Dorfman prodded: “And then what? What did you do?”
“I left,” Sanders said. “I went back to the . . . I went to the garage and got in my car. I drove for a while. A couple of hours. Maybe more. It was dark when I got back.”
“You were upset, naturally.”
He came back up the stairs, and again looked in through the stained glass. The living room was empty. He unlocked the door and entered the living room. There was a bowl of popcorn on the couch. The couch was creased. The television was on, soundless. He looked away from the couch and went into the bedroom, calling her name. He found her packing, her open suitcase on the bed. He said, “What are you doing?”
“Leaving,” she said. She turned to face him. Her body was rigid, tense. “Isn’t that what you want me to do?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
And then she burst into tears. Sobbing, reaching for a kleenex, blowing her nose loudly, awkwardly, like a child. And somehow in her distress he held his arms out, and she hugged him and said she was sorry, repeating the words, again and again, through her tears. Looking up at him. Touching his face.
And then somehow . . .
Dorfman cackled. “Right on the suitcase, yes? Right there on the suitcase, on her clothes that were being packed, you made your reconciliation.”
“Yes,” Sanders said, remembering.
“She aroused you. You wanted her back. She excited you. She challenged you. You wanted to possess her.”
“Yes . . .”
“Love is wonderful,” Dorfman sighed, sarcastic again. “So pure, so innocent. And then you were together again, is that right?”
“Yes. For a while. But it didn’t work out.”
It was odd, how it had finally ended. He had been so angry with her at first, but he had forgiven her, and he thought that they could go on. They had talked about their feelings, they had expressed their love, and he had tried to go on with the best will in the world. But in the end, neither of them could; the incident had fatally ruptured the relationship, and something vital had been torn from it. It didn’t matter how often they told themselves that they could go on. Something else now ruled. The core was dead. They fought more often, managing in this way to sustain the old energy for a while. But finally, it just ended.
“And when it was over,” Dorfman said, “that was when you came and talked to me.”
“Yes,” Sanders said.
“And what did you come to talk to me about?” Dorfman asked. “Or have you `forgotten’ that, too?”
“No. I remember. I wanted your advice.”
He had gone to Dorfman because he was considering leaving Cupertino. He was breaking up with Meredith, his life was confused, everything was in disarray, and he wanted to make a fresh start, to go somewhere else. So he was considering moving to Seattle to head the Advanced Projects Division. Garvin had offered him the job in passing one day, and Sanders was thinking about taking it. He had asked Dorfman’s advice.
“You were quite upset,” Dorfman said. “It was an unhappy ending to a love affair.”
“Yes.”
“So you might say that Meredith Johnson is the reason you are here in Seattle,” Dorfman said. “Because of her, you changed your career, your life. You made a new life here. And many people knew this fact of your past. Garvin knew. And Blackburn knew. That is why he was so careful to ask you if you could work with her. Everyone was so worried about how it would be. But you reassured them, Thomas, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And your reassurances were false.”
Sanders hesitated. “I don’t know, Max.”
“Come, now. You know exactly. It must have been like a bad dream, a nightmare from your past, to hear that this person you had run away from was now coming to Seattle, pursuing you up here, and that she would be your superior in the company. Taking the job that you wanted. That you thought you deserved.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Don’t you? In your place, I would be angry. I would want to be rid of her, yes? She hurt you once very badly, and you would not want to be hurt again. But what choice did you have? She had the job, and she was Garvin’s protege. She was protected by Garvin’s power, and he would not hear a word against her. True?”
“True.”
“And for many years you had not been close to Garvin, because Garvin didn’t really want you to take the Seattle job in the first place. He had offered it to you, expecting you to turn it down. Garvin likes proteges. He likes admirers at his feet. He does not like his admirers to pack up and leave for another city. So Garvin was disappointed with you. Things were never the same. And now suddenly here was this woman out of your past, a woman with Garvin’s backing. So, what choice did you have? What could you do with your anger?”
His mind was spinning, confused. When he thought back to the events of that first day-the rumors, the announcement by Blackburn, the first meeting with her-he did not remember feeling anger. His feelings had been so complicated on that day, but he had not felt anger, he was sure of it . . .
“Thomas, Thomas. Stop dreaming. There is no time for it.”
Sanders was shaking his head. He couldn’t think clearly.
“Thomas, you arranged all this. Whether you admit it or not, whether you are aware of it or not. On some level, what has happened is exactly what you intended. And you made sure it would happen.”
He found himself remembering Susan. What had she said at the restaurant?
Why didn’t you tell me? I could have belped you.
And she was right, of course. She was an attorney; she could have advised him if he had told her what happened the first night. She would have told him what to do. She could have gotten him out of it. But he hadn’t told her.
There’s not mucb we can do now.
“You wanted this confrontation, Thomas.”
And then Garvin: She was your girlfriend, and you didn’t like it when she dropped you. So now you want to pay her back.
“You worked all week to ensure this confrontation.”
“Max-”
“So don’t tell me you are a victim here. You’re not a victim. You call yourself a victim because you don’t want to take responsibility for your life. Because you are sentimental and lazy and naive. You think other people should take care of you.”
“Jesus, Max,” Sanders said.
“You deny your part in this. You pretend to forget. You pretend to be unaware. And now you pretend to be confused.”
“Max-”
“Oh! I don’t know why I bother with you. How many hours do you have until this meeting? Twelve hours? Ten? Yet you waste your time talking to a crazy old man.” He spun in his wheelchair. “If I were you, I would get to work.”
“Meaning what?”
“Well, we know what your intentions are, Thomas. But what are her intentions, hmmm? She is solving a problem, too. She has a purpose here. So: what is the problem she is solving?”
“I don’t know,” Sanders said.
“Clearly. But how will you find out?”
Lost in thought, he walked the five blocks to 11 Terrazzo. Fernandez was waiting for him outside. They went in together.
“Oh Christ,” Sanders said, as he looked around.
“All the usual suspects,” Fernandez said.
In the far section straight ahead, Meredith Johnson was having dinner with Bob Garvin. Two tables away, Phil Blackburn was eating with his wife, Doris, a thin bespectacled woman who looked like an accountant. Near them, Stephanie Kaplan was having dinner with a young man in his twenties-probably her son at the university, Sanders thought. And over to the right, by the window, the Conley-White people were in the midst of a working dinner, their briefcases open at their feet, papers scattered all over the table. Ed Nichols sat with John Conley to his right, and Jim Daly to his left. Daly was speaking into a tiny dictating machine.
“Maybe we should go somewhere else,” Sanders said.
“No,” Fernandez said. “They’ve already seen us. We can sit in the corner over there.”
Carmine came over. “Mr. Sanders,” he said with a formal nod.
“We’d like a table in the corner, Carmine.”
“Yes of course, Mr. Sanders.”
They sat to one side. Fernandez was staring at Meredith and Garvin. “She could be his daughter,” she said.
“Everybody says so.”
“It’s quite striking.”
The waiter brought menus. Nothing on it appealed to Sanders, but they ordered anyway. Fernandez was looking steadily at Garvin. “He’s a fighter, isn’t he.”
“Bob? Famous fighter. Famous tough guy.”
“She knows how to play him.” Fernandez turned away and pulled papers out of her briefcase. “This is the contract that Blackburn sent back. It is all in order, except for two clauses. First, they claim the right to terminate you if you are shown to have committed a felony on the job.
“Uh-huh.” He wondered what they might mean.
“And this second clause claims the right to terminate you if you have `failed to demonstrate satisfactory performance in the job as measured by industry standards.’ What does that mean?”
He shook his head. “They must have something in mind.” He told her about the conversation he had overheard in the conference room.
As usual, Fernandez showed no reaction. “Possible,” she said.
“Possible? They’re going to do it.”
“I meant legally. It’s possible that they intend something of this sort. And it would work.”
“Why?”
“A harassment claim brings up the entire performance of an employee. If there is dereliction, even a very old or minor dereliction, it may be used to dismiss the claim. I had one client who worked for a company for ten years. But the company was able to demonstrate that the employee had lied on the original application form, and the case was dismissed. The employee was fired.”
“So this comes down to my performance.”
“It may. Yes.”
He frowned. What did they have on him?
She is solving a problem, too. So: wbat is the problem she is solving?
Beside him, Fernandez pulled the tape recorder out of her pocket. “There’s a couple of other things I want to go over,” she said. “There’s something that happens early on in the tape.”
“Okay.”
“I want you to listen.”
She gave the player to him. He held it close to his ear.
He heard his own voice saying clearly, “. . . we’ll face that later. I’ve given her your thoughts, and she’s talking to Bob now, so presumably we’ll go into the meeting tomorrow taking that position. Well, anyway, Mark, if there is a significant change in all this, I’ll contact you before the meeting tomorrow, and”
“Forget that phone,” Meredith’s voice said loudly, and then there was the sound of rustling, like fabric, and a sort of hissing sound, and a dull thunk as the phone was dropped. The momentary sharp crackle of static.
More rustling. Then silence.
A grunt. Rustling.
As he listened, he tried to imagine the action in the room. They must have moved over to the couch, because now the voices were lower, less distinct. He heard himself say, “Meredith, wait-”
“Oh God,” she said, “I’ve wanted you all day.”
More rustling. Heavy breathing. It was hard to be certain what was happening. A little moan from her. More rustling.
She said, “Oh God, you feel so good, I can’t stand the bastard touching me. Those stupid glasses. Oh! I’m so hot, I haven’t had a decent fuck-”
More rustling. Static crackle. Rustling. More rustling. Sanders listened with a sense of disappointment. He could not really create images for what was going on-and he had been there. This tape would not be persuasive to someone else. Most of it sounded like obscure noise. With long periods of silence.
“Meredith-”
“Oooh. Don’t talk. No! No . . .” He heard her gasping, in little breaths. Then more silence.
Fernandez said, “That’s enough.”
Sanders put the player down and shut it off. He shook his head.
“You can’t tell anything from this. About what was really going on.” “You can tell enough,” Fernandez said. “And don’t you start worrying about the evidence. That’s my job. But you heard her first statements?” She consulted her notepad. “Where she says, `I’ve wanted you all day’? And then she says, `Oh God you feel so good, I can’t stand the bastard touching me. Those stupid glasses, oh I’m so hot, I haven’t had a decent fuck.’ You heard that part?”
“Yes. I heard it.”
“Okay. Who is she talking about?”
“Talking about?”
“Yes. Who is the bastard she can’t stand touching her?”
“I assume her husband,” Sanders said. “We were talking about him earlier. Before the tape.”
“Tell me what was said earlier.”
“Well, Meredith was complaining about having to pay alimony to her husband, and then she said her husband was terrible in bed. She said, `I hate a man who doesn’t know what he’s doing.’ ”
“So you think `I can’t stand the bastard touching me’ refers to her husband?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t,” Fernandez said. “They were divorced months ago. The divorce was bitter. The husband hates her. He has a girlfriend now; he’s taken her to Mexico. I don’t think she means the husband.”
“Then who?”
“I don’t know.”
Sanders said, “I suppose it could be anybody.”
“I don’t think it’s just anybody. Listen again. Listen to how she sounds.”
He rewound the tape, held the player to his ear. After a moment, he put the player down. “She sounds almost angry.”
Fernandez nodded. “Resentful is the term I’d use. She’s in the midst of this episode with you, and she’s talking about someone else. `The bastard.’ It’s as if she wants to pay somebody back. Right at that moment, she’s getting even.”
Sanders said, “I don’t know. Meredith’s a talker. She always talked about other people. Old boyfriends, that stuff. She’s not what you’d call a romantic.”
He remembered one time when they were lying on the bed in the apartment in Sunnyvale, feeling a sort of relaxed glow. A Sunday afternoon. Listening to kids laughing in the street outside. His hand resting on her thigh, feeling the sweat. And in this thoughtful way she said, “You know, I once went out with this Norwegian guy, and he had a curved dick. Curved like a sword, sort of bent over to the side, and he-”
“Jesus, Meredith.”
“What’s the matter? It’s true. He really did.”
“Not now.”
Whenever this sort of thing happened, she’d sigh, as if she was obliged to put up with his excessive sensitivity. “Why is it that guys always want to think they’re the only ones?”
“We don’t. We know we’re not. Just not now, okay?”
And she’d sigh again . . .
Sitting in the restaurant, Fernandez said, “Even if it’s not unusual for her to talk during sex-even if she is indiscreet or distancing-who is she talking about here?”
Sanders shook his head. “I don’t know, Louise.”
“And she says she can’t stand him touching her . . . as if she has no choice. And she mentions his silly glasses.” She looked over at Meredith, who was eating quietly with Garvin. “Him?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Everybody says no. Everybody says Bob isn’t screwing her.”
“Everybody could be wrong.”
Sanders shook his head. “It’d be incest.”
“You’re probably right.”
The food came. Sanders poked at his pasta puttanesca, picking out the olives. He wasn’t feeling hungry. Beside him, Fernandez ate heartily. They had ordered the same thing.
Sanders looked over at the Conley-White people. Nichols was holding up a clear plastic sheet of 35-millimeter transparencies. Slides. Of what? he wondered. His half-frame glasses were perched on his nose. He seemed to be taking a long time. Beside him, Conley glanced at his watch and said something about the time. The others nodded. Conley glanced over at Johnson, then turned back to his papers.
Daly said something. “. . . have that figure?”
“It’s here,” Conley said, pointing to the sheet.
“This is really very good,” Fernandez said. “You shouldn’t let it get cold.”
“Okay.” He took a bite. It had no taste. He put the fork down.
She wiped her chin with her napkin. “You know, you never really told me why you stopped. At the end.”
“My friend Max Dorfman says I set it all up.”
“Uh-huh,” Fernandez said.
“Do you think that, too?”
“I don’t know. I was just asking what you were feeling, at the time. At the time you pulled away.”
He shrugged. “I just didn’t want to.”
“Uh-huh. Didn’t feel like it when you got there, huh?”
“No, I didn’t.” Then he said, “You really want to know what it was? She coughed.”
“She coughed?” Fernandez said.
Sanders saw himself again in the room, his trousers down around his knees, bent over Meredith on the office couch. He remembered think ing, What the hell am I doing? And she had her hands on his shoulders, tugging him toward her. “Oh please . . . No . . . No . . .”
And then she turned her head aside and coughed.
That cough was what did it. That was when he sat back, and said, “You’re right,” and got off the couch.
Fernandez frowned. “I have to say,” Fernandez said. “A cough doesn’t seem like a big deal.”
“It was.” He pushed his plate away. “I mean, you can’t cough at a time like that.”
“Why? Is this some etiquette I don’t know about?” Fernandez said. “No coughing in the clinch?”
“It’s not that at all,” Sanders said. “It’s just what it means.”
“I’m sorry, you’ve lost me. What does a cough mean?”
He hesitated. “You know, women always think that men don’t know what’s going on. There’s this whole idea that men can’t find the place, they don’t know what to do, all that stuff. How men are stupid about sex.