Pearson did not come. Contrary to his custom, he did not come at all, nor did he notify them. The phone was still. After a time the typewriter ceased. Fender sat for a long while quite motionless and silent, in a kind of trance, papers spread out before him in a fan, staring down at their decorative surfaces, some pink, some cream, some yellow, most white, a pencil sticking like a twig from his fingers, the warmth coming and going, the worry too, causing his brows to clench and the corners of his mouth to wrinkle, until the remarkable storm of feeling that had burst upon him the moment he had drawn aside the office door passed off, he cooled, and his heart began to slow and settle. Then his gaze regained its content. He heard the humming of the fluorescent lights. Something — jewelry? — clicked. The image of Glick’s vase was squatting in the wax, and Fender, able to speak, though overloudly, said: where’s Pearson this morning? what’s the matter? is he sick? Riding his chair from behind his desk, Glick spun gayly around. Isn’t it nice? Fender tried to smile. He’d be a good fellow. But the office, for some reason, wasn’t safe this morning, it didn’t feel right. He didn’t feel right himself. He was, for one thing, a good deal smaller than his skin. Your body owns you; another house, isn’t it? Fender came up cautiously to the ports of his eyes: lady’s hanky in a wad, string of clips, glistening pen stem, ringlet of phone wire, pamphlets bent back savagely… wrong, wrong, wrong, everything wrong… a golden row of pencils coming to points, then Glick, bluish, turning gently, smiling, pretending to raise his ribs with his hands, inhaling noisily, isn’t it nice?… dull green cabinets covered with sideswipes, darkly indented caster tracks on the asphalt tile, the stainless tube of a chair, while across the window the Gothically lettered name of the agency in black, and beyond that the bright sun littering the street with reflection.
What’s the white stuff? This? that’s honesty. What, demanded Fender, who was prepared to be angry again. It’s called honesty, Fen… Lunaria annua. Glick laughed the hearty joker’s laugh and Fender grew uneasy. It’s also called the money plant. And this is amaranth, Gomphrena. Glick tilted, his shoes rose gleaming. Glick, ah, how… how do you make them, I mean, get them so dry? His voice seemed strange and distant, mechanized, as though it came from a speaker. The office was edging away, pen, pencils, paper; the phone drew back, the punch, the stapler; and Glick sang on without him. Maybe Pearson’s got the word, Glick said — the sheet’s sneaked down from the statue; or maybe he hasn’t any pennies for the papers, he’s broke finally, flindered, his pockets bulge with his pieces; or maybe he sold a property and swooned clean away like the slope on a steeple. Flies of his fingers, Glick flew them in spirals. It was all for Isabelle, and Fender couldn’t bear it. Where was Pearson? Bake… do you bake them somehow? Fender asked. But Glick was handing himself to Isabelle, smiling his soul out. Fender couldn’t bear it. No, Izzy — no, Glick said, I see it quite plainly now — now suddenly I see it all. He was peering between his fingers. In a moment — god! — he’d be a guide on a bus. Do you do them like raisins? Glick pushed both his palms forward like a traffic policeman. Here’s how the news got through — I’m certain — no other way, really — he saw it in the socials. Prunes? like prunes? The socials! Isabelle was giggly. You could have hung her clothes on the line between them. Eee-hee-hee, sweetie. All sorts of dried things these days: fruit, milk, peas, beans, eggs even, potatoes. He saw it in the socials or in the financials. The financials, says Isabelle, sweetie! How could she? Fender heard himself getting loud. Surprise invaded their faces. He had determined on an answer; he had to head them off; he could not endure their duet today or scale the cruel peaks of their hilarity. Cut when young, bound in loose bunches, hung upside down, cold dry place, where a breeze would be helpful… The chance was gone, Glick spoke so swiftly. Then in the funnies, Glick said, beginning the recital, when Pearson was blue-penning the balloons, there he read it — a dog said it. Isabelle flounced. There was a sound of settling sand and sliding paper. Fender shut his eyes. He could not bear it. Surely the financial page, she said, but Glick was on — spinning his chair, bouncing, pointing, wagging his head and making faces.
The owner of the house and lot at seventeen eleven Pierce; of the duplex that backs up to the alley at four seventy-seven Chauncey, formerly the family home and now a house divided…
Fender peeked where their glee, in beaded strings, divided: Glick’s fists were turtling toward his knees, the thumbs were heads….
… of lots at six oh five North Erie and two twenty-three Scott, both vacant except for ashes, cans, and native weeds…
Such a saddens story, sweetie, says Isabelle, such a sorry story…
… a beaten path across Billswool Place…
I know the one.
Do you, dearie? Well… renter of dingy office space at ninety-eight South Main near the Central Station and close to the bus…
Maybe, thought Fender, he should scream them under, throw a fit, have some sort of frothing seizure. How many peas, Glick, do you suppose are contained in the average pot pie? the beef? He might ask that.
… sordid work room…
Yes indeedy, says Isabelle.
… a ratty-off-hole…
Don’t we know it, says Isabelle.
… a god damn grave…
Oh now, Leo, exclaims Isabelle.
… but handy…
Very handy, says Isabelle.
… to the bus…
To the bus, yes, says Isabelle.
… and to the railroad…
Just as you say, says Isabelle, the railroad.
What was epilepsy, Fender thought, but a struggle with the powers of the air.
… holder in fee simple of Leo Glick and Charlie Fender…
And also me-oh, says Isabelle.
… holder of expired guarantees, depression script, forfeited bail bonds…