The Pursuit of Other Interests: A Novel (25 page)

Afterward, he checked his Rogers & Newman e-mail to see if anyone had responded to the second edition of
The Charlie Update!
He had but one message, from Terry Pocius, a midlevel member of his B-list, someone he hadn’t seen or heard from in at least three years.

This note quickened his descent. Terry was a bright, hardworking woman with solid credentials. The fact that she had been out so long didn’t make sense. There was no reason for people like her, like Bradley, like Karen, or Charlie, not to be working. Her message confirmed what he suspected: Xanon was a gift, if not a miracle. He could not end up like Terry. Sixteen months.

He was in the process of logging off, but changed his mind, and impulsively wrote a response:

Then,

He reread his message, added,
Stay in touch!
—then sent it off and went back downstairs to the kitchen, where he called Donna. She didn’t pick up and this worried him. Though she was probably running an errand, an image of her boarding a Maine-bound United Airlines flight came to mind and hovered. He poured himself another glass of the pinot and sat at the island.

He was halfway through the wine when he heard the music. It was soft and gentle, like rain at night. He started, popping off his stool, a hand to his chest, heart racing. Someone was playing the piano, his piano, the Great Unused. He stood by the refrigerator and listened to this foreign sound, both an intrusion and a delight, trying to process things. It was either Kyle, he concluded, or a very talented burglar.

He carefully made his way into the living room, approaching the piano from behind. He stopped when he confirmed that it was indeed Kyle playing, though it easily could have been a stranger, from the way he looked. His posture was perfect, his shoulders unaccustomedly square and balanced, his head bent down in concentration. The song was the standard Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue,” but Kyle played it with great life and feeling.

Charlie close his eyes and listened, recognizing the moment for what it was. His son playing the piano, his son making beautiful music in the dark. He drank in the moment, letting the requisite lump form in his throat, and clapped loudly when Kyle finished.

Kyle turned so quickly he almost fell off the bench. He had to steady himself with a hand.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” Charlie said.

“I didn’t know you were home.”

“I didn’t know
you
were home.”

“I just got here,” Kyle said.

Charlie pushed off from the wall and flipped on the light switch. Kyle’s backpack and coat were lying in a heap on the floor. “You could probably play even better if you could see.”

“I can see okay,” he mumbled.

“Who taught you that song? Your piano teacher?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just know how to play it,” he said.

“Do you know other songs?”

“Yeah, a few.”

“Can I hear some more? Play anything, I don’t care.”

Kyle hesitated and Charlie realized that he had walked in on a secret, interrupted something private. He was not supposed to share in this moment. “I got to do some homework,” Kyle said. “I got to finish an English paper.”

“Oh. All right. I’d like to hear you play some other time, though. You’re good.”

“Yeah, okay.” Kyle started to gather up the sheet music. “Where’s Mom?” he asked over his shoulder.

“I don’t know. I was hoping you did.”

He glanced back at Charlie. “She’s usually here when I get home.”

“Well, she’s out, that’s all.”

“Yeah, but she’s usually here when I get back from practice.”

“She’s out shopping, then. Or at that community place.”

Kyle turned away and faced the piano. His posture was eroding, his shoulders sagging. “You think she left again?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, do you think she left again?”

His question, asked simply and with sadness, shook Charlie. All he could think to say was, “She’ll never leave us. Especially you.”

Kyle sat in the shadows, looking very much like the young boy he still was, a boy in the middle of things. He deserved better than this, deserved better than to be playing the piano alone in the dark worrying if his parents were getting divorced. Charlie felt a flash of anger toward Donna, but was mostly angry at himself. He hadn’t given any thought to how his and Donna’s situation was affecting Kyle.

“She’ll be back,” Charlie said. “She’s just out. She’ll be back.”

Just then, as if on cue, the headlights of Donna’s car splashed and slid sideways across the wall. A second later, they both heard the garage door opening. Kyle glanced again at Charlie.

“See? She’s back,” Charlie said, trying hard not to look as relieved as he felt.

The next day, Charlie ran into Karen Brisco in the coffee room. She was wearing a short skirt that barely covered her thighs, shiny black spiked heels, and a definitely too-tight white blouse that lovingly gift-wrapped her breasts in a way that made him feel like the fraternity man he had once been. She smiled at him as he reached for the coffeepot.

“You look nice today,” he said.

“Thanks. I have an interview later.”

“Hey, that’s great.” He wondered if it was with an escort service.

“How are things going with you? Got anything going on?”

He poured a short cup of coffee and sniffed it critically, hoping that for once it was fresh. “Yes, actually. I had a good meeting yesterday.”

Karen smiled. She had been ambitious with the makeup this morning, her lips a glossy red. “Really? Great. Who with?”

Charlie hesitated. While talking about Xanon would give him the opportunity to examine her a bit longer, he remembered the Wizard’s words of caution. “Top secret.”

She stamped her high-heeled foot. “Give me a clue. Come on. Who am I going to tell? No one ever tells anyone anything here. Drives me nuts.”

“I’ll tell you later.”

She shook her head and he took a sip of his coffee and deemed it drinkable. “How about you? Anyplace I might know?”

“Yeah, and I’m not afraid to talk about it. Be Sport. A sporting goods company. It’s Australian-based. They’re opening a regional office here in Chicago. It’s a long shot and I’m not really that interested because I think it’s more promotional work than public relations.”

“Can’t hurt to go check it out.”

“That’s my attitude.”

He was trying not to stare at Karen’s wonderfully firm thighs as she bent down to retrieve some juice from the refrigerator when the Great Pockmarked One, Tamales himself, strutted into the room. He had kept a low profile since the desk caper, and Charlie was surprised to see him out and about. He looked hawkish this morning, his nose hooked and sharp, his hair buzzed shorter than usual. He dismissed Charlie with a beady-eyed glance and headed over to the water cooler.

“Hello, Tom,” Karen said. She shook a carton of orange juice.

Tamales drank some water. When his eyes found Karen, they wouldn’t let go. After he finished, he crumpled up his Dixie cup and tried to toss it into the wastebasket. He missed, though, and it bounced off the rim, landing on the floor. He made no effort to pick it up. That was someone else’s job.

“Congratulations on your news,” Karen said.

“What news?” Charlie asked.

“Thanks,” Tamales said. He was blatantly staring at her, an incredulous smile creeping over his creepy face. “Why don’t you stop by later? There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

“Oh. Okay,” Karen said.

“Give me a few minutes,” he said. He gave her one last look before he strutted away.

After he was gone, Charlie asked, “He didn’t get a job, did he? He didn’t!”

“Honda,” she said.

“Come on! No way. He’s only been here about, what, a few weeks? That’s impossible.”

“It’s possible. He was talking with them before he got fired.”

“What?” Charlie was floored by this. “I can’t believe that. That guy gets fired every year. Why do people keep hiring him?”

“Certain people always get jobs.” She straightened her blouse and ran a hand through her hair. It was then that Charlie realized who she was really dressing for that day.

“I got to go,” she said. “Wish me luck.”

“Yeah. Good luck.”

She picked up Tamales’s crumpled cup and dropped it into the wastebasket. “Thanks,” she said.

A little more than a week later, he had his second, and two days after that, his third interview with Xanon. Each time, Ted Greene greeted him in the reception area with a warm handshake and the now-expected pat on the back. Throughout Charlie’s visits, Ted was an amiable host and tour guide, introducing Charlie to everyone and anyone who crossed their path. Charlie officially met with half a dozen people: four very polite but cautious directors in the marketing department (cautious because they would report to Charlie), the chief financial officer, and the head of research and development. All told, he spent two six-hour days in the somber, thick-carpeted halls of Xanon, grinning, shaking hands, asking questions, and listening. By the time he made it down to the parking garage after the second day, he was physically and emotionally drained.

The moment he got inside the Navigator, the Wizard called.

“How goes it, chief?”

“I’m exhausted. If I have to use my personality one more time, I’ll die.”

“Long day, I know. But whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. All the reports are thumbs-up.”

“Well, that’s good.” He started up the Navigator and headed toward the exit.

“So you’re still on board?”

“Holding on with both hands,” Charlie said.

“I want to give you a heads-up about something, then. I don’t think it’s a big deal, but that frenetic thing came up, apparently.”

Frenetic.
Charlie hit the brakes when he heard that word. Behind him, someone honked. He scowled in the rearview mirror. “What do you mean? What did they ask?”

“They asked if there was any validity to it.”

“So they basically asked if I was insane.”

“That’s not what they asked.”

“What did you say?”

“I said I wouldn’t be working with you if there was.”

“Why do you think they asked about that now?”

“Because you’re getting close.”

Charlie frantically retraced the events of the afternoon, wondering if he had, in any way, shape, or form, acted insanely. (Why did he order cappuccino instead of coffee at lunch?) Finally, he yelled, “I knew I should have sued someone! Goddamn it! Goddamn it!”

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”

“Too much? But I
should
worry about it? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I just wanted you to be aware of it, that’s all, in case they ask. Don’t bring it up, though.”

“This just pisses me off!” He turned onto lower Wacker Drive and, for no reason, honked. “How bad is this going to hurt me? Are they talking to someone else?”

“Maybe one other candidate, I’m not sure. Listen, I have to run.”

“Have to run? You always have to run. You’re supposed to be helping me. Not running off every second! I’m not some stupid brand manager, some director of marketing!”

“Calm down, Charlie. I’m on your side, remember?”

“Don’t tell me to—” Charlie caught himself. “All right. Okay.” He paused again and tried to compose himself. He took a deep breath.

“I have to go now,” the Wizard said, his voice now stiff and formal. “I’ll call.”

“Hey, wait, Preston, wait,” Charlie began. He took a breath. “Listen, I’m sorry I went off like that. It’s—I’m…everything is just so messed up—”

“Got to run, chief. We’ll talk.”

“All right. Yeah, okay.” Charlie slowly laid the phone onto the passenger seat, took one last deep breath, and drove on in silence, both hands on the wheel.

Before he got home, he impulsively stopped off and picked up dinner at Paulie’s, a small Italian place that radiated garlic and Chianti. He had been meaning to stage a family dinner for weeks, but Donna or Kyle’s schedule had never allowed it. This time, he was just going to bring home some food and force the issue.

Paulie’s was located one suburb over in a nondescript strip mall and, having developed something of a cult following with commuters, was usually crowded. Tonight was no exception. He had to stand in line for fifteen minutes to place his order—three lasagnas, a large Italian salad, a loaf of garlic bread—then, rather than hover by the door and wait for his food, he walked back out to the Navigator to review the Bright Day annual report.

He was supposed to have worked on this for Donna months ago, but hadn’t gotten around to it. Seeing it on the kitchen counter that morning, he had made a copy and taken it to the office, where he spent a good two hours reviewing, then editing it before his interview. It was still in draft form, but Donna had done a good job; her writing was, for the most part, strong and clear. Still, he thought it needed some work, especially in terms of tone.

Sitting in the Navigator, he quickly reassessed his notes in the margins, hoping he hadn’t overstepped his bounds. He had been particularly aggressive in his comments on the ending, rewriting the last two paragraphs to reflect a more hopeful view:
Everyone has potential, everyone has a future. By working together, there’s no telling what we can achieve.

He now thought the closing predictable. He probably should have researched the organization—he was embarrassed how little he knew about it or what Donna even did there—before jumping in and writing. Donna had no idea he was working on this and he wanted to surprise her with a good effort. He berated himself for being lazy, then went back inside to pick up the food.

When he got home, he found the house (as always, it seemed) dark and empty. Moving quickly, he heated up the lasagna and bread in the oven, tossed up the salad, then set three places at the kitchen table. A few minutes later, while he was pulling the food out of the oven, Donna and Kyle arrived home together.

“Where were you guys?” Charlie asked.

“I picked him up from practice,” Donna said. She scanned the table. “What’s this?”

Charlie proudly laid the tray of lasagna on the table. “I got something from Paulie’s, that place we like. I just heated it up. You’re supposed to heat it up. Thought we could all eat together, for once.” He made his way over to the wine refrigerator. “You want some wine?”

“We just ate,” Kyle said. “At McDonald’s.”

Charlie stopped dead in his tracks, his hand on the refrigerator handle. “Oh,” he said.

“We ate a lot,” Kyle said.

They were all quiet.

“Well,” Charlie said, letting go of the handle. “I guess I should have called.”

“You can eat,” Donna finally said.

“I’m not really hungry.”

“Why did you buy all this food, then?” Kyle asked.

“I don’t know. I thought you would be hungry.”

They all looked again at the food. Charlie was beginning to feel foolish.

“I got to go,” Kyle said. He vanished around the corner without even taking off his jacket.

“I guess I can put this in the fridge,” Charlie said. “Maybe we can eat it tomorrow.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Donna said. She walked into the mudroom and took off her coat. “His first game is tomorrow, though.”

“We can eat it after the game, maybe.”

She walked back through the kitchen, passing him on her way to the family room. “I might have a meeting,” she said over her shoulder.

“Oh, okay. Well…”

He slowly wrapped up the food and put everything away on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. Then he unset the table, quietly putting the plates back in the cabinet, and swept the floor, though it didn’t really need sweeping. When he was done, he retrieved his briefcase from the front hall and pulled out the copy of the Bright Day annual report. He had planned on reviewing his comments with Donna after dinner, maybe over a second glass of wine, and explaining his changes, but no longer felt the time or his mood were right. So instead he laid it on the now-cleared kitchen table where she would find it and wearily trudged upstairs.

He spent the evening alone in his office under the watchful gaze of Abe Lincoln and the Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs Bird, halfheartedly searching job Web sites, and checking their finances. Around ten o’clock, rather than head down to the guest room where he had been spending his nights, he stretched out on the floor and thought about things.

Mostly, he thought about Donna. Despite his efforts, she had given him little encouragement. Since her return, she had remained, for the most part, distant and removed. Lying on the floor, he began to fear that she had only come back because of Kyle. How long she would stay, he couldn’t be sure.

Sounds like she’s given up.

He slung an arm over his face and, not for the first time in the past few months, marveled at his plight, amazed at the depth and speed of his descent and how someone could just stop loving you like that.

He eventually fell into a deep sleep full of short, disturbing dreams, dreams a psychiatrist would have a field day with: him running in an airport barefoot, leaving his BlackBerry on the train, being on an elevator that never stopped. When he finally jerked awake many hours later in the middle of the night, he found the room dark and it took a moment for him to get his bearings: he was still on the office floor, but covered with a blanket. He pulled it up tight to his chin, took deep breaths to calm himself, then fell back asleep while listening to the gentle hum of what he believed to be the ceiling fan. It wasn’t until morning, however, while he was stretching his stiff body awake, that he realized that that gentle noise was, in fact, his humidifier, which had been quietly set up in a far corner of the room.