Movement (7 page)

“Guy,” she called into the living room. “Guy.”

No answer, so she set the hot plates on the stove and looked in. “Guy,” she said gently. He was asleep at his desk, his head on a new Asimov science fiction book. “Guy,” she said compassionately. This petulant boy was her protector and partner for life? “Guy,” she said bitterly. She couldn't cope with the anger. She didn't know where to release it—at him—or at her own poor judgment. “This is our anniversary,” she told herself. She thought about the layouts she had to do tonight. She shook him, “Harry,” she said and stopped. How often she had almost said that? Eerie. How often she had mixed them up in dreams. And once, when she had promised Guy to deposit the grant in his checking account, she had put it in Harry's instead. She had felt like such an idiot when the teller showed her the numbers were different.

Guy looked up, “Who did you call?”

“Sorry, love, I'm always incoherent when I'm tired.”

“Well, I'm tired too. I think I'll push off to bed.”

“But you haven't eaten. And it's our anniversary.”

“I suppose you should have thought about both those items a little earlier. I'm worn out. See you in the morning.” He stumbled up from his swivel chair, almost knocking over the half-empty bottle of sherry. She hungrily regarded the level, a sufficient ablution for guilt. She was grateful they still shared some things.

Susan woke late with a terrible hangover. Not so much an alcoholic headache as a residue of remorse. She rose immediately, careful not to awaken Guy. She saw herself gazing into a cup of black coffee. Running to the subway. Answering the phones. What was she doing in Toronto?

“Hello, Susan. This is Hilary. Got a news bulletin for you. Colson is coming down. Thought I should warn you that I got carried away with him yesterday. He was expounding on the vigour and genius of one Harry Simpson.”

What had Hilary done with her big mouth now?

“Well, you know, kid, I'm not thoroughly indiscreet. I didn't let on that Harry was an absolute moron.”

Susan didn't know what to blame more—Harry's fraudulence or her own complicity. How long did she think she could play innocent minion?

“What did you say to Colson?” Susan asked.

“Not much. I just dropped a few hints about Harry's long sojourn away from the office and about his banker's hours. I reckoned that the rest was up to you.”

Susan rang off. She buzzed Harry's office, “Harry, I've got to talk with you.”

“Sure, sure,” he said. “And would you bring in those readership surveys? Also the circulation reports. Colson has decided to catch us off guard. This could mean the end of TA if we're not prepared.”

She watched him take notes on her work. He tried, at first, to comprehend; by noon he was grasping for details. Harry hadn't made a straightforward decision in months. Lately he had been fading out around deadline time. She always made her decisions sound like clerical minutae. At the end of today's session, she told Harry that she wanted to be in on the conference with Colson. He was surprised, then agreed with alacrity. “Of course, of course.” It was a sensible idea.

The next morning, the fragrant and glossy mockup arrived an hour before Colson was due. Susan was quite proud of the classy logo, the solid articles, the lively layout. It was so perfectly formed. And after last night, she might have to resign herself to this kind of posterity. She and Guy had never had such a row. It was more like a schism although it was about the same old issues. He charging that she spent too much time at her work; she retorting that he felt jealous because he couldn't do his own work. He said she would have to make a choice, decide what she wanted. Susan said she didn't know what she wanted and went to bed. Now she was redeemed from all that by the new magazine. So excited about Colson's visit, she could hardly concentrate on the circulation figures.

Harry buzzed her on the intercom, “It looks great. Just great. Just what I had imagined. I really couldn't have done it without you.”

In the middle of the morning, a heavily cologned man wearing a grey striped suit lumbered into the office.

“Harry Simpson, please,” he said, leaning heavily on her desk.

Before she had time to explain that Harry Simpson had a meeting this morning, the man added, “My name is Colson. Carl Colson. I think Harry's expecting me.” He pulled a wrinkled handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his forehead. “Terrible stairs. Ever think of getting a lift installed?”

This was the visionary publisher? They had been trying to impress this man for three months? He was going to judge
The Artisan?
Susan hadn't expected Leon Trotsky, but.…

“Just one moment, please,” she heard herself assuming the respect she wanted to give him. How hollow did her voice sound? How disappointed did her face look? She watched him thanking her, taking a chair, smiling at her. She supposed she was smiling at him.

“Carl, Carl, welcome,” Harry thrust his hand at Carl Colson. “Sorry, I had no idea you were waiting. How long have they kept you here?” Harry ushered him inside. Susan waited demurely for her invitation, but Harry didn't even turn around to nod before he shut the door.

“Well, well,” she heard him say to Colson, “What do you think of my baby? How about the logo, eh?”

She could not bear the sound of them sitting in the large office congratulating each other. She went out to wash her face. When she came back, she was still flushed. Her copy of the magazine was gone.

“They've taken it in,” said Alice delicately. “They said they didn't want anything to happen to it.”

What goddam arrogance. It was her sweat. What absolute gall!

Susan heard the intercom buzz.

Always too hyper, Susan said to herself, always too hyper. Hell, they had probably expected her to follow them into Harry's office. Perhaps she should just go in now and save the formality of answering the line. No, she would wait for them to ask her. They owed her that much.

“Susan, I was wondering if you could do us a favor?”

“Sure, I'll be right in.”

“No need to trouble yourself. Could you just ask Alice—her line seems to be jammed—could you just ask Alice to bring us two cups of sugared tea?”

“Sure, Harry, sure.”

She relayed the message and watched Alice prepare the tea, place the cups on a tray with some chocolate digestives and take it in. Now Susan felt nothing but the pure release of acrimony. She was too angry to be intimidated, too angry even to be restrained by any kind of judgment. Susan went over and banged on Harry's door.

She was greeted by an astonished Alice, carrying an empty tray in one hand and a stack of file folders in the other. Susan smiled at her and walked into the office.

“I've finished my work for the morning, Harry. I'd like to sit in now.”

“Yes, yes, Mrs. Thompson,” said Colson expansively. “Do come in. Harry tells me you're such a bright girl, with real drive.” Colson brightened, “Harry says you're his right hand.”

“Sorry to inform you about the amputation.”

“I beg your pardon?” asked Colson, his frown crossing grotesquely with the receding joviality.

“This girl's got a great sense of humor, Carl, just one of the things I haven't had a chance to tell you about her,” Harry smiled indulgently.

Susan looked at him seriously. “I'm thinking about leaving the paper, Harry, about going to a job in Montreal unless some changes are made.”

Harry was still.

“But, but,” said Colson. “This is a silly time for that, my love. I mean just when
The Artisan
has been reborn. This mockup is brilliant. And to think we were all so afraid of failure.”

“And of success,” she said.

“What was that, my dear?”

“Listen, this mockup is a good start, but only that. We could have much more direct reporting from Latin America and Southern Africa; a broader review policy.…” She knew she wasn't talking to either of them, but just enjoying the rush of her own voice. “Some hard investigative pieces and wider circulation in the West.”

“That's all very well, but hang on, girl, and look for a moment at what Harry's accomplished here. The multiple review is superb. The Spanish piece is a real coup.”

Susan had no reason, no inclination to expose Harry. He and Colson would find out about each other soon enough.

She said, “Look, I'll outline the ideas. You can think about them. If you feel they make sense, I'll stay and help. If you don't, I've got another job.”

Susan and Colson turned to Harry who looked terribly tired.

“Yes,” Harry said. “They're sensible ideas. Perhaps we could discuss them after lunch?”

“Well, well,” answered Colson. “Of course we're open to change. Just look at this issue, real revolutionary editing.”

“I know,” said Susan. She picked up her copy of
The Artisan
and went back to her desk. “See you after lunch,” she said as she closed the door on them.

Newsworthy

John Forester, 59, of 18993 Montez Drive, Walnut Creek, reported that his wife, Gertrude, 62, was missing on Tuesday. He had not seen her since Saturday night when the couple attended a performance of
The Marriage of Figaro
at the Opera House in San Francisco.

Forester, an insurance salesman, said that his wife had been calm and collected throughout the performance. Afterwards, they stopped for coffee at the Yum Yum Room. Mrs. Forester went to the lavatory and did not return.

Forester said his wife had shown no signs of worry lately. Two months ago, she had mentioned divorce, but apparently became reconciled after a long talk and a visit with the family doctor. Mrs. Forester, an active volunteer at their church and a local hospital, has no past record of instability. (Picture, page five.)

V

Stray

Susan felt like the stray cat from
In Our Time
as she sat shivering in the parlor of the dark rooming house on Admiral Road. Outside the yellowed lace curtains snow flurried with relentless delicacy. The parlor was heated by an electric fire. This Edwardian contraption provided an illusion of warmth as a light wheel circled under translucent plastic coals. Watching the prism turn, she tried to time the colors against the urgent balance piece of the marble mantle clock.

“Far out light show, eh?”

He was a freak. Blond ponytail. Splotchy hiking boots. Fatigued jacket. Susan wondered if they played acid rock here all night long. Probably no one in this rooming house sleeps after midnight, she thought. Probably they'll think I'm some sort of Miss Priscilla.

“Yeah, it almost keeps you warm,” she bluffed composure. “Say, do you know when Robert is coming back?”

“You can never tell about Robert,” laughed the handsome young man. He's the busiest absentee landlord in the Annex. But look, here's the switch for the fire,” he knelt down gracefully. “All you've got so far is the light show. This is how you turn on the heating filaments.”

“My name's, uh, uh, Susan,” she said, blushing.

“I'm Phil. Musta been a hard day, Susan.”

She nodded and looked down at her lap to hide the blushing.

“How about a cup of camomile tea?”

“Right on,” she said, realizing this was not Phil's dialect. He was more cooled out. Laid back. She felt auntish, the way she always felt with hippies. Always so much older. And consequently younger—as if she hadn't lived through anything. Virginal. She hadn't made the trips. She had stayed home and worked.

“What do you do?” she heard herself saying. The wrong question. Why was she so obsessed with what people did? Bourgeois bitch. Was she messing up on purpose to prove that she wasn't capable of living with hippies?

He handed her a cracked mug of tea, baptism after the
mea culpa.

“Depends on where you're coming from,” Phil was saying. “I do music. I do meditation. I do boxes.”

“Boxes?”

“In a packing plant up on Dupont, loading boxes of gears to be sent down to Buffalo.”

“What sort of music?” she asked, enjoying the gentle tea. She had never liked camomile before. Next time she would remember not to use sugar.

“I listen to what I play,” he rubbed the stick pointing out of his back pocket.

“A flautist. Wow.” “Flautist” was definitely wrong. “Wow” sounded OK.

“And you?” he asked. “You look like a pretty classy lady to be moving into one of Big Bob's half-refinished houses. You break up with your husband or something?”

“Does it show on my face?” Susan asked, stricken.

“On your hands,” he smiled.

The ring mark was visible, whiter than Ontario winter, and her hands were shaking, despite the warm mug.

“I'm kind of worried,” she said, “about, about … my cat. She's only a little thing. I just got her. I mean I just found her. A stray. Does he mind?”

“Roberto? You bet. He hates all animals and other living things. You'd never be able to hide her. The vacant room is next to his. And he's got a nose like a narc dog.”

She lowered her eyes. The hands. Her damn hands.

Three hands. He was massaging her knuckles.

“But my room is in the attic,” he said quietly. “Good for flute playing. Good for hiding strays.”

Phil's smile of conspiracy now turned to greeting as a tall man entered the kitchen.

“Robert, this is Susan, our new housemate.”

“So you've seen the room and it's OK?” Robert asked, only mildly surprised.

“No, not exactly,” she said.

But of course she would take it, despite the broken concrete floor and the water-stained wallpaper. She would take it for her stray cat.

Phil happened to be around the evening she moved in. He offered to help her carry the boxes.

“Thanks, but I can do it on my own,” she said.