The Learners: A Novel (No Series) (11 page)

“Himillsy…loved
Life
,”

It was tortuous. For everyone.

“but,”

He was horrible to look at.

“she also,”

A mouse in a trap.

“she also had a subscription,”

Gnawing on its tail, clean through to escape. Bright pain.

“…to
Time
magazine, too.” He crumpled, in mortification, to the confusion of just about everybody. Except me.

And presto: The tears were released from my head. Yes, finally, that was Himillsy. Now
that
was her. For that split second, when he said it—that ridiculous, sophomoric nonsense—she was alive in the air. And just as quickly, like a small wisp of smoke, eaten by it.

Good-bye, Hims.

Levin dabbed at his head with a handkerchief, collected himself with borrowed effort, and returned to his seat. The pipe organ kicked in, swelled—the strains of “How Great Thou Art
.
” Everyone stood, opened to page 418, began to sing halfheartedly; the choir carrying it, covering for everyone.

THEN SINGS MY SOUL,

Hims, how could you do this to me? To all of these people? Look at them.

MY SAVIOR GOD, TO THEE,

You selfish, narcissistic, indulgent, self-obsessed, unforgivable bitch.

HOW GREAT THOU ART, HOW GREAT THOU ART!

It’s my fault. I was too late. I should have gotten to you sooner, I could have saved you. I know it. I could have solved your problems. But I was a coward.

Himillsy. My little gumdrop in the mud. Smothered.

I closed the hymnal, managed to set it down on the pew. Then, untethered and all too connected, I shook. Uncontrollably. Helpless. As a piece of me—one of the best parts there ever would be—was ripped out, stolen, burned.

And buried.

They filed slow out of the church, the organ chords heavy as the air. The reception was in the adjoining parish room, but he cut through the crowd, slipped out the side door. I followed him. There, around to the rear of the building. Alone, leaning against the garbage bin, head hung, smoking. Unseen, I hesitated to approach. Was that really him?

It was wrong to trespass on this private moment. I had to. “P-pardon me.” I tried to think of something unobtrusive to say. “Uh, do you have a light?”

His face was the color of marshmallow. “Sh. Sure.” He offered his lighter just as I realized that I did not have a cigarette, seeing as I do not smoke. Pathetic. We stood like that for what seemed like minutes—his arm extended, brandishing the Zippo reluctantly, like he was showing a traffic cop his driver’s license. Not looking at me, thoughts elsewhere. I felt like an utter, complete fool. Then he suddenly awoke to the situation.

“Oh. I
am
sorry, here.” He handed me one of his Lucky Strikes, lit it.

I took it gratefully and introduced myself. He didn’t seem to recognize my name. “We, Himillsy and I, were friends,” I offered meekly, “at State, years ago. When she was a junior.”

Levin’s face flushed with dark recollection. He stared at the ground. “Millsy didn’t talk much about school. Sore subject.” There was something strangely familiar about him—he looked like someone I knew, but I just couldn’t place it. Not like Himillsy, that wasn’t it. Someone else.

“I, we, we just recently reconnected. We had lunch, were going to be in touch again. Look,” I whispered,

“Lord knows this isn’t the time, but I’d really like to talk to you. Himillsy talked about you…all the time, and well.” His head bolted up. “Well, I just really liked her a lot, I.” And his eyes started to fill. “I mean, that sounds so dumb. ‘Like’ is such a dumb word,” not just with tears but with something else. “I’m sorry. I wish I could explain it,” with anger. “I wish I—”

“Did you see that dress?!” he spat. He was furious. At me? “Himillsy…” No, not at me. “She…” It was as if he suddenly knew that I was on his side. That we were against them, all of them. Whoever they were.

And then he was on me. Arms thrown around my neck, his head hard into my chest, practically beating my heart for me. Uncontrollable sobs.

I fought for words and lost. What is there, ever, to say in such a situation? That she would have wanted us to be strong?

Oh, please. “Strong” is for drinks. Be my guest—fall to pieces.

It sure worked for
me
.

“Plupp.” Two days later. Sketch was erasing like a madman.

“Plupp, Plupp.” A Krinkle ad, half-inked, trying to salvage it. And there goes the victorious beaming grin from the face of the potato chip god.

“Plupp, Plupp, Plupp.” Gone is a good half of the adoring crowd.

“Plupp, Plupp, Plupp, Plupp.” He tersely muttered it with each stroke, the agitation hot in his mouth.

But not an it. A he. For Leonard J. Plupp had entered our lives the day before, unbidden and hastily introduced, at our weekly client meeting with Dick. He was a good bit younger than Stankey, maybe thirty, if that. I figured him for some kind of apprentice tagalong, with Uncle Stankey showing him the ropes of the ad biz. I sort of felt sorry for him on sight, as an Oliver Twist’s worth of Stankey-borne secretarial indignities filled my mind, most of them involving the management of his prodigious output of chip spit. Lenny didn’t look too thrilled about the prospect, either—his face was a clenched fist, his eyes two thin strips of licorice whip. His slate gray worsted wool suit, despite its impeccable tailoring, still couldn’t hide the fact that it didn’t, well, suit him. It looked like a costume and not like clothes. And he smelled like a Vicks inhaler.

We were unveiling a month’s worth of “snack-to-school!” ads for the fall. Sketch had practically killed himself on a series of autumn-themed adventures in comic strip form starring Krinkle Karl, the anthropomorphic potato chip he created in the 1940s and trotted out seasonally when the mood struck. The boards were absolutely stunning, with Karl krinkling his way into all kinds of exquisitely rendered mischief: passing notes to his sweetheart, Tessie Tuber, in class and getting caught; colliding with his best friend, Chauncey Cheesestick, during a football game and creating a new taste sensation (The Cheddertater! Touch-down!); raking all the leaves in Tatertown, only to have them jumped into by his nemesis, Pucky Pretzel, and scattered everywhere. Sketch really went all out on these, as he did every year. The detailing on the leaves alone made your eyes water. Tip’s copy was charm itself.

Stankey was delighted. “Wowser, Sketch. Hot-CHA!” And then. Then he rotated his lumpy form to the young man to his right and dispatched what we hadn’t yet understood to be the five single most gut-wrenching words in the English language:

“What do you think, Lenny?”

A smoldering pause. “Gee, what do I think?” The air in the room vanished. Sketch’s face said it all: Why, exactly, do we give a thimble’s worth of bat shit what this Lenny whoever-the-hell-he-is thinks?

Plupp cleared his throat. “What do
I
think?” He was calm, measured, his deep voice a jarring contrast to his reedy body. “I think Krinkle Kutt sales are stale.”

Stankey’s face fell. Was that supposed to be funny? Doubtful. One quickly surmised that for Leonard J. Plupp the concept of “funny” was reserved for unwelcome smells.

“Sprinkles!!” Tip stood in the doorway, arms outstretched, eyes hungry. “Oops. Is this a bad time?”

“Tip, this is Lenny Plupp.” I watched his face betray a flutter of toxic amusement at the name. His glance bounced against mine for a split second, and: yes, we were going have
fun
with that one later. Oh, yes.

Dick stared at the floor, his massive breasts losing their daily, pendulous, war with gravity. “He’s the new head of regional sales.”

What? This twit? Impossible.

“I see,” said Tip, beaming, oblivious to the events of the last five minutes. He looked over at the boards, and whistled. “God, I hadn’t seen these finished yet.” Which was a lie. Mr. Showman. He turned back to Plupp. “Aren’t they sensational?”

“Well,” said Lenny, “yes and no.”

And Tip was speechless, for the first time that I’d ever seen.

“As examples of cartooning,” Plupp continued, soberly, “sensational they are. Utterly gorgeous. They always have been.” Stankey stifled a spit. “But here are the facts: Sales of Krinkle products in this territory have been steadily declining for three years now. Which indicates that this cartoon approach is just not working anymore.”

Sketch simmered, pipe clenched tightly in teeth. Reining it in. For now.

Because here was the thing about Sketch: He could and would denigrate his own work savagely, mercilessly, nearly out of existence. But if someone else did, look out. We had a lot of other accounts that were just busy work and we all knew that, but Krinkle was special. Krinkle was his valve—feeding his heart and releasing its boiler room’s buildup of considerable steam. The Krinkle ads were sacred, untouchable.

Weren’t they?

“Look,” Lenny said, wearily pragmatic, “we’ll go with a couple of these for now. We’ve got to run
something
starting tomorrow,” shooting Dick an annoyed glance, “we’ve already paid for the space.” He perched his hat on his head, signaled for Stankey to hustle up. “But I want this re-thought. And soon. Let’s meet again in a week.”

Maybe I was imagining it, but a thin, invisible fog of fear seemed to descend over the office. A hastily assembled, closed-door meeting in Mimi’s office—to which I was not summoned—bore this out. No doubt about it: Lenny Plupp was trouble.

An hour afterward, with the phonograph cranked and Jelly Roll Morton restoring the calm, Sketch ruled up a board and scoffed. “Just another giggle-shit account rep in his tighty whites, doing cartwheels for Daddy. Seen a million of ’em.”

Tip wasn’t so sure. We discussed it the next day after Sketch left for lunch. “I’d agree, except Stankey is
deferring
to him. It would appear Pluppy’s in charge. And if so, not good. The Meems will call in a cease and desist, but I don’t like it, not one bit.”

“Well, I—” My phone rang. Miss Preech: “There’s a call for you on line one.”

“Who is it, please?”

“A Mr. Dodd. He said it’s important.”

Whoa. I signaled to Tip that I needed to take it. He bolted. “Put him through, thanks…Hello?”

“Hi there.”

“Levin.”

“I’m sorry to bother you at work. I lost your home number. Is this an inconvenient time?” I’d given him my card before we parted. He sounded completely different now than at the funeral. Composed, sturdy, confident.

“No, not at all.”

“I just wanted to apologize.”

“Heavens, what for?”

“I made a damn fool of myself at the funeral.”

“Oh, nonsense. Please, I mean—”

“Look, I’ve been thinking. It’s not just that. I’m not going to be here much longer. I’ve got to get back to Cambridge for the fall. There’s something I want to talk to you about. But.”

“What.”

He hesitated. “Not over the phone. You’d said about getting together. Let’s meet for a drink?”