Things Go Flying (25 page)

Also, she wouldn't mind talking to Harold's mother about a few things.

Later in the afternoon, Audrey was sitting on the floor in the living room reading the instructions that came with the Ouija board, when Harold called from the office. He told her he'd been talking to Tom.

Audrey felt her eyes go wide. “You've been talking to Tom?” Her voice had a strangled, high-pitched quality. “About what?”

“Nothing, really. He says he's waiting for some test results.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

H
arold had gradually begun to take a greater role in rehabilitating his credit history. Partly, this was because of Audrey's insistence, but once he started, he found it interesting. He found himself living vicariously through the person who had stolen his identity. Harold would sit at his desk in his office, or at the kitchen table at home, and study the records of transactions made in his name, and imagine for a moment that he himself had bought these things, had done these things. He was curious—curious!—about what his doppelganger had done with the huge chunk of cash he'd raised on the house, for there was no record of what had been done with
that
money. Here Harold's inexperienced imagination tugged at the leash. He actually imagined himself in Paris with the Folies Bergère (drinking champagne out of a dancing girl's shoe) and gambling with movie stars at the Bellagio in Vegas—as he fed his own legitimate and far more pedestrian bills through the shredder.

Harold had also begun to notice other things that he would normally ignore. For example, today, after his chat with Tom over the spider, he'd discovered, with the help of a fitness magazine someone had left in the lunchroom, that if he ate one hundred fewer calories a day, he would lose just over ten pounds in one year. That was without exercise!

If he added exercise—say, a walk around the block after dinner, rain or shine—that might be another hundred calories a day, for another ten pounds in a year. It was astonishing to him that such a small change could have such a significant result over time. But perhaps he was fooling himself. Perhaps he'd really miss those hundred calories. But perhaps not. Maybe if he switched some of his foods to the low fat variety, he wouldn't even notice.

On reflection, however, he decided that a walk every day would not be such a small thing. It would be a change in his routine. It would take energy that he might not have. It would take resolve in bad weather. He decided to forget the walk.

The hundred calories though—he thought he could do that!

When he got home from work, he asked Audrey if she could take one hundred calories off his diet every day, and could she do it in such a way that he didn't even notice?

Audrey looked at him.
She
was wondering whether Tom was going to tell Harold about their affair; she was worried about who her kid's father was; she was freaked out about dead people smashing her good china—and
he
wanted to know if she could shave a hundred calories a day off his diet
in such a way that he didn't even notice!

“Sure,” she said, tossing a head of cauliflower onto the chopping board and slamming the refrigerator door. “I can do that for you.” She washed and then started to vigorously chop the cauliflower into little pieces and dropped them into the pot of boiling water. “We can start tonight. No glass of milk before bed.” This was almost a little cruel.

Harold balked. “But—”

“But what?”

“I'd notice that though,” Harold said, a little plaintively. “I like my glass of milk before bed.”

“Fine,” Audrey snapped, exasperated. “I'll think of something else.”

• • •

L
ATER THAT NIGHT
after supper, the boys went downstairs to watch TV and Harold returned to his newspaper in the living room while Audrey cleaned up the kitchen and wondered if there was anything handy in the kitchen cupboards that she could use to sabotage the TV. She was just rinsing out the J-Cloth and hanging it over the faucet when she heard a knock at the front door. Not Mrs. Kushner, this time; the knock had too much authority behind it.

Audrey hurried to the door. Standing on the porch was a dark-skinned young man in a tatty ski jacket, open over a cheap polyester shirt and dress pants. He wore running shoes, which looked terrible with the cheap dress pants. He obviously had no one to take care of him properly, and for a moment Audrey's sympathy was aroused. She would never let one of her sons go out dressed like that.

“Is Harold Walker at home?” the young man asked, his entire manner expressing a brazen confidence his dress wouldn't lead her to expect. Audrey's sympathy vaporized; there was something vaguely threatening about him.

“Who's asking?” Harold hollered from the living room.

Audrey noticed with distaste the stale smell of cigarettes on the young man's breath as he leaned forward, raised his voice, and said, “Harold Walker?”

“Who the hell are you?” Harold said, getting up out of his chair and coming over to the door.

“I'm your friendly neighbourhood process server. Here.” He tried to hand Harold a large manila envelope which Harold instinctively refused to touch. The younger man held it out briefly and when Harold wouldn't take it, let it drop to the floor with a smack and said, “Have a good evening.”

Speechlessly, Harold and Audrey watched him go down their front walk and climb into an old, beat-up car and peel off down the street. One of his rear lights was out.

Harold looked in alarm at the manila envelope on the floor as if he thought it might jump up and bite him in the groin.

“Open it,” Audrey said, her voice tense.

But Harold didn't move, and finally Audrey bent down and retrieved the envelope. She ripped it open and pulled out the contents. Heads together, they read:

ONTARIO
SUPERIOR COURT OF JUSTICE

• • •

BETWEEN:

ERASMO BEILFUSS

Plaintiff

and

JOHN WALKER AND HAROLD WALKER

Defendants

STATEMENT OF CLAIM

Harold bellowed, “John, get your ass up here!”

Grabbing the pages from Audrey and skimming for the gist of it, Harold soon grasped three salient facts: he was being sued by the taxi driver John had rear-ended; he was being sued for a million dollars
(general pecuniary and non-pecuniary damages in the amount of $900,000.00, and special damages in the amount of $100,000.00)
; and he had to defend the lawsuit within twenty days—or judgment might be given against him. Harold felt an awful sickness beginning in the pit of his stomach, somewhere up under his lungs.

John arrived in the living room, immediately looking like he wanted to turn tail and run.

“You'll never guess,” Harold said, looking at him, “what I have here.”

John glanced nervously at his mother, but she looked like a scared rabbit who wanted to bolt too. Apprehensively, he looked back at his dad.

“We're being sued,” Harold said, “for a million dollars.” He glared at John, waiting for a reaction. When he didn't get one, he shouted, “By that goddamned taxi driver!”

John felt like he was going to be sick. This was serious, adult, life-altering stuff, and he was nowhere near ready.

Harold began to read out loud: “
As to the Defendant operator, John Walker, he failed to keep the Walker vehicle under proper control; he failed to exercise due care and skill in the management of the Defendant's vehicle; he failed to anticipate the demands of the roadway; his faculties of perception, control and/or self-command were adversely affected by the consumption of alcohol, drugs (prescription or otherwise), stress and/or fatigue; he was an incompetent driver lacking in skill; he had the opportunity to avoid the accident but failed to do so; he failed to take reasonable care in the circumstances; he was untrained in the proper use of a motor vehicle; he unreasonably placed the Plaintiff in a situation of danger; he allowed himself to be distracted by reason of his use of audio devices in the Walker vehicle, his use of mobile communication devices in the Walker vehicle, his use of tobacco in the Walker vehicle, his adjustment of various instruments in the Walker vehicle, his preoccupation with personal issues unrelated to the safe operation of the Walker vehicle; he failed to make use of available prescription eyewear; he failed to obey the provisions of the Highway Traffic Act; and he failed to warn the Plaintiff of the impending collision, which in fact occurred.”

By now Harold's voice, ringing with disbelief, had climbed higher and higher until it was up somewhere around the ceiling, and his words rained down on all of them without mercy.

“As to the Defendant owner, Harold Walker, he permitted the Defendant operator to operate the Walker vehicle when he knew or ought to have known that the Defendant operator was an incompetent driver lacking in reasonable skill and self-command
—”

“
I don't believe this!” Harold raged in an aside.

“—
he failed to ensure that the brakes, signals, steering mechanisms and/or other equipment on the Walker vehicle were in proper working order; he negligently entrusted the vehicle to the Defendant operator when he knew or ought to have known that the Defendant operator had an extensive record of driving convictions
—”

“Oh for Christ's sake!” Harold hollered, unable to go on. “Why didn't they throw in the kitchen sink, too?”

He looked up at John, and suddenly saw himself, saw that John was feeling the exact same sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, up under his lungs, and he remembered the twisted front end of the car—how much worse it might have been—and felt ashamed for the way he'd just made his son feel. Harold made a great effort, took a deep breath, exhaled heavily, and said, “Never mind. I'm guessing the insurance will take care of it. I'm guessing that's what we pay insurance for.”

Harold flipped some more pages and snorted, “He's claiming serious permanent injury! Didn't you say there was no damage to his car, and that he just got back in his cab and drove away?”

John nodded, so pale his features were just a smudge against his skin.

“You're sure about that.”

John nodded more vigorously, still speechless.

“Well,” said Harold. “We're just lucky, I guess.”

• • •

T
HE NEXT DAY
, Harold was back at the philosopher's. It wasn't a scheduled visit, but Will had agreed to see him on short notice, for an emergency philosophy appointment.

Harold hadn't wanted to come, but Stan had insisted. Stan wanted him out of the office. Harold knew he had overreacted about the spider.

“I overreacted about the spider,” Harold conceded, nervously, to Stan. “I don't need to go to the philosopher today. I have an appointment scheduled for next week.”

“Overreacted? I'll say you overreacted, Harold. I can't have you harassing the cleaning staff!”

Harold had come to work, discovered that his spider was gone, web and all, and had gone a little overboard. He'd charged down the halls yelling, “What the hell happened to my spider?” He'd stormed into Stan's office while Stan was in a meeting and hollered, “I demand to see the cleaning staff!”

It had taken some time to calm him down. Stan had absolutely refused to let Harold talk to the cleaning staff—and had forced this appointment on him.

Now, the door with the Lucy cartoon swung open, the young, bearded philosopher popped his head out and said, “Ah, Harold, come in.”

Harold got up grudgingly and entered the office. He was embarrassed. He didn't want to talk to the philosopher. What was he going to tell him about why he'd needed an emergency philosophy appointment? That his boss had made him come because he'd lost it over a spider?

“Something happened,” Will guessed, looking sympathetically at Harold.

Harold shrugged.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

Harold shook his head.

“Give me a hint,” Will said, like a big kid.

He seemed so open hearted, so pleasant, that Harold felt he could hardly refuse him.

“I guess . . . I lost my cool at the office.”

“Hmm.”

“I lost my temper.”

“Hmm.

“I don't like it when things aren't where I leave them,” Harold said irritably.

“Hmm. My girlfriend's always cleaning up. It drives me crazy. Can't find anything. I don't let her in here—obviously,” Will said, glancing around contentedly at the mess.

“The cleaning staff vacuumed up my spider! Just sucked it up, web and all! It was a living thing!”

Will looked at him, interested. “You had a spider?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool.”

Encouraged, Harold said, “That spider made it fun to go to work. A spider web is a work of genius. That spider was an artist.”

“The natural world is fascinating, isn't it?” Will said.