Billy’s plans for the new woman didn’t work out so well. You could see that, because when he happened to be in the office, if she passed by, carrying her mop like a weapon, you could see him following her with his eyes, scowling, sort of irritated and puzzled and plotting. But he was never in the office much, even back then.
Billy’s office is across the corridor, looking out on the Hudson River. My cubicle’s window looks onto the parking lot. Usually, even back then, when things were better, it would be at least ten-thirty, or maybe eleven, when Billy’s silver BMW rocketed into the lot, throwing gravel. He’d lurch into the office, wrecked looking, and he’d stare around wide-eyed, as if he didn’t recognize anyone, and it hurt hearing the copying machines whirr and papers rustling. He’d mope about. Then he’d be gone for lunch. "Got must-do appointments," he’d tell me. In the afternoon he might come back, but only for a couple of hours. He’d wander around, staring over people’s shoulders at what they were working on, wink a lot, grip someone’s arm to predict an NFL game, things like that.
On his hunting trips, he might be gone a month.
Cara asked me recently what I thought of all the animal heads Billy hung on his den’s wall at home—cape buffalo and leopard and grizzly bear and a lion, lots of species. Not wanting to judge her husband or her house, I just shrugged.
"Well, it gives me the creeps," Cara said. "Who wants dead animals in their house? You don’t kill animals, Kevin, do you?"
I swat flies and mosquitoes. Sometimes in the autumn so many mice come in I can’t handle them with the Have-A-Heart trap, so I set snapper traps, which I bait with peanut butter, because otherwise they eat insulation off electric wires, and that can start fires. Mainly I watch the deer and raccoons around my house, which is in the woods near town, and wonder about their lives and what they think. My housemate is Herbert, who is a golden retriever. I know what Herbert thinks. He thinks it’s neat, us hanging out together. He also thinks, when’s supper? And so on. Herbert’s my friend.
At work, the new woman swept and mopped and emptied wastebaskets, never talking to anyone, keeping people away with that fierce amber stare. She waited. At least, that’s how she seemed, like a hunting animal, crouched in bushes beside a pool, waiting for some prey creature to come drink.
That’s one of those crazy ideas.
Three afternoons after she came, Billy called us all into the conference room for a staff meeting, which he does every so often. He used to, anyway. It was his way to demonstrate being in charge, even if he wasn’t around much. I sat up front, next to Billy, to give him a file or explain something, whatever he needed. Everyone was there, including the new woman.
I guessed her to be an illegal alien. Most of the pretty cleaning women Billy brought in, like her, were undocumented. That made them more vulnerable, I suppose. But this woman did not seem vulnerable. She stood in back by herself, staring at Billy with those strange eyes. They were not cold, exactly, her eyes. Maybe the word would be "implacable."
"Listen, everyone," Billy said, holding up both big hands. "Announcements."
He scowled a little, which showed he had lots on his mind, lots of work. And we were lucky he made time to bring us into the loop.
"You need to know I’ve negotiated a big contract with that Hudson River Excursions company, paddlewheelers, whatever," he said. "So we’ll all be working harder, okay?"
Now the guy who directs printing operations raised a hand.
"Billy, can you tell us the plan for that?" he said. "Will it be all printed materials, and how should we mesh it in with we’ve already got going? Or is it more that new web-site stuff and e-mail promos and all that?"
Billy stood staring at the guy, nodding his head. But he didn’t answer. Just stared, nodding. The silence got uncomfortable. It stretched on and on. Billy stood, sort of paralyzed, not knowing what to say, and I didn’t speak up because I didn’t want to overstep. It got really uncomfortable, the silence. Finally, a low voice came from the back of the room, the new woman, the first time any of us heard her speak.
"Thees other man here, the Kevinator, he should be telling, yes?" she said
She almost whispered. Yet it somehow sounded like a scream.
A sort of nervous titter went through the room. Everyone looked at me. I felt as if I’d lost my clothes.
"Well, yeah, Kevin," the print director said, looking at me now. "What about it?"
I looked at Billy, to see what he wanted me to do. But he stood staring at nothing, his mouth moving. He looked like a fish pulled out of water, trying to breathe. So I thought of something to say.
"Here’s what Billy told me, about how he set things up," I said. "First…."
I explained what the new contract entailed, and how it would affect everyone’s work load. I said it wasn’t entirely scheduled, how we’d dovetail the new work with other projects. But they’d hear by tomorrow morning. I knew the schedule would be ready then because I had it nearly done. As soon as I’d finished with the new clients, and they’d signed the contract I’d drawn up, I’d left it on Billy’s desk, for him to look over, if he wanted, and to sign. And right then I’d started figuring the work schedule for it.
"Have I covered everything, Billy?" I asked.
He stared at me.
Once I saw a television documentary about demolishing a tall building. Its windows looked vacant. Inside, dynamite exploded—you could see the puff. It must have broken some key supporting column. Because then, almost in slow motion, the entire building collapsed where it stood. You saw it become a rubble mountain, under a dust cloud. It seemed sad. Frightening, too, that someone knew how to break just one or two parts to bring down that entire building. Billy looked like that, standing in front of the staff. He looked as if, inside him, someone had set off dynamite, placed just so, and now, in slow motion, he would collapse in on himself.
Another crazy idea.
Billy also looked relieved. His eyes sort of flickered at me, gratitude for covering for him. But he had something else in his eyes, too.
He wanted to hit me.
I guess the hitting won.
"Okay, listen up, everyone," he said, raising his two hands again. "You’ve been good boys and girls, so I’m moving the annual office picnic up to next Friday, and it’s potluck, as usual, and I’ll supply the kegs, but not at my place this year—we’re all getting together at Kevin Fife’s house!"
I couldn’t get my breath.
Billy knew my house is where I live alone with Herbert.
He knew.
"Hey, Kevinator," Billy said, laughing, pointing at me, for the staff to see. "Don’t hunch over like that."
Here is an event: two days after the staff meeting, I heard voices from Billy’s office, because he’d left his door ajar. I heard Billy’s raspy rumble, sort of wheedling, but I couldn’t hear his words. And then I heard her voice.
"No," she said, low, yet somehow like a scream. "Not with burble baby. Inside, yes? Little blubber boy?"
Then the door opened and she came out, with a broom. She looked at me, those amber eyes so fierce. I had a queasy feeling, as if another dynamite blast had gone off inside the building, breaking more girders. She walked away, tendon and sinew.
From the office across the corridor came only silence.
That afternoon I looked up from my desk and saw Billy in my cubicle. He stood looking down at me, silent.
"Paddlewheeler Excursions—I’ve got the website design done," I told him. "Did you want to look it over?"
He said nothing. I thought he winked at me, but then I saw it was because his left eye kept blinking. He shuddered a little, shaking his head, as if to get rid of some thought. Then he stood up straighter, sort of rallied.
"Hey, Kevinator," he said. "It’s getting too intense around here—let’s go on down to the Riverside, where we won’t get interrupted, so we can chill a little, talk business, okay?"
I didn’t know what to say. I don’t drink.
"My treat, you little cheapskate," he said. "Hey, we’ll take the Beamer."