His mother was an alcoholic whose drinking had been controlled only by her fear of the man she had married. Once Roger Toomy was safely in the ground, where he could no longer search out her bottles and break them, or slap her and tell her to get hold of herself, for God’s sake, Catherine Toomy began her life’s work in earnest. She alternately smothered her son with affection and froze him with rejection, depending on how much gin was currently perking through her bloodstream. Her behavior was often odd and sometimes bizarre. On the day Craig turned ten, she placed a wooden kitchen match between two of his toes, lit it, and sang ‘Happy Birthday to You’ while it burned slowly down toward his flesh. She told him that if he tried to shake it out or kick it loose, she would take him to THE ORPHAN’S HOME at once. The threat of THE ORPHAN’S HOME was a frequent one when Catherine Toomy was loaded. ‘I ought to, anyway,’ she told him as she lit the match which stuck up between her weeping son’s toes like a skinny birthday candle. ‘You’re just like your father. He didn’t know how to have fun, and neither do you. You’re a bore, Craiggy-weggy.’ She finished the song and blew out the match before the skin of Craig’s second and third right toes was more than singed, but Craig never forgot the yellow flame, the curling, blackening stick
of wood, and the growing heat as his mother warbled ‘Happy birthday, dear Craiggy-weggy, happy birthday to yoooou’ in her droning, off-key drunk’s voice.
Pressure.
Pressure in the trenches.
Craig Toomy continued to get all A’s, and he continued to spend a lot of time in his room. The place which had been his Coventry had become his refuge. Mostly he studied there, but sometimes – when things were going badly, when he felt pressed to the wall – he would take one piece of notepaper after another and tear them into narrow strips. He would let them flutter around his feet in a growing drift while his eyes stared out blankly into space. But these blank periods were not frequent. Not then.
He graduated valedictorian from high school. His mother didn’t come. She was drunk. He graduated ninth in his class from the UCLA Graduate School of Management. His mother didn’t come. She was dead. In the dark trench which existed in the center of his own heart, Craig was quite sure that the langoliers had finally come for her.
Craig went to work for the Desert Sun Banking Corporation of California as part of the executive training program. He did very well, which was not surprising; Craig Toomy had been built, after all, to get all A’s, built to thrive under the pressures which exist in the deep fathoms. And sometimes, following some small reverse at work (and in those days, only five short years ago, all the reverses had been small ones), he would go back to his apartment in Westwood, less than half a mile from the condo Brian Engle would occupy following his divorce, and tear small strips of paper for hours at a time. The paper-tearing episodes were gradually becoming more frequent.
During those five years, Craig ran the corporate fast truck like a greyhound chasing a mechanical rabbit.
Water-cooler gossips speculated that he might well become the youngest vice-president in Desert Sun’s glorious forty-year history. But some fish are built to rise just so far and no further; they explode if they transgress their built-in limits.
Eight months ago, Craig Toomy had been put in sole charge of his first big project – the corporate equivalent of a master’s thesis. This project was created by the bonds department. Bonds – foreign bonds and junk bonds (they were frequently the same) – were Craig’s specialty. This project proposed buying a limited number of questionable South American bonds – sometimes called Bad Debt Bonds – on a carefully set schedule. The theory behind these buys was sound enough, given the limited insurance on them that was available, and the much larger tax-breaks available on turn-overs resulting in a profit (Uncle Sam was practically falling all over himself to keep the complex structure of South American indebtedness from collapsing like a house of cards). It just had to be done carefully.
Craig Toomy had presented a daring plan which raised a good many eyebrows. It centered upon a large buy of various Argentinian bonds, generally considered to be the worst of a bad lot. Craig had argued forcefully and persuasively for his plan, producing facts, figures, and projections to prove his contention that Argentinian bonds were a good deal more solid than they looked. In one bold stroke, he argued, Desert Sun could become the most important – and richest – buyer of foreign bonds in the American West. The money they made, he said, would be a lot less important than the long-run credibility they would establish.
After a good deal of discussion – some of it hot – Craig’s take on the project got a green light. Tom Holby, a senior vice-president, had drawn Craig aside after the meeting to offer congratulations … and a word of warning. ‘If this comes off the way you expect at the end of the fiscal year, you’re going to be everyone’s fair-haired boy. If it doesn’t, you are going to find yourself in a very windy place, Craig. I’d suggest that the next few months might be a good time to build a storm-shelter.’
‘I won’t need a storm-shelter, Mr Holby,’ Craig said confidently. ‘After this, what I’ll need is a hang-glider.
This is going to be the bond-buy of the century -like finding diamonds at a barn-sale. Just wait and see.’
He had gone home early that night, and as soon as his apartment door was closed and triple-locked behind him, the confident smile had slipped from his face. What replaced it was that unsettling look of blankness.
He had bought the news magazines on the way home. He took them into the kitchen, squared them up neatly in front of him on the table, and began to rip them into long, narrow strips. He went on doing this for over six hours. He ripped until Newsweek, Time, and US News & World Report lay in shreds on the floor all around him. His Gucci loafers were buried. He looked like the lone survivor of an explosion in a tickertape factory.
The bonds he had proposed buying – the Argentinian bonds in particular – were a much higher risk than he had let on. He had pushed his proposal through by exaggerating some facts, suppressing others … and even making some up out of whole cloth. Quite a few of these latter, actually. Then he had gone home, ripped strips of paper for hours, and wondered why he had done it. He did not know about the fish that exist in trenches, living their lives and dying their deaths without ever seeing the sun. He did not know that there are both fish and men whose bete notre is not pressure but the lack of it. He only knew that he had been under an unbreakable compulsion to buy those bonds, to paste a target on his own forehead.
Now he was due to meet with bond representatives of five large banking corporations at the Prudential Center in Boston. There would be much comparing of notes, much speculation about the future of the world bond market, much discussion about the buys of the last sixteen months and the result of those buys.
And before the first day of the three-day conference was over, they would all know what Craig Toomy had known for the last ninety days: the bonds he had purchased were now worth less than six cents on the dollar. And not long after that, the top brass at Desert Sun would discover the rest of the truth: that he had bought more than three times as much as he had been empowered to buy. He had also invested every penny of his personal savings … not that they would care about that.
Who knows how the fish captured in one of those deep trenches and brought swiftly toward the surface –
toward the light of a sun it has never suspected – may feel? Is it not at least possible that its final moments are filled with ecstasy rather than horror? That it senses the crushing reality of all that pressure only as it finally falls away? That it thinks – as far as fish may be supposed to think, that is – in a kind of joyous frenzy, I am free of that weight at last! in the seconds before it explodes? Probably not. Fish from those dark depths may not feel at all, at least not in any way we could recognize, and they certainly do not think