Ride a Cockhorse (28 page)

“I'm not out of work,” said Mrs. Fitzgibbons.

“Desmond is unemployable now.”

“That's hardly a qualification for me to employ him.” She showed Barbara a smile of irony. She attempted to cheer her daughter. “Don't fret about things you can't control. We're all capitalists, Barbara. We're all guilty of dirty tricks from time to time. There's no lasting harm in it. How would you like to be living in Borneo?”

She opened her office door. “Look out there,” she said. “Everyone is working in this place. People are lined up at the tellers' windows. Telephones are ringing. We take in twenty dollars for every eighteen dollars and sixty cents that we pay out. The difference between the two, by the end of the year, is enormous.”

“I hate you,” said Barbara.

“Seven percent stays here.” Mrs. Fitzgibbons pointed illustratively at the floor under her feet.

“I hate your insides.” Barbara suppressed the fury in her voice. Her eyes behind her glasses twinkled malevolently. “I hate your guts. I hate everything about you. I hate every memory of you. I hate the sight and sound of you.”

“Well, you aren't alone,” said Mrs. Fitzgibbons, surveying the great bank and the dozens of employees bent industriously to their work, as supplicants in a temple.

“I don't own a house,” Barbara complained. “I have a husband who lusts after my own mother. He says that your signs are compatible. He actually said that to me—”

For the second time that day, Mrs. Fitzgibbons was abruptly brought face to face with her most daunting adversary, as at that moment, Mr. Neil Hooton came out of his office and paraded as big as life past the copy machines not twenty feet from where she stood. As before, the portly officer was conspicuously contemptuous of Mrs. Fitzgibbons. She was no more important to him than a little bug on the wall. That was plain to see. He went on his way with a disdainful swagger, his head back, his little eye-glasses riding on the tip of his nose. In her secret heart, Mrs. Fitzgibbons still feared the man. He alarmed her. She could not rid herself of the feelings of awe with which she had always looked upon him. It set her insides churning. Her forehead turned cold. Her eyes shone with blue venom.

Mrs. Fitzgibbons's string of triumphs had not only affected her own bearing, as in the proudness of her walk, or the rather impressive set of her jaw, it had also produced a similar result on some of her closest followers. Julie, for example, who was at heart a genial soul, and never wished to make trouble, was showing herself to be quite acid-tongued when dealing with staff members. Like a miniature edition of Mrs. Fitzgibbons, she too walked about in a brisk manner, stiff in her posture, head up and shoulders straight, and often a pinched, querulous expression painted her lips. She clearly enjoyed being the messenger of dire tidings, and couldn't help sometimes but to snap at people. Mrs. Fitzgibbons's power and her disposition were contagious.

Matthew, who served as Mrs. Fitzgibbons's driver both in the early morning and again in the evening, was not immune to the bacillus of authority. He wore a severe-looking navy suit every day now, with a starched white shirt and dark, navy necktie, and had begun to affect on his bony face an expression that could only be described as bellicose. Sometimes, while waiting for Mrs. Fitzgibbons by the door of his Buick, he fell into the habit of cracking his knuckles while showing passersby a mocking sneer.

Of them all, though, probably the most comic manifestation of this growing tendency was found in Emily Krok, who showed up for dinner this evening wearing an old bomber jacket and a motorcyclist's cap, giving her the appearance of an out-and-out hooligan. Emily appreciated Matthew more than she did any of the others, because of his amateur boxing as a boy, no doubt, but also because he never batted an eye when she made one of her cracks about “breaking heads” or “kicking them all blue.”

For supper, Mrs. Fitzgibbons had engaged a two-room suite on the upper floor of the Canoe Club. When she arrived with Matthew, the others were already there. Bruce Clayton was responsible for all the arrangements and had made sure that the table was properly decorated with crystal, flowers, and candles, and had instructed Mrs. Kelliher, the lady in charge of the waiters, that Mrs. Fitzgibbons was the well-known banker whom everyone was talking about these days, and of how this chief executive was a stickler for form, and that efforts to pander to her vanity could only redound to the credit and future prospects of the restaurant. In response to that, Mrs. Kelliher smiled embarrassedly; but when she turned to walk away from Bruce, she found herself face to face with Julie and Emily Krok. They were both staring at her, and they were not smiling. It was Emily who spoke up. She pointed a bruised fingernail at Bruce and addressed the woman in an ugly voice. “That man is talking to you,” she said.

One might almost have thought the plan that had been forming in Mrs. Fitzgibbons's mind all that day was somehow known to the others; for there was clearly in the air that evening the sort of relief that human beings feel once a decisive order has been issued. That was not, of course, the case; for their superior had not said a word to anyone. Yet a relaxed, festive sense prevailed from the start. When Mrs. Fitzgibbons came up the stairs and entered the prettily appointed Victorian dining room, Eddie spouted aloud, “Here's the Chief!” and everyone stood and applauded.

Mr. Brouillette had arrived with his wife not five minutes earlier, and was standing beside her in front of the big bay windows that looked out onto the night-lit river. Dolores was blessed with a magnificent mane of rich brown hair, had a flawless complexion, and naturally dressed in such a way as to draw some attention to her physical dimensions.

In minutes, the wine was flowing freely. Mrs. Fitzgibbons was a trifle less talkative than usual and content just to occupy center stage, with her companions gathered about her, clinking glasses, laughing, exchanging small talk. She had not troubled yet to remove her leather coat, but stood beneath the lighted chandelier, basking in the currents of affection and respect flowing from her court. Even Dolores Brouillette, who was a stranger to all of them, looked upon Mrs. Fitzgibbons with a warm glow in her eyes, as it was Mrs. Fitzgibbons, after all, who had that day hiked her husband's salary by a big increment.

Howard raised his champagne flute. “The first lady of banking,” he said.

“I'll toast to that,” said his wife.

“To the Chief!” Eddie cried.

Everyone touched glasses. Mrs. Fitzgibbons acknowledged the tribute with a curt nod, and raised her own glass to her lips. She didn't like alcohol very much but enjoyed the happy effects it produced on those about her. She was exulting inside, very at one with herself and her accomplishments. A waiter, clad in white jacket and black trousers, came bustling in, bearing a broad silver tray replete with delicacies, at the heart of which was a cut glass server decorated artistically with slices of yellow peppers and glistening black olives. Behind the waiter came Mrs. Kelliher, hurrying forward to greet and welcome Mrs. Fitzgibbons. As she did so, she could not help but notice the dark, leering looks that Emily shot at her. Emily hovered nearby, closing and flexing her fingers. Her squat, misshapen figure, tilted forward, contained a powerful feeling of the grotesque.

“Did you see how she looked at Emily?” Julie cried out in merriment, after Mrs. Kelliher had departed. Julie bugged out her eyes in mimicry.

Everyone looked at Emily, in her leather cap and bomber jacket. “I'd like to punch her lights out,” Emily said.

“She was shaking all over,” Julie said.

“Who wouldn't shake?”

Even Mrs. Fitzgibbons laughed heartily now at the sight of Emily eyeing the doorway with her lips drawn back.

“I'd be shaking,” said Eddie Berdowsky, who had arrived uninvited.

“Yes, and I'd give you a good creasing, too,” Emily told him. She was already betraying signs of having had too much alcohol. “With a word from the Chief, I'd tattoo you good.”

“She's just teasing me,” Eddie cracked happily to Dolores, including her in the banter, while stealing a peek at the pronounced lift of Mrs. Brouillette's white sweater behind her open jacket.

“Eddie is a peeping Tom,” Matthew explained pleasantly.

“Oh, I see!” Dolores brightened happily over that.

Only Emily Krok remained grim and unsmiling. She showed Eddie the skinned knuckles of her two fists. “From punching cinder blocks.”

Eddie downed his champagne and gestured merrily at Emily. “What a fruitcake! The day she was born, God was on unemployment!”

Sensing the party was getting too raucous, Bruce encouraged all to come to the table. Everyone stood at his or her place while Bruce took Mrs. Fitzgibbons's coat and seated her at the head. Mrs. Fitzgibbons was a picture. The twinkling lights from the chandelier and candles played iridescently in her hair and sent magical streams of light in sudden rainbows up and down the surface of her black dress. Her face was lit to perfection. While the others had enjoyed a few moments of relaxation among themselves, it was more than clear at the table that none save Mrs. Fitzgibbons would speak out without prompting. Consequently, a full five minutes passed without a word uttered, as Mrs. Fitzgibbons led the way in partaking of the vichyssoise. The silence was impressive. From the fireplace at the far side of the room could be heard the hot showering sounds of flaming brands disintegrating, followed by eruptive cracklings. When she did look about the table, which was infrequently, she did not make eye contact with anyone. The effects of her commanding presence were thus compounded by the minute, which imbued Mrs. Fitzgibbons with a very pleasurable sensation.

Not until the entree was served would she reveal to her little gathering of loyalists the thrust of her latest stratagem. Prefatory to that, however, Mrs. Fitzgibbons thought it wise to display something of her firm manner and persuasive tongue, if only for the sake of Mrs. Brouillette, who was unfamiliar with the indomitable character of the Chief. She began by explaining how some of her enemies stood in complete ignorance of the dark forces collecting about them.

Everyone at the table smiled sinisterly at the hidden menace in her words. “What do you suppose they're doing to prepare themselves for me?”

Mrs. Fitzgibbons paused for the waiter to refill her water glass and then depart.

“They know I'm coming,” she said. “They know I'm not going to shut my eyes as long as there's one of them left to interrupt my plans, or to strike at me from behind. I've been civil. I've been more than that. I've been cordial and pleasant. They've had more than a week,” she stated, “to show me a decent attitude. More than a week.”

“That's true,” Julie breathed out in a soft voice, and nodded with sad understanding to Bruce, sitting opposite her.

“I've been the soul of patience and goodwill. I've given them a dozen examples of my intentions.” Mrs. Fitzgibbons paused here to break bread. Her tone was that of the reasonable leader whose tolerant nature was being ignored by ingrates. “I have promoted deserving people with this hand, while chopping out deadwood with this one. The lesson doesn't take. They continue to defy me.”

“The beat goes on,” said Eddie.

“All that was necessary,” Mrs. Fitzgibbons made clear, speaking now to Howard Brouillette's prostitute wife, while continuing to hold up her two hands, “was for such a subordinate to come to me, sit down in my office, congratulate me on my victory, and say, ‘You have my complete support and loyalty. I
recognize
your authority, I can see with my two eyes the results you're producing, and I'm going to join you in doing my level best, so help me God, to carry out your programs.' The chairman,” Mrs. Fitzgibbons fired out in a much harsher, more strident tone of voice, “is scared to death of me.
They're
not. He is, they're not. To them, I'm like a little autumn rain shower.”

Dolores was listening raptly, her dark eyes focused on Mrs. Fitzgibbons. Her fork was poised in the air. “They must be stupid.”

“They know I'm going to smash them, and they continue, hour after hour, day after day, to oppose me.” Mrs. Fitzgibbons paused to show her assembled dinner guests the face and silhouette at the head of the table of the implacable destroyer. Then she reached for her wine. “Now we're going to play according to some new rules.”

Silently, Eddie raised his two fists.

“This is what I'm reduced to doing. To bringing together, in the nighttime, in an out-of-the-way place, this little collection of happy-minded thugs—because that's what you are—just to effectuate these changes that should have taken place in the normal civilized course of things.”

Mrs. Fitzgibbons's friends laughed spontaneously in unison over her characterization of them. Of them all, Julie was the most enthralled by Mrs. Fitzgibbons's inflammatory proclamations. Her face shone with a bright pink glow, her love of Mrs. Fitzgibbons as transparent as could be.

“Until today, I would have forgiven them,” said Mrs. Fitzgibbons. “Had they come to me like human beings and showed a little remorse and a willingness to salve my offended feelings, I would have buried the hatchet. I would have pardoned them. Don't misunderstand me. I would have been angry, and maybe even a little punitive, but I'd have taken them back. Now,” she said, bitterly, “that hour has passed.”

As often happened when Mrs. Fitzgibbons contemplated her plans for her detractors, her language took on a violent edge. “Believe me,” she promised, “only the most extreme measures remain open to me from this hour forward.”

Instantly, she shot up her hand to forestall the display of enthusiasm which her companions were eager to offer. “Oh, I know what you all want. I'm not an idiot. But as you all know, all I asked from the start was a peaceful accommodation.”