Mockingbird (10 page)

“When my father was a young man, he built this company on oilfield exploration.”

“When your father was a young man, he had my mother guessing which land to buy and which wells to drill,” I said. “You don't have her. You have me. I don't dowse for oil. I read stock quotations. I research companies. I estimate risks and calculate buy-out costs. Not as glamorous, but it's what I do.” With a really commendable burst of willpower, I manufactured a fetching smile, one part sly humor, one part self-deprecation. The effort made my eyes water.

Bill's tongue peeked out from between his lips, slid furtively around his mouth, and then pulled back into hiding. The inner man, I told myself. Concentrate on the inner man.

(Momma is watching me do the dishes. Technically she is drying, but in fact she's smoking a cigarette and propounding her theories of marriage. “The trick to keeping a husband,” she says, “is to let him understand that you know, and tolerate, and in a goofy way even love, the little flaws and imperfections that would
shame
and
humiliate
him if anybody else were ever to discover them.”)

“Ah. Yes. Look, Ms. Beauchamp—”

“We've known one another since we were in diapers, Bill.” Still holding that smile like a pearl diver holds her breath. “Outside the office, Toni would be fine.”

“Um, okay.” Bill Jr. leaned forward over the table, his shoulders hunched, brow furrowed in an expression of Serious Intent. “Well, Toni, you're probably wondering why I asked you here today. The truth is—”

I shrieked. Bill jumped back as if he'd been shot, bumping the table hard with his large knees. Ice water slopped from our glasses and ran briskly over Bill's side of the table onto his lap.

“Omigod, I'm so sorry, I didn't realize—” I grabbed the cloth napkin from my plate and dabbed at the spilled water on his side of the table.

“No problem.”

“It's just, oh damn, I'm sorry—” My pregnancy-enhanced sense of smell picked up the oily, dirty-pipe odor of Houston tap water.

“That's fine, I can mop up over here.”

“The restaurant . . . I just realized the restaurant is moving,” I said weakly, sinking back into my seat. I bit my lip, hard. “It's a
revolving
restaurant.”

“Of course. Didn't you know?”

“A restaurant that goes around and around.” My stomach was whirling majestically around the hub of the Hyatt Regency. The next set of letters on the glass crawled toward me, informing me that the green skyscraper hoving into view was the Enron Building. “No,” I said. “I didn't know.”

“My dad used to bring me here when I was little. I thought it was neat.” Bill put his sopping napkin back on his salad plate. “It's funny how what you notice changes. When I was a kid, I always used to look for the Astrodome, especially when we came here for lunch and I knew the Astros were playing a day game. When I got older, in business school, I started connecting the skyscrapers to the businesses inside. There's Tenneco. There's the Allen complex. There's the Pennzoil Building.” He looked out the window. “You know, I don't pay much attention to the buildings anymore. Now I see the trees. I've stayed in a lot of hotels, in America and Europe too, and there's not another city in the world for trees like Houston. No town on earth looks so green from above. We take that for granted. Now I often find myself thinking, if for some reason everyone were to leave, there was a neutron bomb or something, I think the trees and the swamp would be over this city in a second. The Hyatt here, the other skyscrapers, they'd stick up out of the jungle like mysterious ruins in an old Tarzan movie.”

I blinked. “Wow.”

He laughed, embarrassed. “Maybe it's from watching
Planet of the Apes
too many times when I was a kid.”

“Yes! On the Dialing for Dollars Movie at three!”

“That bit at the end when they're going to blow everything up—”

“And the monks take off their masks and they've got this white skin and blue veins and these horrible transparent heads!” I said. “Exactly! . . . Oh God.”

“Are you okay? You look a little green.”

Sand, I told myself. Think about sand. Black pepper. Newspaper.

My stomach subsided.

A perky blonde waitress came to our table. “Hi, my name is Susan and I'll be your server today. Would you like any drinks to start?”

“Ms.—ah, Toni? Wine? They have a Louis Jadot Pouilly Fuissé that's very nice.”

Sneaking a glance at the wine list, I saw that this was the most expensive item on it, forty-five dollars a bottle. Should I give him a point for subtly indicating that I could order whatever I would prefer, or subtract points for trying to show off? Hard to call. “No thanks,” I said. “Not before dinner for me.” Or, in fact, until next October. “Water will be fine.”

“Are you sure?” Bill said. “In that case, um . . . I'll have a Peachy Keen, please.”

Susan sparkled brightly at him and perked off in the way of blonde waitresses everywhere. I wondered if she was pregnant. It's the eeriest thing about pregnancy: you can have a baby in your womb, your whole life about to change, your body turning itself inside out, sucking the calcium from your very bones, morning sickness leaving you weak and dizzy with hunger, your fingernails blue and your concentration shot, and no one can tell. Time and again over the last couple of weeks I had found myself staring at the young women who passed me in the street, or the girl working behind the counter at McDonald's, or the salesclerk who rang up my purchase, and thinking, Is she pregnant? Is she? What about her, over there?

And you can't tell. You just can't tell.

“So what's a Peachy Keen?” I asked.

“Peach cordial, ice cream, and Kahlua,” Bill said. “They make these great frozen drinks here. You sure you wouldn't like one?”

Yuck. “No, thank you.” I wondered what Louis Jadot would think of his pouilly fuissé losing out to a Peachy Keen. “Anyway, you were just starting to say something when I yelped.”

“Oh.” Bill's mouth worked for a moment. “Let's, uh, let's just order. I'll get back to it later.”

Another set of letters came around, announcing the approach of the Kellogg Building and the YMCA. “For some reason I always thought a revolving restaurant would turn so slowly you could hardly tell it was moving,” I said. “But this one just . . .
rockets
around, doesn't it?” I tried looking away from the windows, toward the hub of the restaurant, but we had just come even with a tank of lobsters. They sat there like so many political prisoners in the blue-tinted water, their claws held shut with rubber bands, waiting numbly to be boiled alive and then served with creamed butter and port—

I took a few quick panting breaths, as the books advise, and stared very hard at the pepper shaker on the table. The stuff in it was fine ground, not coarse, but the shaker had a gold top and it was something to cling to.

“Are you sure you're all right?”

“Absolutely.”

Bill stared at me for a longer time, caught himself, and looked around. “Nice view,” he tried.

“Mm.”

“Um—Terrible thing about that woman in Phoenix,” Bill said. “You hear about that?” I nodded. “Inconceivable. That any mother could take her own child and step off a building. She must have been on drugs.”

“No.”

“What?”

“No drugs. They did an autopsy. There were no drugs.”

“Oh. I hadn't been following the case that closely.” Bill shook his big head and reached for his menu. “Just shows that some people don't need drugs to be stupid. See anything you like?”

“Oh, well,” I said, staring blindly at my menu. “Everything looks so good.”

(Momma dries a coffee cup and puts it up. She is taller than me, always, until the last six months of her life, when she shrinks terribly. She is smoking two packs a day and doesn't give a damn about the effects of secondhand smoke on the rest of the family, no matter how often I bring it up. “One good tip about how you pick a husband,” she says as I hand her a bowl to dry. “The reason you leave a man is the same as the reason you married him.”)

If I could say why I would leave Bill Jr., would I see why I should marry him? He sat across the table from me, looking awkward in his expensive suit, and all I could see was his clumsiness. Him suggesting the most expensive wine on the menu. The dreadful peach and Kahlua drink. How big and sure and comfortable he was dismissing Mary Keith, the woman in Phoenix who had killed herself and her child, this woman he knew
nothing
about, nothing . . .

And it seemed to me, seeing him there, that Momma was right, and that if I were to love him, someday, it would be because he had his clarity to offer, his certainty. He might sneak a cookie or a bowl of ice cream to gratify his small greeds, but he would never deceive me. The obtuseness, the Dignity I disliked, were also a sense of honor that compelled him to do right, and I knew, I just knew, that when he found his woman, he would treat her well, because it would dishonor him to do less.

And maybe a man like Bill Jr. needed a mate like me to see around a corner or two for him. Well, that was probably a fantasy. “Men don't change,” Momma used to say. “They grow, but they don't change.”

Bill's Peachy Keen arrived and he set to, sucking down great streams of dirty orange alcoholic Slurpee. Whether he changed or not, I was pretty sure Bill Jr. was going to grow, all right.

“Are you ready to order?” Susan the waitress asked. (Are you sick with nausea behind your bright smile? I wondered. Do you lie awake at night wondering how you're going to cover daycare on your waitress's salary?)

I forced my eyes to focus on the menu, wondering how little I could order without Bill noticing. I decided to go for a salad. Eat a couple of pieces of lettuce and a lot of the bulk goes away, making it look as if you've really tucked in. “Grilled chicken Caesar, please. And could I have lots of cracked pepper on that?”

“Sure!”

“Lots,” I said.

“I think I'll try the Cobb Spindle,” Bill said. According to the menu, this was a delicious combination of romaine lettuce, smoked turkey breast, Gorgonzola cheese, provolone, egg, tomato, olives, white beans, roasted pepper and red wine vinaigrette. I nearly passed out from reading the list of ingredients.

“Is there something peculiar about that pepper shaker?” Bill said. “You seem very taken with it.”

“What? No! No, no. It looks like one we have at home,” I babbled. “Maybe Momma stole a pair from here. She would do stuff like that. I used to think you could buy Hilton brand hand soaps at the store.”

Bill closed his menu. “Your mother was quite a character.”

“Several of them. Um, would you excuse me?” I said, easing out of my chair and walking as steadily as I could to the ladies' room.

There is something extremely soothing about a really clean bathroom. Bright, clear light, clean fixtures, mirrors if you want them, cool tiles, and silence. And unlike the restaurant proper, the bathroom, being in the central hub, wasn't careening gaily around the Greater Houston Metropolitan Area. I wet my face with cold water and stood for a couple of minutes with my head hanging over the washbasin. At home, when the nausea was really bad, I had taken to lying on the floor. There was something quite perfect about the hard, cool tiles pressing against my back. I couldn't bring myself to lie flat in the bathroom of the Hyatt Regency, not in my silk jacket and nice blouse, but I was sorely tempted.

The nausea receded and I made it back to the table much refreshed. I even took out a disused smile, polished it up, and gave it to Bill.

His answering smile looked, to my eyes, a little unfelt. I was beginning to lose some patience with Bill Jr. A good fellow, basically, but here I was, having accepted his date, doing my level best to make sparkling conversation. He could at least try to be a little more entertaining himself. In the long run, I suppose, it's not terribly important that your husband be a great romancer, but, like being handsome or rich, it's one of those little attributes that a man really ought to cultivate if he possibly can.

I sat down, and he gave me a long look. “Ms. Beauchamp—”

“Toni, please.”

“—Ms. Beauchamp, you are no doubt wondering why I asked you here today,” Bill said. He took a breath and met my eyes. “I'm afraid we're going to have to let you go.”

Once again I felt the sensation of the elevator starting up; the dizzy earth falling out from under me.

“In recognition of the good work you've done for the company, my father and I have agreed to give you twelve weeks' severance pay. We won't be filling your position, so you won't be required to train a replacement. I should make it clear that this move reflects the direction of the company, and is not intended as a slight against your professional qualifications.” He reached into the breast pocket of his suit. “I have already written a letter of reference.” He handed it to me. “You can review it this afternoon and tell me if there are points you would like to have clarified.”

“You can't do this.”

Bill regarded me across the table.

“You can't do this. This is wrongful dismissal.”

“You are not being dismissed, Ms. Beauchamp. The position you currently hold has been eliminated.”

“I'll sue.”

“You are certainly welcome to speak to legal counsel, if you think it appropriate,” Bill said. “I think you will find Friesen Investments is acting well within its legal rights.”

“Legal rights. Legal rights! What about moral rights, Bill? Your family owes us every goddam dime,” I said hotly. “If it wasn't for my mother—”

“I agree,” Bill said. He looked out the window. “But you aren't your mother, are you? Ms. Beauchamp, the . . . special relationship between your mother and my father has been very productive. But your mother was an exceptional woman. To be perfectly frank, I very rarely need an actuary. And when I do, I can always hire a far more experienced one as a consultant.” He met my eyes again.

“You had this scripted out, didn't you? You read it in one of your magazines: ‘How to Lay Off an Employee: Make eye contact. Be unemotional. Don't be drawn into arguments.'” I looked down at my beautiful silk shantung jacket and felt outraged that he should ruin the first occasion on which I'd worn it. “You'll be hearing from my lawyer this afternoon.”