Louse (16 page)

I walk the southern wing, back toward Poppy's chambers.

“Ah, there you are, Mr. Louse!” Mr. Lutherford cries from the kitchen door as I turn the corner of the western wing. When I step up to him I can see Mr. Lutherford, Mr. Heinrik, Mr. Crane, Ms. Morris, and several others inside the kitchen, standing around drinking grape NeHi and wearing green and red party hats. They are standing in a semicircle facing the doorway. They begin to sing:

For he's a jolly good fellow / For he's a jolly good fellow / For he's a jolly good fellow! / So say all of us! / So say all of us / So say all of us / For he's a jolly good fellow / For he's a jolly good fellow / For he's a jolly good fel–low! / So say all of us!

I don't say anything to them. I am stunned. I just stare, dumbfounded.

“I told you he wouldn't be of good spirits,” whispers Ms. Morris to Mr. Crane, who bobs his head.

“Thank you,” I utter, not exactly knowing what I'm thanking them for.

“Is that how a winner should hold himself?” asks Mr. Heinrik.

“I'm sorry. I don't understand,” I say, looking around the room, wondering if they have learned of my trusteeship. Everyone looks at each other, slack-jawed, then looks at me, then looks at each other again.

“He doesn't know.”

“Maybe it wasn't him.”

“Maybe he was indisposed.”

“You're a winner,” Mr. Heinrik says approaching me. “You came away with the exact numbers in the Keno selection. You've had a great stroke of fortune,” he continues, then lowers his voice so no one else can hear. Mr. Heinrik grips my arm tightly and smiles at me angrily. I hardly feel him pinching my flesh. “That's why we're having the party,” he says, “The winner of Keno, as if I need to remind you, is allowed a party within their division.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Heinrik. I wasn't playing Keno this evening.”

“Well then, someone was playing it for you, weren't they? For you won, Mr. Louse,” he continues in his hushed voice. Everyone is looking at us as they silently and dumbly sip on their grape NeHi, as though they are waiting for me to make up my mind.

“Don't spoil it for everyone else, Mr. Louse,” Mr. Heinrik concludes as he harshly grits his teeth. Some spittle softly brushes my chin as he lets go of me and turns back to everyone. “What a great stroke of fortune!” he bellows as Mr. Lutherford approaches me and snaps a pointy red cap on my head and as Mr. Crane delicately slips a NeHi into my hand.

I try to muster a smile. I bare my teeth for all to see, and upon seeing this they break back into song.

For he's a jolly good fellow / For he's a jolly good fellow / For he's a jolly good fellow! / So say all of us! / So say all of us / So say all of us / For he's a jolly good fellow / For he's a jolly good fellow / For he's a jolly good fel–low! / So say all of us!

We all lift our NeHis and drink to me.

“That's not so bad now, is it, Mr. Louse?” Mr. Heinrik says.

“Thank you, Mr. Heinrik. It's a wonderful gesture,” I say, now being taken away by the need to display a moment of good will.

“You're very welcome,” Mr. Heinrik says. “You're one lucky man, Mr. Louse.”

“Yes, most definitely,” Ms. Morris asserts. “Fortune is smiling on you.”

“Thank you, Ms. Morris, and to you all.”

“Just think, Mr. Louse,” Mr. Lutherford continues, “here you stand with a bottle of grape in your hand while history unfolds around us.”

“Yes,” Ms. Morris seconds, shaking her head and ticking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Today will be a momentous day.”

“I don't understand,” I say.

“They say the list is complete,” Mr. Crane informs me.

“The accountants will be brought to justice as soon as the time is right,” Mr. Lutherford follows. “Ms. Berger was just the beginning of it all.”

“And now,” Mr. Heinrik boasts, with eyes wide, looking as though he has a new piece of information to contribute. He pauses. Everyone looks toward him. “They are positive it goes as high up as the Executive!”

“Really? I hadn't heard that,” says Mr. Crane. “Well I knew that he was implicated but I had no idea that they had evidence on him.”

“It's been said, Mr. Crane,” Mr. Heinrik boasts. “From an acquaintance of an acquaintance of an acquaintance, you know, a Pan Opticon source.”

They all shake their heads knowingly.

“We all know what this means then,” Mr. Lutherford continues.

“The trustees will be clamoring,” Ms. Morris says disappointedly. “I don't know if I will be able to stand them.”

“You see, Mr. Louse, a truly historic moment.”

“What is it that's been said exactly, Mr. Heinrik?” I ask, almost stuttering, but very earnestly, wondering if it is I who helped make this true. “Are you absolutely sure of what you heard?”

“Am I absolutely sure, Mr. Louse? Is that what you're asking me?” Mr. Heinrik asks, looking at me incredulously, defensively, as though I have just challenged him to a fight.

“Are you absolutely sure?” I repeat earnestly. “What they say about Mr. Blackwell?”

“Yes, I'm sure,” he says sharply. He adjusts his cone-shaped hat so that it fits on the very crown of his head. “I wouldn't say it otherwise.”

“What exactly did you hear, Mr. Heinrik?”

“I told you what I heard, Mr. Louse. The Executive Controlling Partner has been implicated with the rest, from various sources who have implicated him.”

“I see. But you can't be more specific?” I ask. “Have they said how such a thing has come about?”

“I find this very irregular, Mr. Louse,” Mr. Heinrik says.

“Yes,” Mr. Lutherford seconds. “Your line of questioning is out of line, Mr. Louse. You should watch yourself.”

“
Repetition
, according to memo thirty-four sixty-seven,” Ms. Morris cites, “
is perfectly reasonable
;
however repetition may only progress to an affirmation based on rumored facts, but never back to rumored facts already stated since reiteration implies doubt which suggests that the realm of circumspection provided lacks truth.
”

“Yes, Ms. Morris, I understand,” I say apologetically. “Please excuse me for my impertinence.”

“You had to do it, didn't you, Mr. Louse?” Mr. Heinrik says.

“You couldn't consider us for the moment, could you?” Mr. Lutherford chastises.

“It's no fun anymore,” Ms. Morris says, taking off her hat.

“Yes, it's been ruined,” Mr. Crane agrees.

As Ms. Morris takes off her hat, everyone does the same.

“I'm sorry,” I repeat, slowly dragging the hat off my head. “I'm sorry. Really. Please…I don't know what…”

I bow my head in shame.

“It's all right, Mr. Louse,” Mr. Crane assures me.

I look up into Mr. Crane's round face.

“I…,” I say, feeling a swoon of emotion take hold of my throat and my stomach, and then realize it is a wave of nausea more powerful than I have ever felt before. I grip myself by the neck and then cover my eyes with my palms, able to feel the round inadequacy of my pupils. I roll them back into my head in search of some serenity. I roll them back until I can feel the veins and arteries straining not to snap.

“It's all right, Mr. Louse,” Mr. Crane repeats. “Another time.”

After a moment, the wave of nausea passes and I see, one by one, the Domestics line up to dispose of their hats and NeHi in the incinerator next to the wash basin. Ms. Morris walks off to “Cleaning Supplies.” Mr. Heinrik and Mr. Lutherford return to “Sterilization.” Mr. Crane shlumps off to “Maintenance.” And the rest disperse to their respective duties. I stand where I am, unable to move, wondering exactly where I am, trying to see more clearly what I have seen in my mind earlier. This nausea…

“Hello, Mr. Louse.”

I turn around.

Ms. Lonesome stands in the doorway leading to the back room of the kitchen.

“Hello, Ms. Lonesome.”

Ms. Lonesome looks well rested. There is not a line or a crease in her face or her clothing. Her eyes are lucid and attentive. Her hair is down, brushing against her shoulder as she steps toward me. The sight of her constructs a brief moment of clarity.

“Mr. Louse,” she says, “I've been instructed to escort you to Mr. Artaud to update your identification and portraitures. I am then to take you to Film and Television for an indoctrination video.”

“Is Poppy attended to?”

“Yes. He is well taken care of.”

“In that case,” I say, looking at Ms. Lonesome.

“If you'll follow me.”

“Yes, of course.”

I follow Ms. Lonesome out of the kitchen, back down the western wing to the southern wing, through the offices of the clerical staff to the interoffice elevator bank.

Ms. Lonesome swipes her card. The elevator doors open. She steps in behind me and presses the button for the basement. The doors close. We descend. And I can't help but wonder what kind of indoctrination video.

“I understand that congratulations are in order, Mr. Louse,” Ms. Lonesome says.

“Yes, thank you,” I say nonchalantly, thinking that she too is referring to this error about my winning at Keno.

“For your trusteeship,” she offers.

“You know of my trusteeship?”

“I was informed. Current trustees are entitled to know of new trustees. Current trustees are updated when new trustees are indoctrinated. All trustees have been informed.”

“I see.”

“I was updated first thing, when I reported to duty. Besides, I heard the celebration.”

“But that was for some error regarding my winning a Keno game.”

“It is a code for the ascension of a new trustee. Management believes a celebration is called for even though not all have a similar motivation for celebration. They informed the others that you had won at Keno.”

“Yes, I see,” I say, feeling a slight rush of blood come to my cheeks as I think of Ms. Lonesome's recognition of me.

The elevator rocks back and forth.

“I didn't know you were a trustee,” I admit.

“There is no reason why you should have.”

“I imagine not.”

“You are no doubt pleased?” Ms. Lonesome asks.

“About you being a trustee?”

“No. About you being a trustee.”

“It came as a surprise,” I say, thinking of the great improbability, the numbers for and against me, thinking of Ms. Lonesome's strange and sudden candor, about her trustee status.

“Well deserved, I'm sure,” she says. “Good fortune is always well deserved. You should be pleased. It is an honor.” Ms. Lonesome looks at me in a manner she has never looked at me before. She is smiling. I have never seen her smile. Her eyes are fixed on
mine. Her voice is more clear. Her words more pronounced.

“Yes, I am pleased. I see it as a great honor.”

“A small step toward better fortune.”

“Yes,” I say.

“Yes,” she says, smiling.

The elevator continues its descent.

My exchange with Ms. Lonesome has awakened me and settled my stomach. She and I now look up to the lit numbers blinking over the door, blinking my eyes shut as we fall through the teens. The rush of falling stirs Ms. Lonesome's fresh scent. I imagine the sweet coconut smell rising from her blouse, to the point that I can almost see the odor curling up her neck and wafting toward me, pulling me close to the thin line of shadow between her feet. I can see the brush of her hair on my toes, the shape of her thigh as it rests on mine, the curve of her chin as it hovers over me in midair…and her voice…

“Have they discussed your prospects for the future?” Ms. Lonesome asks as we exit the elevator. Her voice is most definitely clearer, stronger, more distinct. Her entire body, her presence, has become animate.

“I am aware of the positions I might potentially fill, yes,” I say, wondering if this line of conversation is allowed. It must be if Ms. Lonesome is asking me such a question.

“Manager, middle manager, partner, etcetera,” she says.

“Yes,” I say.

“I have my sights set on manager, myself,” she says as we turn a corner beyond Accounting and head down a hall I have never been in. It is a hall like a tunnel-white, beveled at the corners. And though I have never been here, there is something familiar about it.

“I am up for review next month. I am looking toward Intelligence. Intelligence is the future. Don't you think, Mr. Louse?”

“Yes,” I say, hesitantly, having never really thought this for myself. “Intelligence is most definitely a worthy position. Dignified. Most definitely worthy of you, Ms. Lonesome.”

“Thank you, Mr. Louse. That is very kind of you to say.”

“Yes, very dignified.”

Some color comes to Ms. Lonesome's cheeks and for some reason an image of her reflected in the same window I saw myself in earlier appears in my mind and then immediately disappears.

“Yes, well, Mr. Louse, they say it is a good time to be a trustee.”

“Is that so?” I say, a little stupefied.

“From what I understand they are in the process of defusing Mr. Moorcraft's bombs and they have a strong lead on Mr. Blank. Paradise will be saved, and it's rumored there will be an Executive Lottery.”

“Is that so?” I repeat stupidly, still trying to understand how quickly the situation has been resolved.

“They say they found a way to distract the Head Engineer and they have found a firm Controller who has helped them locate the missing funds and the source of Mr. Blank's sabotage.”

“I see,” I say.

I momentarily feel the relief. But then I begin thinking of Mr. Blank, or whomever it was I confronted in Poppy's chambers. I think of the way the man grabbed my arm and pulled me to the bed, the way Poppy's flesh felt against my skin, how the residue of sweat tattooed my palm.