• Anne Saunders stares from one big monitor to the other, spread sheets on both screens. She leans back in her chair, glances at the clock on the wall, sighs, plays with a pencil.
Yeah, clock, she thinks. My clock. What time is it? It’s late.
The rows of figures blur. This company’s books are so unbalanced, she knows she’ll be struggling the rest of the day to put them in order.
Robert, she thinks, seems not quite himself . . . or perhaps I’m more needful. Probably it’s my fault. Oh yes, definitely. . . . The job’s not so challenging anymore. But I want that promotion. . . . The possibility of children floats before her mind, very real, and she scans the terrain for dangers to this idea. . . . I’m so sensitive to the little pluses and minuses. You think about the problems and you’re overwhelmed. It’s a wonder anybody has children.
A knock on the door. She turns and sees Edd—“that’s two d’s”—Lawrence. “Hi, how’re you doing? Eating in? Want to try the cafeteria with me?”
She stares at his bland, pleasant face. Just the sort of man who makes everyone think tax people are dull. The most interesting thing about him, she thinks, is the two d’s.
“Oh, sure, Edd. I’m having a rough morning with Smithers, Inc.”
“Oh, well,” Edd says casually, “just throw the IRS a VP, they’ll be happy.”
Anne frowns. Not exactly the way she sees her job.
She shuts the door to her office, and they walk down to the elevators.
“The IRS usually wants money,” she says. “Or does the VP trick work for you?”
“Just kidding,” he says with no smile. “But, hey, the books are a mess, maybe somebody’s been cooking.”
“I hope not. I think it’s just a case of people finding more tax gimmicks than a corporate body can digest.”
“Ah, the Nineties. I miss ’em.”
They go up to 12, where the firm has a swank little cafeteria. The idea being to keep the drudges in the building. Anne takes the fish and salad. Edd takes the burger, fries, red jello, and chocolate mousse cake. As they’re sitting down, Anne says, “You in training?”
Edd doesn’t see the joke, or won’t acknowledge it. “They make a good burger here.” He’s lean, almost stiff in his movements, wearing a navy-blue suit and white shirt. Close to her age, Anne thinks.
“Right.” She smiles briefly. “So what’s new with you?”
Edd shrugs. “Well, I keep getting more master points. You don’t play bridge, do you?”
“Not well.”
“I remember. Scrabble’s your game.”
“Used to play it all the time. Robert’s a managing editor now and, in practical terms, that means he doesn’t have time for things like Scrabble.”
“There’s no way out,” Edd says.
“Well, you play bridge.”
“My wife left me for that very reason.”
Anne smiles. An odd, no-nonsense man. One could well imagine a wife leaving him. Still, he doesn’t seem to have any pretensions. Or he has the secret kind that are more fun because nobody knows about them.
A group of young lawyers, all men, come in. Only one has a jacket on. They all wear wide suspenders. They’re high spirited and settle noisily at a nearby table, three facing three. Edd glances at them without interest. Anne looks more closely. They make her appreciate Robert. They’re all around thirty, but still boys. Nobody wants to grow up these days. They’re vital, attractive; but Anne feels something almost maternal toward them.
They trade jokes in low voices, laugh a lot, then start comparing cases and tactics. “All right,” one says loudly, “listen to this. The burglar gets the window open, gets his leg in. The guy in the house, he comes running. Says stop or get out or something. The guy in the window has a tool or makes a move or something. The homeowner shoots him. The guy falls back on the lawn. Wounded bad but he lives. What happens?”
“Witnesses say what?”
“Only one. A house away, in the dark. He can’t say how far the guy was in the window. If he was. Or what was said. If anything.”
“I’ll take it.” A slim one with slicked-back hair pauses for effect. Anne thinks his name is Stan. He raises his hands, about to paint a picture. “This guy’s drunk, says he is. Alright, go with me. He thinks it’s his house. Lost his key. He went around back, tries to get in through a window.”
“Come on,” another says, “the houses have to look alike.”
“He’s real drunk. Any medical evidence to the contrary?”
“Nope. ER treated for gunshot. Why check blood alcohol?”
“There you go. Guy’s really drunk. He’s lost. Or maybe it’s a friend’s house, guy he knows always leaves a window open. Never mind. He’s no burglar. Last thing on his mind.”
“Bingo,” says the guy giving the case. “What else?”
“Now it’s a piece of cake,” another says. “Mainly, he never was inside. Guy who shot him is guilty of assault, attempted murder, reckless endangerment, all that good stuff. Wounded guy can sue the homeowner for everything he’s got. Wounded guy’s wife can sue for loss of services.”
“That’s what I’m doing. Wounded guy—get this—has enough presence to drag himself a yard or two away from the house. Guy’s done time, learned a lot of law. Police records show him ten feet away. Guy in the house clearly overreacted, used unnecessary force. Probably a gun nut. He could get a few.”
Anne can’t believe this. “Wait a minute,” she breaks in from eight feet away, “you’re representing the burglar?”
“Alleged.”
They all laugh, staring at Anne.
“But he’s probably got a record.”
“Huge. But inadmissable.”
“And you know he’s lying?”
That gets a lot of hoots. The slim one named Stan says, “Hey, it’s just a game.”
Anne stands up with her tray. “You’re helping the burglar sue the . . . the victim?”
Stan smiles up at Anne. In a courtly cowboy accent, he says, “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but victims are shit.”
All the young men laugh at the profound cynicism of that.
“Seriously,” another says, “it’s pro-bono work. The firm has to have a conscience, that’s what the senior partner says.” All of them grinning at that.
Edd stands up, too. “We’re in the tax end, fellows. We don’t get to see the juicy stuff.”
They all smile happily. Yeah, the juicy stuff. That’s what they get to see all day.
“Isn’t that disgusting,” Anne says as they leave the cafeteria.
“What we do with numbers, they do with people.”
“Please, Edd. I’m a little more sentimental about my work, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course I don’t mind. But you know how the system works. All you can do is stay away from it.”
Anne waves a hand. “I’m sorry, I don’t like the way they were talking.”
Edd shrugs and they go back to their floor in silence. In front of her office, he says, “Thanks, Anne. I appreciate the company.” And he wanders on down the hall.
Anne goes in her office. For a minute she stands by her big window, which looks over White Plains. A sliver of the Hudson River in the distance. Bright gray sky. The sun breaking through here and there. Last week of February. Psychologically, Anne thinks, winter’s over when we get to March.
Alright, she thinks, maybe I did react too strongly. Something about those boys; I was thinking about being their mother, and suddenly I don’t like my sons.
She smiles and turns back to her desk, staring blankly at the two screens.
Or I’m more on edge than I think. This whole ticking clock thing is a weight. The promotion is probably out of my reach. Damn it all but okay. Is there something else? She sees Robert in her mind. Always working very hard. A little distracted maybe. Is something different? What would it be?
No, she thinks, it’s probably me. It’s my fault. Definitely.
I always worry too much. More than Robert anyway. It was always like that. He could be silly, and I tried to learn from him. Right from the first date, it was like that. All my life, I got straight A’s, obeyed all the rules. “Sometimes,” Robert said, “you have to say, ‘Screw the rules.’ ” It sounded so daring.
She remembers a night before they married, at a bowling alley, drinking too many beers, acting like kids. A lot of gutter balls! . . . She smiles thinking about the snapshots they got from a machine, four for a dollar. Their heads pressed ear to ear, grinning, mugging for the camera. The snaps are in a scrapbook somewhere, but she doesn’t need to have them before her. She can see the expressions exactly. We look so young, she thinks, and so happy. Robert taught me how. . . .
Oh well, she sighs, you get older, the worries pile up. Can’t stay young forever, no matter how hard you try. Ouch! She thinks again of the ticking clock. Yeah, we’ve really got to deal with that. Is it baby time? Is that what I really want? Are we ready?
Anne shakes her thoughts back to work. She points her pencil at a row of numbers on the screen. “Just a million seven out of whack. Sure, let’s trade a VP.” She smiles, thinking of Edd’s curiously blank manner. Funny, someone more grown up than I am.
She focuses on the numbers, goes back to work.