Disclosure (39 page)

“Oh, just a few things. Rumors, idle talk. Why don't you tel me yourself?”

“I'm in trouble, Max.”

“Of course you are in trouble,” Dorfman snorted. “You have been in trouble al week. You only noticed now?”

“They're setting me up.”

“They?”

“Blackburn and Meredith.”

“Nonsense.”

“It's true.”

“You believe Blackburn can set you up? Philip Blackburn is a spineless fool. He has no principles and almost no brains. I told Garvin to fire him years ago.

Blackburn is incapable of original thought.”

“Then Meredith.”

“Ali. Meredith. Yes. So beautiful. Such lovely breasts.”

“Max, please.”

“You thought so too, once.”

“That was a long time ago,” Sanders said.

Dorfman smiled. “Times have changed?” he said, with heavy irony. “What does that mean?”

“You are looking pale, Thomas.”

“I can't figure anything out. I'm scared.”

“Oh, you're scared. A big man like you is scared of this beautiful woman with beautiful breasts.”

“Max-”

“Of course, you are right to be scared. She has done al these many terrible things to you. She has tricked you and manipulated you and abused you, yes?”

“Yes,” Sanders said.

“You have been victimized by her and Garvin.”

“Yes.”

“Then why were you mentioning to me the flower, hmm?”

He frowned. For a moment he didn't know what Dorfman was talking about. The old man was always so confusing and he liked to be-

“The flower,” Dorfman said irritably, rapping his knuckles on the wheelchair arm.

“The stained-glass flower in your apartment. We were speaking of it the other day. Don't tel me you have forgotten it?”

The truth was that he had, until that moment. Then he remembered the image of the stained-glass flower, the image that had come unbidden to his mind a few days earlier. “You're right. I forgot.”

“You forgot.” Dorfman's voice was heavy with sarcasm. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Max, I did, I-”

He snorted. “You are impossible. I cannot believe you wil behave so transparently. You didn't forget, Thomas. You merely chose not to confront it.”

“Confront what?”

In his mind, Sanders saw the stained-glass flower, in bright orange and purple and yel ow. The flower mounted in the door of his apartment. Earlier in the week, he had been thinking about it constantly, almost obsessing about it, and yet today

“I cannot bear this charade,” Dorfman said. “Of course you remember it al . But you are determined not to think of it.”

Sanders shook his head, confused.

“Thomas. You told it al to me, ten years ago,” Dorfman said, waving his hand.

“You confided in me. Blubbering. You were very upset at the time. It was the most important thing in your life, at the time. Now you say it is al forgotten?” He shook his head. “You told me that you would take trips with Garvin to Japan and Korea. And when you returned, she would be waiting for you in the apartment. In some erotic costume, or whatever. Some erotic pose. And you told me that sometimes, when you got home, you would see her first through the stained glass. Isn't that what you told me, Thomas? Or do I have it wrong?”

He had it wrong.

It came back to Sanders in a rush then, like a picture zooming large and bright before his eyes. He saw everything, almost as if he was there once again: the steps leading up to his apartment on the second floor, and the sounds he heard as he went up the steps in the middle of the afternoon, sounds he could not identify at first, but then he realized what he was hearing as he came to the landing and looked in through the stained glass and he saw

“I came back a day early,” Sanders said.

“Yes, that's right. You came back unexpectedly.”

The glass in patterns of yel ow and orange and purple. And through it, her naked back, moving up and down. She was in the living room, on the couch, moving up and down.

“And what did you do?” Dorfman said. “When you saw her?”

“I rang the bel .”

“That's right. Very civilized of you. Very non-confrontational and polite. You rang the bel .”

In his mind he saw Meredith turning, looking toward the door. Her tangled hair fal ing across her face. She brushed the hair away from her eyes. Her expression changed as she saw him. Her eyes widened.

Dorfman prodded: “And then what? What did you do?”

“I left,” Sanders said. “I went back to the . . . I went to the garage and got in my car. I drove for a while. A couple of hours. Maybe more. It was dark when I got back.”

“You were upset, natural y.”

He came back up the stairs, and again looked in through the stained glass. The living room was empty. He unlocked the door and entered the living room. There was a bowl of popcorn on the couch. The couch was creased. The television was on, soundless. He looked away from the couch and went into the bedroom, cal ing her name. He found her packing, her open suitcase on the bed. He said,

“What are you doing?”

“Leaving,” she said. She turned to face him. Her body was rigid, tense. “Isn't that what you want me to do?”

“I don't know,” he said.

And then she burst into tears. Sobbing, reaching for a kleenex, blowing her nose loudly, awkwardly, like a child. And somehow in her distress he held his arms out, and she hugged him and said she was sorry, repeating the words, again and again, through her tears. Looking up at him. Touching his face.

And then somehow . . .

Dorfman cackled. “Right on the suitcase, yes? Right there on the suitcase, on her clothes that were being packed, you made your reconciliation.”

“Yes,” Sanders said, remembering.

“She aroused you. You wanted her back. She excited you. She chal enged you.

You wanted to possess her.”

“Yes . . .”

“Love is wonderful,” Dorfman sighed, sarcastic again. “So pure, so innocent. And then you were together again, is that right?”

“Yes. For a while. But it didn't work out.”

It was odd, how it had final y ended. He had been so angry with her at first, but he had forgiven her, and he thought that they could go on. They had talked about their feelings, they had expressed their love, and he had tried to go on with the best wil in the world. But in the end, neither of them could; the incident had fatal y ruptured the relationship, and something vital had been torn from it. It didn't matter how often they told themselves that they could go on. Something else now ruled. The core was dead. They fought more often, managing in this way to sustain the old energy for a while. But final y, it just ended.

“And when it was over,” Dorfman said, “that was when you came and talked to me.”

“Yes,” Sanders said.

“And what did you come to talk to me about?” Dorfman asked. “Or have yoùforgotten' that, too?”

“No. I remember. I wanted your advice.”

He had gone to Dorfman because he was considering leaving Cupertino. He was breaking up with Meredith, his life was confused, everything was in disarray, and he wanted to make a fresh start, to go somewhere else. So he was considering moving to Seattle to head the Advanced Projects Division. Garvin had offered him the job in passing one day, and Sanders was thinking about taking it. He had asked Dorfman's advice.

“You were quite upset,” Dorfman said. “It was an unhappy ending to a love affair.”

“Yes.”

“So you might say that Meredith Johnson is the reason you are here in Seattle,”

Dorfman said. “Because of her, you changed your career, your life. You made a new life here. And many people knew this fact of your past. Garvin knew. And Blackburn knew. That is why he was so careful to ask you if you could work with her. Everyone was so worried about how it would be. But you reassured them, Thomas, didn't you?”

“Yes.”

“And your reassurances were false.”

Sanders hesitated. “I don't know, Max.”

“Come, now. You know exactly. It must have been like a bad dream, a nightmare from your past, to hear that this person you had run away from was now coming to Seattle, pursuing you up here, and that she would be your superior in the company. Taking the job that you wanted. That you thought you deserved.”

“I don't know . . .”

“Don't you? In your place, I would be angry. I would want to be rid of her, yes?

She hurt you once very badly, and you would not want to be hurt again. But what choice did you have? She had the job, and she was Garvin's protege. She was protected by Garvin's power, and he would not hear a word against her. True?”

“True.”

“And for many years you had not been close to Garvin, because Garvin didn't real y want you to take the Seattle job in the first place. He had offered it to you, expecting you to turn it down. Garvin likes proteges. He likes admirers at his feet.

He does not like his admirers to pack up and leave for another city. So Garvin was disappointed with you. Things were never the same. And now suddenly here was this woman out of your past, a woman with Garvin's backing. So, what choice did you have? What could you do with your anger?”

His mind was spinning, confused. When he thought back to the events of that first day-the rumors, the announcement by Blackburn, the first meeting with her-he did not remember feeling anger. His feelings had been so complicated on that day, but he had not felt anger, he was sure of it . . .

“Thomas, Thomas. Stop dreaming. There is no time for it.”

Sanders was shaking his head. He couldn't think clearly.

“Thomas, you arranged all this. Whether you admit it or not, whether you are aware of it or not. On some level, what has happened is exactly what you intended. And you made sure it would happen.”

He found himself remembering Susan. What had she said at the restaurant?

Why didn't you tell me? I could have belped you.

And she was right, of course. She was an attorney; she could have advised him if he had told her what happened the first night. She would have told him what to do. She could have gotten him out of it. But he hadn't told her.

There's not mucb we can do now.

“You wanted this confrontation, Thomas.”

And then Garvin: She was your girlfriend, and you didn't like it when she dropped you. So now you want to pay her back.

“You worked al week to ensure this confrontation.”

“Max-”

“So don't tel me you are a victim here. You're not a victim. You cal yourself a victim because you don't want to take responsibility for your life. Because you are sentimental and lazy and naive. You think other people should take care of you.”

“Jesus, Max,” Sanders said.

“You deny your part in this. You pretend to forget. You pretend to be unaware.

And now you pretend to be confused.”

“Max-”

“Oh! I don't know why I bother with you. How many hours do you have until this meeting? Twelve hours? Ten? Yet you waste your time talking to a crazy old man.” He spun in his wheelchair. “If I were you, I would get to work.”

“Meaning what?”

“Wel , we know what your intentions are, Thomas. But what are her intentions, hmmm? She is solving a problem, too. She has a purpose here. So: what is the problem she is solving?”

“I don't know,” Sanders said.

“Clearly. But how wil you find out?”

Lost in thought, he walked the five blocks to 11 Terrazzo. Fernandez was waiting for him outside. They went in together.

“Oh Christ,” Sanders said, as he looked around.

“Al the usual suspects,” Fernandez said.

In the far section straight ahead, Meredith Johnson was having dinner with Bob Garvin. Two tables away, Phil Blackburn was eating with his wife, Doris, a thin bespectacled woman who looked like an accountant. Near them, Stephanie Kaplan was having dinner with a young man in his twenties-probably her son at the university, Sanders thought. And over to the right, by the window, the Conley-White people were in the midst of a working dinner, their briefcases open at their feet, papers scattered al over the table. Ed Nichols sat with John Conley to his right, and Jim Daly to his left. Daly was speaking into a tiny dictating machine.

“Maybe we should go somewhere else,” Sanders said.

“No,” Fernandez said. “They've already seen us. We can sit in the corner over there.”

Carmine came over. “Mr. Sanders,” he said with a formal nod.

“We'd like a table in the corner, Carmine.”

“Yes of course, Mr. Sanders.”

They sat to one side. Fernandez was staring at Meredith and Garvin. “She could be his daughter,” she said.

“Everybody says so.”

“It's quite striking.”

The waiter brought menus. Nothing on it appealed to Sanders, but they ordered anyway. Fernandez was looking steadily at Garvin. “He's a fighter, isn't he.”

“Bob? Famous fighter. Famous tough guy.”

“She knows how to play him.” Fernandez turned away and pul ed papers out of her briefcase. “This is the contract that Blackburn sent back. It is al in order, except for two clauses. First, they claim the right to terminate you if you are shown to have committed a felony on the job.

“Uh-huh.” He wondered what they might mean.

“And this second clause claims the right to terminate you if you havèfailed to demonstrate satisfactory performance in the job as measured by industry standards.' What does that mean?”

He shook his head. “They must have something in mind.” He told her about the conversation he had overheard in the conference room.

As usual, Fernandez showed no reaction. “Possible,” she said.

“Possible? They're going to do it.”

“I meant legal y. It's possible that they intend something of this sort. And it would work.”

“Why?”

“A harassment claim brings up the entire performance of an employee. If there is dereliction, even a very old or minor dereliction, it may be used to dismiss the claim. I had one client who worked for a company for ten years. But the company was able to demonstrate that the employee had lied on the original application form, and the case was dismissed. The employee was fired.”

“So this comes down to my performance.”

“It may. Yes.”