“I’ve been movin’ for over twenty years,” he said in a confused tone, “and not once have I ever dropped anything. I could swear to you on a Bible that somebody was on the other side on this armoire here, pushing on it.”
Cantrell gave the incident no more thought.
The next incident occurred two hours and two moves later, and proved somewhat more calamitous:
The front wall of the building shook as a huge crate slammed against it: A crated piano, hoisted via pulley, since the crew had determined it was too big to go up the stairs.
Cantrell rushed outside.
Christ,
had a truck hit the building? Instead, he saw workers on the second floor reaching for the cable. It flailed beyond their grasp, the heavy piano swinging wildly. On the inward swing, it struck the building’s facade.
And screamed—the discordant sound of a musical instrument gone insane.
The workers froze in their tracks, as did Cantrell. Their expressions changed in an instant from grimaces of hard labor to blank stares of panic.
When the swinging slowed down and they brought the piano back under control, they laughed at their own reactions.
Cantrell glanced up at the building and was relieved to see no damage. Aside from a splintered crate, the piano itself seemed to be okay. But the sound of the piano’s shriek resonated in his mind long after it had grown silent.
§
“How’s it going?”
Su Ling had stopped to rest in the hallway before her open apartment door. She put down two huge shopping bags, wiping her forehead as she regarded Cantrell.
“I forgot how hard moving is,” she smiled breathlessly.
“Let me help.”
She hesitated for a moment, but smiled permission. He followed her into the apartment, which looked like a warehouse with its piles of unopened cardboard boxes, stacked chairs and luggage.
Cantrell noticed that Su Ling’s possessions were modest, especially in comparison to those of the other residents. The furniture was simple; mass produced rather than high-end. It looked to be at least ten years old. But the chinaware she had stacked on the counter looked authentic. Its intricate Oriental design suggested a family heirloom.
He made no superficial judgment about what he saw. In fact, knowing that Su Ling’s circumstances were different than all of the others was refreshing to him. He felt her pride and sensed her values. Of her material goods, he couldn’t care less.
She directed Cantrell where to place the bags he’d carried in. She thanked him.
“I should be the one thanking you,” he said. “You did a great job with the ceremony yesterday. I really liked the idea that your daughter did the honors with the ribbon.”
She smiled widely.
“I could tell it meant a lot to you,” she said. “Unfortunately, I’m not sure how much Anna was able to appreciate it.”
She gestured toward the window where the little girl was seated, Indian style, on the floor. She had a piece of paper before her and was busily scribbling. She seemed oblivious to their presence.
“What do you mean?”
“My daughter is . . . going through a very difficult time,” she said, a brief shadow of sadness crossing her face. “At least, she has been since the accident. I’m hopeful that things will improve, now that we’re here.”
Cantrell sensed that the opening was closing and that further questions would be intrusive. He took another look at the little girl, noticing how the dress and blouse she wore seemed expensive, quite unlike her mother’s attire.
She was pretty, slight and delicate, about five years old. She made no eye contact, either with him or her mother, focused intensely on her scribbling.
“Is there anything else I can do?”
She smiled again. “I think I’m about done for today, but thanks. Now comes the fun part—figuring out where everything goes.”
“I’m only two stories up. You know how to reach me. Call if you need anything, okay?”
She nodded.
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
§
Cantrell’s pen glided across page after page of the permanent loan documents as his banker, Ted Ballens, beamed across the desk. It was a tedious but necessary process, the legal culmination of the past two years of Cantrell’s life as developer and creator of the Exeter.
The documents represented the final financial phase of the project, a loan for tens of millions of dollars—a sum Cantrell had never dreamed he would one day be personally responsible for.
The late afternoon sun sparkled through the opaque glass of the clock face which served as the visual centerpiece of Cantrell’s study. Every 60 seconds, the eight-foot long minute hand clicked another notch.
The middle-aged Ballens, immaculate in his gray flannel and Ivy League haircut, poured through the lengthy contract with a watchmaker’s precision. He checked each signature, each initial, each date and each figure, and there were many.
At last, he closed the documents and regarded Cantrell. “Congratulations, Alex. You’ve just signed your life away.”
The two men laughed, and Cantrell poured two fingers of his best scotch. They clinked glasses and smiled.
“Thanks for all your help, Ted. I appreciate your trust in me.”
“I’m just your banker, Alex, but you’re right—I do have trust in you. You’re going to make this work. I look at you as a very good risk.”
“Thank you, my friend.”
“So tell me, what’s bugging you?”
The question caught Cantrell off guard.
“What do you mean?”
“After this deal, you should be the happiest man in the world.”
“I’m happy, Ted. Believe me.”
“To be frank, I’m not sure that I do. I’ve watched you since the beginning, the planning, schmoozing investors, your performance with the press, the tenants . . . you’ve done a fantastic job with all of it. But now something’s wrong. I can see it in your eyes.”
Cantrell laughed at Ballens’ uncanny insight. Despite everything, he
was
unhappy, or at least unsettled. He felt the culmination of the project in an almost voyeuristic way, as if it were all happening to someone else, someone far more fortunate and deserving.
What he couldn’t deny was the
fear
. The project was so huge, so
demanding, so complex
, that he doubted his ability to master it; to make the Exeter into what everyone expected it to be.
He wondered what his father would think if he were still alive. Would he be proud of his son? Or would it be like that football game, so long ago, when Cantrell ran the perfect pattern, caught that long difficult pass, pulled it in, eluded two defensive backs and dove into the end zone for the winning touchdown?
Amidst the celebrations, all his father had to say was that he didn’t like the way the boy bobbled the pass before he secured it, and that his foot was just inches away from the sideline.
Only his father, who elevated negativity to a high art form, could turn a moment of glory into humiliation.
He returned his focus to Ballens.
“I’m fine. Just finish-line jitters.”
The banker regarded him, smiling. “Well, you’ve got lots of time, Alex. Thirty years, to be exact, not to mention the interest.”
They laughed again.
“But seriously, I meant what I said: I have a lot of faith in you.”
Ballens rose and picked up his briefcase.
“And here’s my two cents’ worth,” he added, “and worth every cent of it. No matter how hard it is for you, enjoy the fruits of your labors. You, of all people, owe it to yourself.”
“You’re right, as always.”
The banker nodded.
“I’ll show myself out,” he said, doing so.
Cantrell leaned back in his leather chair and finished his drink. It actually felt good to be alone right now. No phone calls. No speeches. No problems to solve. Nothing but the ticking of the clock.
The study was the main room in Cantrell’s flat. He allowed himself the indulgence of the Exeter’s largest space. Unlike the other residences, his flat was designed strictly for himself. The book-lined study and office was dwarfed by the two story tall clock, the rest of the apartment furnished in a combination of art deco and neo-modern, along with one or two touches of the unexpected: One corner boasted a 1940s Fina gasoline pump, complete with glass globe and nozzle, another the restored grill of a 1940 Cord.
He closed his eyes, listening to the to the building’s rhythmic respiration. He’d lived here for over a month as the lone tenant, and had grown accustomed to the building’s assorted creaks and groans. It struck him as almost human in some ways; in its cyclical predictability—noises caused by air conditioning, structural settling, water coursing through pipes.
But now he heard something he’d never heard before.
It was mechanical, and it sounded
big
, like large metal gears meshing, or pistons pumping against a shaft of steel.
He opened his eyes and listened closer. Maybe one of the systems having trouble? Or something there that isn’t supposed to be . . .
Cantrell was about to rise from his chair, when it abruptly stopped.
4
The Exeter at last began to feel its heart beat, to breathe, to flex its muscles . . .
Bill Sloane had another ten minutes to endure on the treadmill in the second floor exercise room. He was having a tough time of it today. The remaining minutes would feel like hours.
His t-shirt was drenched with sweat, his face a florid red. The only sounds to accompany him were his raspy breathing and the monotonous rhythm of the belt.
He put his hand to his chest. His heart was beating fast, a dull soreness spreading throughout his chest, the whole area taut and trembling.
Sloane had seen the cardiologist just days before. He made monthly visits without fail, despite the doctor’s repeated assurances that he was in remarkably good shape for his 65 years.
“You’ll live another 20 years,” the doctor said, “unless you develop a sudden fondness for doughnuts and cigarettes.”
But Bill wasn’t sure.
He knew, as an attorney, that things could change in a moment’s notice: A microscopic obstruction, previously undetected with all of the best of modern technology, could lodge in that crucial highway leading to the aorta . . . there would be no warning. He could be working out, like he was now, sweating and panting . . . the pain would strike in an instant, like lightning on a forlorn field. Worse yet, he would be alone, with no one to call an ambulance or perform CPR. He would die, writhing in agony on the floor, staring at the bleak ceiling of this lonely gymnasium as he gasped his final breaths. Waiting desperately for help that would never come.
The image was all so clear, so familiar. The ten minutes had passed, the regime complete. He stepped off the treadmill and dried his face with a towel.
Why the hell was he thinking like this?
He’d never been morbid, nor a hypochondriac; this obsession with death was totally unlike him. But for the past two weeks, he’d had dozens of such visions. They all involved his heart, a terrible cardiac arrest, and they all ended the same way—with him dying alone.
As a highly analytical man, he tried to dissect the phenomenon, but he was coming up with nothing. He wasn’t the kind of man to run to a shrink when faced with problems; his sanity wasn’t in doubt, but that didn’t allay his confusion.
Probably just the stress of moving,
he told himself. It was a stressful business at the best of times, and he wasn’t exactly a spring chicken anymore.
He and Janice had agreed months earlier to sell their stately home in the suburbs; to free themselves from the labor and worries of owning a sprawling house. They looked forward to the Exeter, and the simpler life it promised. There had been a great deal to do, selling the house, packing up, seeing to the decor of the new flat. They planned extensively, but still found it difficult to pare down their possessions to fit their new home.
It had been exhausting, but not so much that he feared it putting him in the dirt.
“The hell with it,” he said aloud, running a hand through his gray hair and stepping into the warm embrace of the steam room. He sprayed a jet of cold water onto the thermostat. A plume of steam hissed into the air. He leaned back on the tiled bench and closed his eyes.
They flashed back open in a second.
Voices, seeming to come from somewhere beneath the floor.
Men’s
voices, several of them, their tone urgent,
desperate,
though he couldn’t make out what they said.
Sloane rushed out the door, followed by the spectral hiss and chatter of escaping steam.
§
Where the hell was he?
Janice Sloane sat fidgeting in the living room. It was 4:30 p.m. Bill had been gone for almost an hour. She smoked a cigarette, which she never did in his presence, and had already bolted two scotch and waters. She looked at the clock. 4:31 p.m.
Still no sign of him.
She rose and paced through the flat. It
was
a lovely place—not as regal as her family estate, but more intimate. Each of them had contributed a little of their own aesthetic to the final design. Bill’s was an eclectic collection of pop art and modern; hers the classical and traditional. The disparate styles blended well, reflecting their lives together.
She stared at the big Degas on the south wall, well-lit by the massive curved window. She took another sip of the drink and swallowed.
Her nervousness was slowly evolving into anger.
The exercise room.
Yeah, right.
As if she would really believe that. Or the increasingly regular doctor’s appointments. Or the weekly “visits” to his office. Did he think she was that
stupid?
She took a mouthful of Scotch, sighing.
What had happened to them?
In eight years of marriage, they’d gone through the usual ups and downs; the former mercifully outweighing the latter. Until recently, they’d made love a minimum of twice a week. And it had been good sex, fulfilling. Not the sort of thing one might expect from a man on the shady side of sixty and a woman 20 years his junior. Good, lively, nasty sex.