The Unfortunates (23 page)

Caffeine, he decides. A cappuccino. He’s paying for the venti at the kiosk when his phone buzzes in his pocket. His mother. How free and consequential he feels in the noble station, that should not technically be called station but terminal. He can’t answer now! He resolves to call her later. He’s struggling with how to arrange the hot paper cup and his newspaper while returning the jangling phone to his pocket when he sees the woman ten feet away, standing in the pool of sunlight by the information booth under the terminal’s central clock. She’s leaning over a child, a boy of seven or so, placid and reedy in khakis and short-sleeved plaid. She licks her thumb and rubs something sticky from his cheek.

George raises his hand with the coffee in a tentative salute. Where does he know her from? She looks in his direction but her gaze remains unfocused, or focused only on the totality of the thronging crowd; he squints his most arresting, brooding squint, puts his free hand in his hair, to no result. Who is she? A neighbor from Stockport? An employee at one of the organizations he’s evaluated for the Arts and Culture Fund? She’s small, pretty, with close features and a serene air, maybe thirty, maybe twenty-eight, a lavender mouth, a lavender shirt, her black hair in a low puff. “Hallo!” he begins, but then she’s past him, tugging the boy. Penny. No wonder he had trouble recognizing her, in this different costume. But how is it she doesn’t recognize him? He, looking the same? Penny’s hand, tight on the strap of the boy’s backpack. He watches them hurry away. She could at least have smiled.

That afternoon drinking with Bob, George had exited the hotel meaning to go home, but after several blocks he turned around. His umbrella! With the single-minded commitment of the inebriate, he’d retraced his steps. He paused at the threshold of the bar. Across the room, Bob and Jim Frame were laughing at something Gita was saying. The umbrella, likely under her feet. The prospect of again looking into her clever eyes under their sticky black lashes—“he’s famous in here maybe”—sent George into a quiver of fresh resentment.
Ravens
-something, he heard Jim Frame say. Football? At the gloom of the word
raven
he retreated. They had not noticed him. “May I be of assistance?” The concierge. George blinked. Then he asked how he might find Penny. The concierge gave him a puzzled look. George remembered Penny had put her number in his phone. He texted
ARE YOU STILL HERE
? and ten minutes later watched her walk past him and get on the elevator, watched himself get on the next elevator and make his way to the room. She pulled the curtains against the glow of the streetlights and clicked off the lamp. He could hardly see her and could hardly remember her face from their woozy time in the dining room. His being there, he decided, was Iris’s fault, a little. It had put him in a mood, her not joining him in the city. Iris and Victor—the smallest tear along the seam of their marriage. Not often, but lately George catches Iris looking at him with a kind of alarm, as if he were a stranger. Was there really even an open house? And, and, and. Penny. What of it? Iris’s betrayal, greater than his. Oh, maybe it hasn’t happened yet, maybe it’s still ripping along toward them in the distance, but here it comes.

Penny, being deaf and in the dark, didn’t ask him what he wanted, but set about undressing them in a way that made it clear he’d get whatever it was she chose and be grateful. It was, he decided,
interesting
, what with her silence and her precision, which, while effective, reminded him of the lifting and lowering of the metal arms used in the assembly of cars. Strange too how in this brief time with Penny he was some other man, a free, lonely man, lonely because he was free and free because he was lonely. But then, all at once, even before she climbed off him, how gloomy he felt! How wrong he’d been to doubt Iris! That night at home he hid in his office listening to Bart
ó
k and staring at the vintage poster of
Aida
. All the following week, he waited for the black storm of guilt to roll his chest, for the fear of discovery to consume him, for his wife’s eyes to gutter doubt against his soul. It never came. His transgression served only to remind George how much he loves Iris. Did this not justify what he’d done? Justified too as a remembrance of freedom. Remembering freedom—an extension of love, not love’s rival. He never wants Iris to suffer. He’d almost forgotten that wish of early romance, to keep his Iris from suffering. His life’s very reason is to protect her from harm. How can being reminded of this be anything but good? He will never cheat again. Until now, he’d almost forgotten he had.

He hurries out of the station to walk the few blocks to work. He waves away the taxi that pulls up beside him. The walk through midtown will steady his nerves. Its predictable, numeric transparency—the streets, on a grid, demanding a series of rights and lefts; the jobs all for the accrual and dispensation of measurable units of output or gain; the windows flashing up the tower facades and the white stripes of the crosswalks flashing underneath the wheels of the cars; the orderly panels of buttons inside the elevators lighting up and going dim—the rule of the grid extending skyward, all around him, floor 40, floor 60, into the blue, but also down, through the steel bars of the gutters packed with grime—even the sewers built by math. A new-world city as numerical in its desires as a metronome, first and always designed for trade. Not like Paris, not like Rome: a city without curves. One, two, three.

At the office he’s halfway down the hall when he notices something new and strange. Like a dream, to pass a second unexpected something in one morning. Fish. He doubles back. Behind the receptionist’s head, enveloping her station, is a softly glowing crescent—a long, curved aquarium, six feet maybe, sleek and expensive-looking, filled with corals and the dashing iridescence of fins. The receptionist’s coffee and a pen rest on the gleaming mahogany ledge at the base of the tank. She smiles at George and points to her headset:
On a call
. He turns back down the corridor to his office.

Audrey has nothing for him to review.

“Nothing?”

She shakes her head. “I took care of everything. I didn’t expect you’d be in.”

“How long has that tank been there?”

“Since, like two weeks.”

“It doesn’t look right.”

“Reception said the new guy wanted it. The life aquatic, it’s his thing.” She ducks her head back toward her computer screen. “From Atlanta,” she adds, as if this explains the tank.

“I didn’t know there was a new guy.”

“That’s the big challenge of being new, I guess.” She locks her eyes to the monitor.

Ah! He understands. “Listen.” He leans over the wall of her cubicle, spilling a glop of his cappuccino down its gray, fuzzy side. “Listen. Audrey, I owe you an apology. I owe you serious proper gratitude for picking up the slack these last months. I know I haven’t been around as much as usual. It’s been a difficult time. My mother—the visits, her situation up and down, so far away, you understand. I really appreciate it. I’ve been meaning to see if we can’t up things for you in some way—keep you on in your current capacity but improve your salary, maybe your title. What about
associate
instead of
assistant
? I don’t know if they’ll be amenable, it’s not my call, but I’d like to take it up with Stanton one of these days. Or Hud, if he ever comes back from Palm Springs. That guy. He’s got it all figured out, right?”

She looks quickly into his face and back down into her paper-clip drawer. Perhaps she is overcome. She clutches her cardiganed elbows. The place is always over-air-conditioned.

“But only if you want me to, Audrey. I don’t want to presume I know your plans.”

“Okay, thank you.”

He enters his office but leaves the door open. As it seems he has no pressing grant evaluations or donor follow-ups, he opens the file on his desktop that says “Program Guidelines: New.” He’s been meaning to revise their language for elegance. He reads:

“Supporting the Arts in New York City: dynamic creative capital for one of the world’s most dynamic creative capitals.” Fine. He moves on and reverses the order of the words
innovative
and
team-based
in a sentence. He changes “fostering partnerships and institutional leadership” to “cultivating partnerships and strategic institutional initiatives.”

“Audrey,” he calls, waving her through the door and lowering his voice. “If you ever want to talk about anything—career, long-term goals? Fire away. Anytime. I wish someone had been available to me for strategizing when I was your age.”

“That’s really nice of you.” Her hand is on the door. “Maybe that would be so helpful sometime.”

His e-mail in-box is empty. He’d go to the theater but today they’re in costume and wig fittings. It’s happening so soon! He sticks his head out into the hall. “Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t I go talk to Stanton about you right now?”

She blinks at him over the top of her cubicle. Oh, he remembers being twenty-five, everything a torment.

“Waiting would be okay. No rush.”

“Nonsense, don’t be shy! Call him up, find out when he can work me in. I won’t commit you to anything. I understand how it is. Even if I can sweeten the deal, you’ll have the last say.”

She nods and after a few moments on the phone enters his office. “His assistant says give them five minutes to assemble. That’s all they need.”

“Assemble! That’s a very good sign. You must already be on their radar.”

“I just said you wanted to come by.”

“Any requests? A bit more money, a better title? Sound good?”

“Okay, sure. Thanks, George.”

Stanton’s assistant ushers him in. Stanton sits heavily behind his desk in a cabled pullover. His pink face, as always, appears babyish and ancient at once. Betsy, the majestic retriever, makes a pile of gold straw on the blue carpet at his feet. George is surprised to see an unfamiliar presence in the room, a trim man of about his own age sitting in a chair beside Stanton’s desk. Tight, salt-and-pepper sideburns, a purple tie. A slim, purple-and-emerald-argyle ankle sticking out toward George. As George sits, the man sets his Android on the desk. Stanton blinks at George in his slow, scrubbed way.

“You must be the new fellow,” George says, half-rising from his chair.

“No, I’m Daniels.”

“Daniels,” George says.

“One of the consultants. But in a way, yes. The new man came via us.”

“Of course,” George says. “I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

“Ah,” Stanton says, resting a heavy, yellow knuckle on Betsy’s head.

“He doesn’t need to be at this meeting,” Daniels says.

“Who?” George asks.

“Young,” Daniels says.

“From Atlanta,” George says.

“Can we get you a water,” Stanton says.

“No,” George agrees, “Young doesn’t need to be here. This is pretty routine stuff. But happy to have you join us, Daniels. Why not. I’d like to talk about how much my assistant, Audrey Singer, does for this company. I’d like to begin the process of recognizing her contribution more than we have so far. It’s been a few years. I’m wondering if there’s any room in the budget for a raise, any wiggle on her title. She does a lot. A ton. And the question at hand—is she getting her fair share of the credit? I don’t think so.”

“The thing is,” Daniels says, adjusting amiably forward in his seat, “I’m still trying to understand what you all do.”

“The Arts and Culture Fund.”

“Yes, but what do you do?”

“Well, we take it from beginning to end. Over a million dollars a year. Cultural institutions. That’s what we do.”

“But with your day? What’s the day to day?”

“Day to day,” George repeats. “Look, Audrey’s fantastic. Is there an issue here I’m unaware of? Our process runs like a well-oiled machine. All our grants are up-to-date. Is there some question about her performance I can speak to?”

Stanton’s eyes widen a fraction and slide in his direction, before settling back on Betsy.

“Not regarding Audrey. Or the fund, no. It rolls out fine. Very organized. But what do you do?”

“I just said—isn’t that the same question?”

“Not really. It isn’t the same at all.”

“Okay.” George opens his hands, stifling an impatient sigh. “I find and liaison with potential donors and grantees. I determine and enforce our program guidelines. I oversee the grant process from application to execution. I maintain grantor-grantee relations. I make site visits. I make sure our support staff, like Audrey, is keeping the records and accounting up-to-date. Among other things.”

Stanton clears his throat. “You’ve submitted your revised program guidelines, like everyone else?”

“Not yet.”

“What was your last site visit?” Daniels asks, in an encouraging tone.

“The Met. I went to the Met.”

“Museum or Opera?”

“Museum.”

“Winged Victory,” Stanton says. “They stole it from the Greeks.”

“It’s striking,” George says. “At the top of the stairs like that.”

“The Met’s is a replica.”

“Then they didn’t steal it,” George offers.

“The French did!” Stanton says, raising a thick finger in the air.

“Now”—Daniels nods—“I understand from Will here that you’ve been under some personal stress. An illness in the family. Understandable. Totally sympathetic. But. You’ve been absent from the office for almost the entirety of our review process. Look at it from our perspective. An external firm is hired to review efficiency and we can’t even find you to talk about your program. For nearly two months—”

“I’ve been here,” George cries. “My hours have been unpredictable, it’s true. There’s a most lamentable—yes, a family situation. An illness in the family, as you say. Have I put it above my regular presence here?”

“You have,” Stanton says.

“Indeed,” George agrees, feeling the heat rise from his neck to his brow, knowing he must be eloquent, that something, unexpectedly, is at stake, “I have. And I wouldn’t go back and do it any other way. Family first. Maybe it’s still unfashionable in the corporate world for a man to say he loves his family! Well, I don’t care. And I don’t forget that Mr. Stanton, Will, you told me. You told me to take the time I needed. Here I’ve been juggling and struggling and still the program runs beautifully. Shouldn’t this be testimony to, to—and this is the response I am hearing, this beat off?”