The Broom of the System (43 page)

“Like those instincts, kiddo.”

“ ‘Santo Longine, having learned to shift with a cigarette in his hand, now smoked while he drove.’ ‘The morning that Monroe Fieldbinder came next door to the Slotniks’ to discuss Mr. Costigan was a soft warm Sunday morning in May.’ These seem prima facie OK.”

“Why not start with those. Why not go ahead and start with those—start with that last one. Read through about half the stack ... like so. You can use Mavis’s desk until her return from lunch, then you can come in here. I have to run to the typesetter’s this afternoon, and I may be gone for some time. You can have free rein.”

“This one looks sort of interesting, at least potentially. At least

it’s not overtly sick.“

“Which one?”

“....”

“Just see what you think. Go with your feelings, is the vital thing. ”

“Do I get switchboard scale for this?”

“Readers make ten dollars an hour.”

“I’ll just be outside, reading.”

“Have things reversed, Lenore?”

“Hmmm?”

“Nothing. Go. Have fun. Be intuitive.”

“....”

“Come in. ”

“Good heavens.”

“Come down.”

“Dear me.”

“This way.”

“I’ve got to confess, I thought this was some sort of joke at—”

“It wasn’t. It isn’t.”

“My God, it’s boiling in here. How do you people live? And how am I to walk?”

“Bent over. This way. Hunch your shoulders.”

“Lord.”

“You notice I’m not complaining. We all bend this way naturally. Mrs. Beadsman told me to tell you that as space is bending you now, so time has bent us.”

“....”

“The pain of which you have no idea, God willing. God forbid you should ever be in our state.”

“Rather hope to be in just your state, actually, at some point in the very distant future. Otherwise I ... Ow! Otherwise I expect I’ll be even worse off—specifically dead.”

“Well now that’s a very interesting point, which you can take up with Mrs. Beadsman.”

“Am I perhaps going to have a chance to speak to Mrs. Beadsman, then?”

“No.”

“Mrs. Yingst!”

“Hello, Dr. Jay.”

“Well, I must say it seemed difficult to conceive of, but this is—”

“Cut the guano.”

“... cozy, I must—”

“Here are the sessions’ transcripts back. Here is your money. Lenore instructs me to tell you you’re doing a competent job.”

“Competent?”

“That’s what she said.”

“And how long is this to go on? This is eventually going to kill her. You people and I are killing a person from the inside out.”

“That’s exactly wrong. It’s we who are keeping her alive. Can’t you read? You’re even more of an idiot than Lenore maintains.”

“I refuse to submit to this sort of abuse, madam. I am a distinguished professional, a graduate of Harvard University, a respected member of—”

“You’re a pathetic phobic neurotic whom Lenore used her influence to rescue from institutional commitment by your wife, who if you recall objected to being scrubbed with antiseptic every night before bed. We set you up and keep you in soap and peroxide and deodorant. You’ll do what Lenore tells you to do for precisely as long as you’re needed.”

“But this simply cannot keep on indefinitely. The Vigorous aspect, especially. He’s the real problem. Spoken things anger him beyond belief, and I know he’s eventually—”

“Lenore instructs me to instruct you simply to take care of Mr. Vigorous vis à vis Lenore. He’s getting on everyone’s nerves. Do it. You’ll find some material here on a person who—”

“Listen, though. This will only make it worse. He’s going to want to read something by Blentner. He’s a reader. He’s going to want to lay eyes on Blentner’s actual texts. And he’ll ask me for them, and he’ll find out that there is no Blentner, and then what am I to say?”

“There can be a Blentner if you want there to be, if you need there to be.”

“How’s that?”

“You’ll write something, you ninny. You’ll make something up and attach a name to it. What could be simpler? Are you completely dense?”

“Really, I see no need for this sort of—”

“Take your money and go. Here is the material on Vigorous. Go away.”

“Do you two notice anything smelling the tiniest bit peculiar down here? I—”

“Take your nostrils and go.”

“How am I to turn around? It’s too cramped to turn around.”

“Back up. Go backwards. Mrs. Lindenbaum will help you.”

“This way, dear.”

“Good God.”

The morning that Monroe Fieldbinder came next door to the Slotniks’ to discuss Mr. Costigan was a soft warm Sunday morning in May. Fieldbinder moved up the Slotniks’ rough red brick front walk, through some damp unraked clippings from yesterday’s first-of-the-season bagless mow, and prepared to press their lighted doorbell, one with a “Full Housepower” decal beneath it, just like the former decal on Fieldbinder’s former home, and then paused for just a moment to extract a bit of grass from his pant cuff.

The Slotniks sat in their dining room, in robes and leather slippers and woolly footmuffs, amid plates with bits of French-toast scraps loose and heavy with absorbed syrup, reading the Sunday paper, with maple stickiness at thumbs and mouth-corners.

The melody of the Slotniks’ doorbell took time. It was still playing when Evelyn Slotnik opened the front door. Fieldbinder stood on the stoop. Evelyn’s hands went involuntarily to her hair, her eyes to her feet, in woolly footmuffs, beneath unshaved ankles. And then context came in, and she looked away from herself, at Fieldbinder.

Fieldbinder was dressed to harm, in a light English raincoat and razor slacks, black shoes, subway shine. There was a briefcase. Evelyn Slotnik stared at him. All this took only a second. There was a sound of the newspaper from back in the dining room.

“Good morning Evelyn,” Fieldbinder said cheerily.

“Monroe,” said Evelyn.

When some more seconds passed during which Fieldbinder still stood outside, smelling the inside of the Slotniks’ home, he smiled again and repeated, louder, “Good morning, Evelyn. Hope I’m not...”

“Well come in,” Evelyn said, ailittle loud. She opened the door wider and stepped back. Fieldbinder wiped off the last of the dewy lawn clippings onto Donald Slotnik’s joke of a welcome mat, that read GO AWAY, and came in.

“Come on in, Monroe,” Evelyn was babbling, even louder. Her puffy eyes were wide and confused on Fieldbinder’s. “He’s home,” she mouthed.

Fieldbinder smiled and nodded at Evelyn. “By any chance is Donald home,” he said loudly. “I’m sorry to intrude. I need to speak to you and Donald.”

From farther in, there was a chair-sound. Donald Slotnik came into the living room, where Evelyn and Fieldbinder stood, looking past each other. Evelyn manipulated the belt of her robe. Donald Slotnik wore some sort of shiny oriental wrap over his pajamas. He had leather slippers, and the sports page, and a cowlick. From the dining room came the rustle of funnies, to which Scott Slotnik was applying Silly Putty.

“Monroe,” said Slotnik.

“Hello Donald,” said Fieldbinder.

“Well hello,” Slotnik said. He looked at Evelyn, then back at Fieldbinder, then at the easy chair Fieldbinder stood next to. “Please, have a seat, I suppose. You’ll have to excuse us, as you can see we weren’t really expecting anyone.”

Fieldbinder shook his head and raised a stop-palm at Slotnik. “Not at all. I’m the one who should apologize. Here I am, barging on a Sunday morning. I apologize.”

“Not at all,” Slotnik said, looking at Evelyn, who had her hands in the pockets of her robe.

“I’m here only because I really felt I should talk to you,” Fieldbinder said. “I felt a need to talk to you both. Now.” One of Evelyn’s hands was now at her collar.

“Well all right then, sure,” said Slotnik. “Let’s all have a seat. Honey, maybe Monroe would like some coffee.”

“No thanks, no coffee for me,” said Fieldbinder, taking off his coat, which Slotnik didn’t offer to hang up for him, and folding it onto the arm of his chair.

“Well I’d like some more,” Slotnik said to Evelyn. She went into the dining room. Fieldbinder heard Scott say something to her.

Slotnik sat on the love seat across from the living room window and Fieldbinder’s chair and crossed his legs, so that one leather slipper threatened to fall off. Fieldbinder refused to believe he saw tiny ducks on Slotnik’s pajamas.

“So,” Slotnik said. “How are Estates?”

“Estates are fine. How are Taxes?”

“Taxes are one hell of a lot better than they were two months ago. Returns are all in, the worst of the post-deadline bitching is petering out ... thanks, honey.” Slotnik took a sip from a mug of coffee and put it on the coffee table in front of him. Evelyn sank into the little gap next to Slotnik on the love seat, opposite Fieldbinder. “You remember how seasonal Taxes tends to be,” Slotnik continued, smacking his lips a little over the coffee in his mouth. Slotnik had always struck Fieldbinder as the sort of man who enjoyed the taste of his own saliva.

“I remember all too well.” Fieldbinder smiled at Slotnik. “Fred’s not riding you too hard over there, is he?”

“Not at all. Not at all. Fred and I get along well. We played tennis just yesterday. Fred’s a fine man.”

“Fred rode us hard.”

“Maybe he’s mellowing.”

“Could be.”

The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of Scott doing something to a dish in the kitchen sink.

“So,” said Fieldbinder. “The reason I’m here. I was just next door, at Mr. Costigan’s. Been there since early this morning. Trying to do some inventory work, following through, item-reference, et cetera.” He looked at Slotnik. “You did know Costigan was a client.”

“Sure, poor guy,” Slotnik said, reaching for his coffee. “We helped him set up a little municipal bond shelter just last year. A good, tight little shelter. The man needed protection. Poor guy’ll never get to enjoy any of the advantages, now.”

“Right,” said Fieldbinder. “Well, Alan put me on his estate.”

“Really. Well we wondered who’d be doing it. We’ve had a look across, over the fence, to see if we saw anybody. Fred didn’t know who Estates was going to put on it.”

“Well, you’re looking at him.” Fieldbinder looked at Evelyn Slotnik and smiled. She smiled back.

Then her smile turned upside down and her hand went back to her collar. “Such an awful thing to happen to somebody,” she said. “We were so upset. We were stunned, really, is what we were. So scary that something in a person’s head can just ... pop, like a balloon, at any minute, and you’re gone. Veronica Frick two houses over told me he’d never had any sort of health problem before, at all, ever. It’s just so scary.” She snuggled in farther under Slotnik’s arm.

“He was an old man, honey,” Slotnik said, trying to keep Evelyn’s snuggling from spilling the mug of coffee in his hand. “These things happen. How old was he, Monroe?”

“He was fifty-eight,” Fieldbinder said.

“Oh.”

“Neither of us could get over to the service,” Evelyn said. “Donald was swamped at the office, and Scott was home sick with a sore throat. We sent flowers, though.”

“Nice of you.”

“Not at all,” Slotnik said. “He was a good neighbor. Quiet, took care of his place, let the kids play ball in his yard. Sometimes when we were going out of town he’d offer to come over, take in the mail, water the plants. We liked him.”

“Sounds like a nice man.”

“He was,” said Evelyn.

There was a moment of silence. Slotnik cleared his throat. “So then how’s his estate?” he asked.

“Relatively trouble-free, although I’m just starting.” Fieldbinder smiled and shook his head. “Not a problem at all, really. I’m only working on it today because I’m so behind in general, what with the house thing last week, and insurance people to deal with, fire department, red tape, et cetera.”

“Hey, listen, damn sorry to hear about that, Monroe,” Slotnik said. “That must have been a wrench. We didn’t want to bring it up unless you did, right honey? We thought you’d be upset, tired of talking about it.”

“It was just a house,” Fieldbinder said. “All my important papers were at the office. And lawyers tend to be insured to the hilt, as you doubtless know.” They all laughed. Fieldbinder looked at Evelyn. “I am sorry about my bird, though.”

“You had a bird?” Slotnik said.

“Yes. A lovely one. I could feed her off my finger.”

“Too bad,” Slotnik said, scratching his neck.

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

There was more silence. Slotnik sipped coffee around Evelyn. Evelyn seemed to be looking at everything in the living room except Fieldbinder. The ducks on Slotnik’s pajamas looked to be mallards.

“How are the kids?” Fieldbinder asked.

Evelyn cleared her throat. “The kids are fine. Steven has final exams right now, along with baseball, so he’s busy. Scott’s had a cold, but he’s better now.”

“They around?”

“Scott was up for breakfast, believe it or not,” Slotnik said. “Scott?” he called. There was no answer. “He must have gone out back.”

“Steve’s still asleep,” Evelyn said. “He’s pitching this afternoon, Donald says.”

“Damn right,” Slotnik said. “When your dad’s the coach, and you’ve got an arm like that kid’s got on him, you get to pitch sometimes.”

“Well, good,” Fieldbinder said.

“Right.”

“Right.”

Slotnik put down his mug. “So you said you wanted to talk to us.”

“Yes,” Fieldbinder said. Evelyn was staring out the big living room window at the bright green front lawn.

Slotnik looked as if he would have glanced at his watch, had he been wearing one. “So?” he said.