had somehow assumed he was a long-time resident. “I’m

sorry about your wife,” I said, not sure what else to say.

Marty nodded as if I had said something profound, but didn’t say anything further about

it. We sat in silence, until it got to be too much for me. “How long were you married,

Marty?”

Marty’s face softened, and I could almost see the memories flash across his face. They

must have been happy ones, judging from his expression. “Ah, Rachel and I were

married forty-eight years. I was really hoping she’d make it to our fiftieth, but it didn’t

happen.” He shrugged.

Speaking in a subdued voice, he quickly explained she’d died of bone cancer, which was

a long and painful process. She’d died seven years ago. His face brightened. “But she

was a wonderful, wonderful wife, and I treasure every minute we were together. Plus,

you know, we have our children and grandchildren.” He offered me an apologetic smile.

“I’d show you pictures but I don’t have them with me at the moment,” indicating his lack

of pockets.

“Later,” I promised. “Sounds like you and Rachel were very happy.” He nodded,

keeping his eyes on the water, but a small smile was on his face. I thought for a long

moment before speaking, but at long last could not resist. “Marty, after she died, did you

ever, you know, feel like giving up?”

Marty didn’t react quite as I might have expected. He took his time, but eventually he

looked up and over at me. He shook his head slowly. “No.”

“Never?”

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He smiled at me, a smile full of sadness and knowledge of things he might have wished

he didn’t have to know. “I missed her, of course. I missed her terribly. I still do.” He

shrugged and looked back at the water, which he kicked idly. “But I had my life. I had

the kids, my friends. I couldn’t just not go on.”

Now I kicked at the water, adding my ripples to the surface of the pool. We were sitting

there like it was an actual pond, except for the smell of chorine here and the total absence

of mud, algae, or fish. Put a couple of fishing poles in our hands, though, and we might

have fooled a casual observer.

“I could see not wanting to go on in that kind of situation,” I said carefully. “Matter of

fact, I can imagine a lot of scenarios where someone decides dying is the rational choice,

because life doesn’t seem to have a point anymore. Can’t you?”

Marty exhaled slowly but didn’t look at me. I had the uncanny sense that he’d put two

and two together and had connected the dots with our conversation after Sue’s death. “I

don’t know,” he said at last. He shook his head. “The people I’ve known who

committed suicide had mental issues of some sort, something they should have had

medication for. It wasn’t what you’d really call a rational decision.”

It wasn’t really an argument I should have pursued, but for some reason I plowed ahead.

“Look at Michael Jordan. Wouldn’t it have been great if he died right after that last

championship with the Bulls? No attempted comeback, no divorce, no failed time as a

GM with the Wizards. He was at the peak of his life, and it’s probably been all downhill

from there. He’ll never be as good at anything as he was at basketball then. I mean,

young kids don’t really know who he is anymore.”

Marty let a faint smile drift across his face. “From what I’ve heard of Michael Jordon, he

probably thinks he’s that good at everything.”

“Except maybe not baseball,” I interjected with a weak smile.

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“Probably not,” he allowed. “Besides, I am under the impression that Michael enjoys a

good cigar, golf, gambling, and the ladies. Plus, he’s got kids that I’m sure he wanted to

see grow up. I doubt he’s too eager to give any of those up.”

I was silent for a few moments, listening to the quiet sounds of the pool and the faint

noises from the rest of the club. I liked sitting here, doing nothing. I remembered that

Karen had once told me she didn’t like the pool because it was too much like church. I

hadn’t understood it at the time, and it may not have been what she meant, but it suddenly

hit me how it was like a church, at least at the moment. The high ceilings allowed sounds

to echo, which inspired either whispers or shouts, depending on how irreverent one felt.

The sense of purpose, worshiping something higher. Swimming didn’t really compare to

God, of course, but we were monks of a sort, doing our penance through our efforts in the

pool. And if the pool was a church, that might make Marty the high priest, something

that I would have laughed at the day before but not at this moment.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I just think that, at some point, you think of all the years you’ve

lived, all the things you’ve seen, all the changes you’ve gone through, and maybe you

think it’s enough, you don’t want any more. You’ve lived a good life, it’s enough, and

maybe you’re worried the years ahead won’t be worth it. Too many risks, too much

change.”

I was pretty much talking to myself, spouting off aloud what was running in my head.

Marty absorbed my rant without reaction; he just sat there, focused on the water and

gently kicked his legs, creating more of those hypnotic waves. I ran out of things to say,

or maybe I thought I’d embarrassed myself enough, so I fell silent, and we sat there in a

heavy silence.

At long last – long enough so that it would appear his comments weren’t necessarily in

response to my outburst, Marty spoke up. “It does catch up with you,” he agreed. “The

years, the things you’ve seen, the things you’ve done.” He ran a hand over the top of his

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head, forcing some excess water out of his hair. He looked over at me solemnly. “All

those experiences make you who you are, but each day you have choices about who

you’ll become.”

“That sounds even more daunting,” I complained. “Sounds like too much work.”

Marty laughed sympathetically. “No, no, I’m just saying there are reasons to get up

every day. You never know that your best days are behind you.”

I’d smiled when Marty had laughed, but I let it fade from my face. “Some people do.”

“Lots of people look back at the good old days, but they forget that they probably weren’t

quite so good at the time,” Marty said. “You tend to forget the times that weren’t so

good. Sure, I miss Rachel and the times we had, but I still look forward to what’s going

to happen every day.”

I nodded. “I’m glad, Marty, but maybe that’s just you. Maybe not everyone is like that.”

We were quiet for what seemed like a long time, but what was probably only a minute or

so, just sitting there with our feet in the water contemplating the pool and, at least in my

case, our lives. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Marty smile. “I’ve always liked being

around water,” he told me. “You know, civilization has always centered around water.

Humans can figure out lots of different things to eat, but we always need water.”

I didn’t understand his change of subject but I didn’t mind either. “Tell it to the folks in

Phoenix or Las Vegas.”

He laughed and nodded. “Yeah, humans have gotten pretty cocky about what we can do,

I suppose.” His face got more serious. “Water makes up about seventy percent of the

surface of world, and about that same percentage of the human body is water. Funny

coincidence, huh?”

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I shrugged. Neither statistic was entirely new to me. “I suppose so.”

“You know, the scientists don’t quite agree on how the earth got its water. Some think it

was lots of comets hitting. Others think all the early asteroids hitting the earth vaporized

rocks and squeezed out the water.” He rocked his head. “Any way it happens, we’re

lucky the Earth kept it. If we’d been a little closer to the sun, it would have evaporated

away. A little further, and it would have frozen.”

I gave Marty a pained expression. “What is this, a science lesson?”

He nodded sympathetically. “I know, I know, I get carried away. It just strikes me

sometimes how lucky we are to be here.”

“Lucky how?”

“Like getting the water. Like the Earth being in the right distance from the Sun. Like

having a moon. Like having ancestors who decided living in the trees as apes wasn’t as

good as they could do.”

“You believe in a master plan, Marty?” I asked, trying not to sound snide.

He raised his alms. “Maybe. Whether there is a master plan or not, a Creator or not, I do

know that you and I won the genetic lottery. We’re alive and living a life that anyone

living a hundred years ago would envy. I’m a generation older than you, but I think back

to my childhood and all the things now that make life better.”

“I don’t know,” I argued, “Maybe times were simpler when you were a kid, when we

both were kids. Maybe life was slower, better.”

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“People always think that about their childhood,” he responded without heat. “It was

simpler. You didn’t really have many choices, and you didn’t know any better. But if

you’re really honest, would you really want to live back then, or any other time?” He

turned to look at me.

I paused before making a knee-jerk response and actually thought about his question. No

computers, no mobile phones, no cable, no widespread air-conditioning, no civil rights –

the list went on and on. “I suppose not,” I conceded.

“It’s a miracle we’re here,” Marty proclaimed. “It’s a miracle we have all we have.

Complaining about things seems like wishing you had better miracles. Seems petty

somehow.”

“So everyone should just be grateful for what they have,” I protested in a quiet voice.

“Not want better?”

“Wanting better and not being grateful for what you have aren’t the same thing,” Marty

pointed out gently. After a few seconds I nodded and looked out at the water.

Marty looked out at the water and we were quiet for a time. “Those guys I knew who

committed suicide – and they were all guys,” he said at long last. “Each time I heard

about one of them, I thought to myself, where were his friends? Where was his family?”

“Maybe they’d run out of them,” I suggested in an equally quiet voice. “Maybe they

were worried they’d lost them.”

Marty nodded silently. After a bit he patted my thigh, surprisingly, and slid into the

water. He turned around to face me. “I’m glad that’s not a problem either of us has,” he

said, giving me a look I couldn’t quite decipher.

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I smiled wanly, and took a deep breath. If Marty was the high priest, this was the time

for confession. “My wife wants to start a new life somewhere else,” I confessed

reluctantly, not looking at him. “My career looks like it is winding down and I might

have to start a new one. I’m not sure I’m up to any of it.” I raised my hands in

frustration. “I don’t know what to do about any of it.”

He peered at me quizzically. “Does your wife want you to come with her?

I sighed, my shoulders slumped. “She says she does.”

Marty nodded thoughtfully. “If I were married to a beautiful woman like Karen and she

wanted me to go with her to start a new life, I’d do it,” he informed me. I looked over at

him and was about to argue with him, to point out all the reasons that wasn’t a good idea,

but he silenced me with a firm look.

Marty pulled his goggles over his eyes, gave me a last look, then turned around and

paddled away. I watched him until he was halfway down the pool, then got up and

walked away, suddenly knowing what I had to do.

Chapter 49

I’m waiting at the airport for Karen to return. In the old days I’d have been able to go

back to her gate, but TSA frowns upon people without tickets going through security. I’d

considered actually buying a ticket just so I could get to the gate, but then I’d have

created the situation of a passenger with a ticket not getting on the intended plane. That

would probably trigger an alert, throw the airport into lockdown, and end up with me on

some TSA watchlist for years. So I’m just waiting outside the security checkpoint,

watching the deplaning passengers walk through.

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Karen let me know she’d been able to catch a late flight after all, and it’s just landed,

according to the information board. My being here reminds me of the early days of our

courtship, when I greeted her at the airport after most of her trips, especially the ones

when she’d been away longer. It was fun feeling so excited to be with someone that we

didn’t want to waste an extra minute, as silly as it might be. I’m as excited now as I was

in those days, although now my excitement is not pure anticipation but is mixed with

uncertainty. Karen is not expecting me, and I’m not sure how she is going to react to

what I want to tell her.

I want Karen to take the job in Chicago. She wants a change in her life, is excited about

the new job, and is looking forward to living in Chicago. She is looking forward to not

traveling so much, which must be taking its toll on her, intrepid traveler that she might

be. It’s all good for her, and I want the best for her.

And I want to go with her.

I’m not sure that my going with her is what is best for her. All the reasons I had thought

about my being a burden on her still ring true. She could do better than me. The thing is,

she could have done better than me when she married me, and she did it anyway. So if

she wants me to go with her – and she says she does – then I’m going with her. Marty

was right. I’d be a fool to say no to her.

It’s going to be tough to move. With the housing market being what it is, it will take a

long time to sell our house, and we’ll probably lose money. Things won’t get easier with

my job, my career. I’ll have to work harder to seek out new contracts, new contacts, and

new candidates. I’ll have to tell Trevor no on his great offer, and won’t have him or

Laura to hang out with socially. We’ll have to make new friends, which is not easy at our

age in a new city, especially a big city like Chicago.

There are lots of reasons not to go, but the reason to go is to be with Karen. It wouldn’t

matter if it was Chicago – or San Francisco, San Diego, or Fargo. If she wanted to go to

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any of those places, and wanted me to come, I’d go. It took me a long time to realize it,

but I know now that where she wants to go, so do I.

I’m still going to get old. I have a lot of indignities yet to come, a lot of declines ahead,

both mentally and physically. The economy is a mess, my career may be ending, our

income may be lower while our cost of living will get higher, and I don’t see a lot of

promise that the younger generation is going to do a great job supporting my generation

in our retirement years. All the reasons I had to dread the future are, sorry to say, still

there. Some bad things are going to happen, to me and to the people I care about. I’m

going to face disappointments and setbacks. So be it.

I want to see what happens. That’s really the reason we get up every day. The future is

not known to us. We may think we have broad outlines of what is yet to become, but we

don’t know for certain. Hey, for all I know they’ll invent an anti-aging pill. Karen and I

may hit the Lotto. Visitors from another planet may visit Earth. I’m just too curious

about what’s coming to trade in my chips yet.

One of the things I want to see is what happens to Robyn. She’s a young person with so

much potential, so much she can do with her life. She’s lived too long closed off from

life, and she is just ready to blossom. It will be fascinating to see what kind of person

she’ll turn into.

Robyn is still at the age when all things are possible. She’s single, not quite settled in her

career. She may have a few years of dating, several jobs or careers, and may live in a few

more places before she finds the life she wants. It’s an exciting time for her, or it should

be. I’m not that age anymore, and I may not have the same range of options she does.

Maybe. But I can still make a move, and – who knows – perhaps I’ll start a new career.

Trevor thought I could do something else, so maybe I can. I know lots of people,

including more than a few in Chicago, so it wouldn’t be the strangest thing that had ever

happened if one of them shares Trevor’s willingness to let me try something new.

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The difference between Robyn’s life and mine is not what the future may bring – that’s

still open, for both of us -- but what the past has brought, and that’s over. I do carry my

past with me, but its weight is up to me. The future hasn’t happened yet, so allowing the

thought of it to be a burden is, if you think about it, kind of silly. If I’m lucky I’ll have

learned a few lessons from my past that will help me manage that future, but there’s no

assurance that any of my life lessons will be of any use for whatever happens next. We

each start out each day not knowing what will happen. Robyn and I, and every one of us,

will just have to muddle through what life throws at us as best we can. At least I’ll have

Karen, if I’m lucky.

Telling Robyn I was going to move with Karen was hard. I worried that she’d think I

was abandoning her, and that my departure might trigger whatever suicidal impulses she

might have. It wouldn’t take much of a frost to kill the blossoming she was just starting.

To my relief, she understood, or said she did. “I’m glad,” she told me. “You should be

with your wife.” I like to think she meant it.

I told her she would have a place to come visit in Chicago, a prospect she seemed

intrigued by. She told me she’d never been to Chicago, or many other places. “And we

can text and video each other,” she pointed out. She’d smiled at me. “We’ll stay in

touch.”

I promised that we would, and I hope we will. It was probably arrogant of me to fear that

my absence could put a halt to her life. I might have helped get the ball rolling just a

little, but I hope it’s rolling on its own now. I don’t really know how Robyn took my

news. As much as I like to think I’ve gotten to know her, she still hides much of herself

behind those cool eyes and neutral expression. She didn’t seem to be upset, but she may

now think I’m another person whom she put some trust in yet who ended up just

disappointing her after all. I hope not. I like to think not. I hope I helped her, at least a

little. And I do know, and hope with all my heart that she does too, that as long as I’m

alive, she’s got a friend, someone who believes in her and will support her. I just need to

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keep letting her know that I’m still around and there for her, even long distance. Hey,

what is technology for if not to help close long distances?

I wish I knew that everything was going to go well in Robyn’s life, but I know even less

about her future than I do my own. There’s no guarantee that her bottle of pills won’t

prove too tempting, or that she won’t retreat to the safety of her mother’s cocoon. Try as

you might, you can’t ever save someone else’s life. All you can do is to throw them a

lifeline, but it’s up to them to grab it. When she needs it, if she needs it, I’ll be there with

my lifeline.

I’d be lying if I said the thought of staying and getting involved with Robyn hadn’t

crossed my mind. She was certainly young and beautiful. For some reason, she trusted

me, which was half the battle in getting a woman to fall in love with you. Men my age –

look at Trevor, for example -- did sometimes get involved with much younger women,

and society seems to accept it. Yes, it was tempting, and might be exciting, at least in the

short term. I think about that moment in her apartment, and I’m pretty sure I could have

kissed her. Maybe more. Moreover, I don’t think she’d have been surprised, and I don’t

think she’d have resisted. I haven’t dated in a long time, but I haven’t totally lost my

skills. I think that if I had pushed it, I could have gotten her to become involved with me.

She’d have had qualms about my being married, but her mother had already convinced

her we were both going to hell already, so what’s one more mortal sin? Had we gotten

involved, though, her mother would have been right, about me anyway. It’d be wrong.

There were two problems with the idea of getting involved with Robyn: one was that I

was still in love with my wife, and the second was that I owed Robyn more than that.

Her life isn’t something for me to use to try to offset my fears about my own life. Robyn

could do worse than me, but it’s not to be. Another time, another life – hey, who knows?

If she’s anything like the rest of us, she’s going to make mistakes in her romantic life,

and get hurt along the way before she finds the right person. I just know I’m not going to

be the person to hurt her. Some lucky guy is going to get the thrill of having her fall in

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love with him, and I’ll be happy for them. I’ve taken an interest in her life, as a friend,

and my role is to try to help her live a long, happy life, on her own path.

Before I move, I’m going to frame the first doodle I did of Robyn -- her as a mermaid,

swimming gracefully away -- and give it to her. It reminds me of how much she struck

me that first time, before I even met her. It will be the only time I’ve ever given one to

anyone, much less treated as anything serious. I want her to have it, and to be reminded

of how I see her, how special she is. Maybe it will help her, maybe not, but it’s

something I think she’ll like. I hope so.

Marty’s words at the pool were very insightful, and very eloquent, but what persuaded

me in the end were not his words, but his swimming, oddly enough. It was how he just

keeps paddling away. It turns out that while I admired Robyn’s grace in swimming, I

was missing the truly amazing thing at the pool. Despite age, infirmity, lack of grace,

and every other reason not to do it, Marty keeps showing up at the pool and keeps

paddling away. From afar, his efforts might seem comical or even somewhat pathetic,

but you had to get closer to see the courage and determination.

Some people, like Trevor or maybe even Karen, live their lives as smoothly as Robyn

cuts through the water. It’s nice to watch, but you don’t really learn that much by

watching it. Most of us, though, have a tougher go of it; we chop and struggle through

life, just trying to keep moving forward. If Marty can keep paddling away in the pool,

how could I do less with my life?

I can see a string of passengers trudging in from the gates. They look, for the most part,

tired. Some of them are coming home, and a few have friends or family waiting for

them. Some are here on business or on their way somewhere else, and no one is here for

them. Karen isn’t expecting me to meet her here, and is undoubtedly expecting a trying

night ahead of us talking things out, her trying to understand my concerns and persuade

me all is still good. She doesn’t know she’s already won -- that we’ve already won -- and

that I’m so excited about our future together that I couldn’t even wait for her to get home

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to start it. I want to see the expression on her face when she sees me here, when she sees

the happiness on my face just to see her, and I want to wrap her up in my arms. She’s

been away too much from me, but somehow I got that confused with her being apart from

me. I’m not going to make that mistake again.

I see her now coming down the hallway towards me -- looking beautiful and tired and

determined, but most of all looking like the love of my long life -- and start walking

towards her…

THE END

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the weight of days to come

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