“Not quite.”
Tom left the briefcase on the desk and sat down. “At your service, sir.”
“Is my phone tapped?”
“Not that I know, sir.”
“Would you know if it is?”
Tom shrugged. “I’ll be frank with you, sir. I might, but I don’t.”
“O.K. I’ll be frank with you too. If my phone’s tapped and I can prove it, I’ll sue your ass off.” But how? “How about the mail?”
Tom shrugged.
“Likewise,” Joe said.
“Likewise, sir?”
“I’ll sue your ass off.” How?
“Look, sir, you may not believe it, but this is a national emergency.” As if this, much as Tom wished he could go on being very polite and friendly, might bring Joe to his senses.
Joe sniffed. “You really believe that? Or’s that what you have to say?”
“I really believe that, sir.”
“Shame you’re here then.”
“If called, sir, I’ll go.”
“Great. Not much chance of that, though, is there?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.” Tom stood up. “If that’s all, sir.” Joe, switching hands, beat him to the briefcase. “What I said about the phone and the mail goes for this thing too, if it’s wired.” With his good hand Joe then shoved the briefcase across the desk to Tom.
“Thank you, sir. Have a good day, sir.”
“I’ll think about it. That’s the best I can do.”
The next morning, throwing out the mail, Joe came upon a postcard from Canada: “Tell mom and dad I’m all right — not to worry. Have good job. Eating balanced diet for them, tying shoes for you. G.”
“Oh, it’s you.” Barb seemed unhappy to see him — had Tom been in touch with her? — but she unlocked and opened the screen door. “Oh, your poor hand!”
“Thumb.”
Barb seemed to think he’d come to tell her about it, and so he did, briefly. “Oh, you poor man!” Barefooted and in shorts — not bad but with a slight skiing movement of her left leg — she led him down into the sunken living room where they sat across from each other in leopard skin — look chairs. “Brad’s not here, Father.”
“Didn’t think he would be.” It was only a little after three. “Should he be?”
Barb made a face — no, dear God, she was crying. “Father, they let Brad go yesterday, but he went back this morning to clean out his desk, and that’s the last I saw of him. When I called the paper around noon—‘He’s no longer with us.’ Oh, Father! What if it’s true!” Barb broke down then, wailing.
Joe had to raise his voice to be heard. “Why wouldn’t it be true?”
“Father, what if he’s no longer with us?” Barb broke down again.
Joe had to yell to be heard. “Shut up! He stopped for a drink. He ran into friends. He’ll be here any minute. You’ll see him all too soon.”
“Father, I’ve been so worried about Brad.”
“I know. You told me the other day. Trouble at the paper.”
“But then I didn’t know why.”
“Brad’s too controversial, you said.”
“No, it’s all my fault, Father. Brad told me last night — they’ve had it in for him ever since my accident at Badger.”
Joe, though he didn’t doubt this (and had been shocked the other day, and was perhaps not the only one — parking lots have eyes — to see Barb, of all people, at Badger), said, “That I doubt, Barb. Brad’s just too controversial. It’s as simple as that.”
But Barb knew better, it seemed, knew he was trying to absolve her, and broke down again.
This time Joe didn’t interrupt her, waited in silence.
“Father, how can people be so shitty?”
“It’s how they’re — we’re — made.”
Barb broke down again, and Joe waited.
“Father, did you ever think life would be like this?”
“Not exactly, no.”
Barb suddenly got up and padded over to the picture window.
“What’d I tell you?” Joe said, and thought, watching Barb return to her chair looking cross, That’s humanity for you.
Brad came into the living room, tossed a couple of magazines on the sectional sofa, and then, only then, noticed that he wasn’t alone. “Hey, look who’s here! I mean me. Ho, ho, ho.”
“Brad, you said you wouldn’t.”
“And didn’t, Buttercup. But now I will. What can I bring you, Padre? Hey, what’s with the hand?”
“Thumb.” Joe told him about it, briefly.
“Well, well. Let’s hope you don’t lose it. In the meantime, what can I bring you?”
“Just a beer, if you’ve got one, and a glass.”
“I shall return,” Brad said, which he did with drinks on a tray — a shot glass and a bottle of Kahlua for Barb, to whom he said, “Ho, ho, ho.”
“Brad.”
Having thoughtfully served others before himself, Brad sat down on the sectional sofa and raised his highball to them, saying, “To me.”
“I’m sorry, Father.”
“Barb, I think Brad’s trying to tell you something.”
“Clever people, these Romans,” said Brad. “O.K. I’ll begin at the beginning.” He said he’d cleaned out his desk and kissed the other cheap help good-bye and was about to leave the office for the last time when the phone rang. Could he have lunch that day with the personnel manager of a large local concern in its canteen? He could. [Barb: “What concern?”] “Wait.” So there he was with the p.m., not a bad-looking woman, another with a game leg, when who should join them in their booth but the c.e.o. himself. [Barb: “C.e.o. of what?”] “Wait.” The p.m. finished her tea and green salad and excused herself — significantly, Brad thought, but after she left, the conversation continued as before, on very general lines. As it did when the c.e.o. showed Brad around the various departments — in automotives, they sat talking in the backseat of a car that was in for a lube job, even when it went up on a lift—“I kid you not”—and in home furnishings they lay talking on water beds, first on twins, then on a double. They were getting to know each other and, at least in Brad’s case, getting to like each other. But the conversation was still on very general lines and going, as far as Brad could tell, nowhere. In the end, though, they had holed up in the c.e.o.’s office. “And well, the upshot is I’ve accepted the editorship of the Great Badger’s Shopping News.”
“Oh,” Barb whispered, “no.”
“Wait. At more — quite a bit more — than I made at the paper.”
“No, Brad.”
“Wait. I’ll have my column under my name, and it won’t be cut. My readership will go up—way up.”
“Readership! Nobody reads that thing.”
“Nobody does, Buttercup, but everybody will.”
“Because of your column? Oh, Brad.”
“No, Buttercup. Not because of my column. Not that it won’t help.”
“What else?” Joe asked.
“Wait.” Brad got up and went off with his glass, saying, “I shall return.”
“Oh,” Barb whispered, “God.”
“Wait,” Joe replied. He felt that more than met the eye, more than Badger’s policy of employing the elderly and handicapped — proselytism at the Mall’s expense might figure in Brad’s case (as in Mr Barnes’s).