San Francisco, etc., 2056-57
IN NOVEMBER 2056, THE REGIONAL directors met in New York. The two-day session, which was generally held once a year in Washington, was moved to New York for no particular reason that I could discern. The meeting was an opportunity to share information about what was going on in our regions, plus to get word from our bosses about what they anticipated for the coming year. A new president, Hector Villeros, had just been elected. He came from the same party as his predecessor, but a new president would no doubt put his own stamp on policy. So the get-together provided an opportunity, strictly on an informal basis, to try to predict what initiatives might be forthcoming from the administration.
At one point in the conference, Leo Frase took me aside. "A month or so ago, I got an anonymous call from someone who claimed to be from your office. The person implied that you were having an affair with someone in the office. I never put any stock in anonymous calls and detest the people who make them, but I thought I'd mention it to you. I don't imagine there's any truth in this." Leo paused, making the statement into a question.
"Absolutely not. I was on a business trip to Napa when the radiation emergency arose. A woman from the office was with me. We could not get back to San Francisco before the curfew was imposed. We spent a night at a hotel and had separate rooms. Nothing happened, but I heard that some malicious gossip was circulating."
"I was sure there would be nothing to it. It sounded from the get-go like a crank call. That's why I didn't mention it until we were together. By the way, how are Jane and your little one?"
"Just fine." I knew Leo was trying to remind me that I had a family, just in case there was a germ of truth in the allegation he supposedly dismissed.
The second day of the meeting ended at three, giving some of the attendees an opportunity to get home that same evening. I stayed over an extra night in order to have dinner with Kate Hastings.
She was now a high-ranking officer with the Wainright Corporation, headquartered in Newark. She told me to take a train to the Short Hills station, and she would meet me there. She would drive me to dinner and then back to my hotel.
Kate was easy to spot among the small group of those waiting to meet commuters at the station. She looked like none of the housewives. Since I had seen her last, her beauty had not diminished. She kissed me on the cheek and then led me to a parking lot where a few rows of electro-cars filled scarcely a quarter of the spots. Her car was a sleek red sports car.
"You got the flashy car you always wanted."
"Yup, unfortunately it has to be a hybrid. Even so, I have to pay a fortune in use tax."
"I bet."
"You want to try it out?" she offered.
"No. I wouldn't do it justice."
Kate took a few back streets to a highway leading west from Essex into Morris County. She accelerated on the highway. I was pressed back into my seat, a feeling I hadn't experienced for years. "I want to get into the hills, so I can show you what this baby can do. We have a reservation at a restaurant in a town called Mendham."
"I know it. I grew up in this area. Remember?"
"Should we drive by your old house?"
"No," I replied a little too brusquely. "It will be dark anyway."
The restaurant was one I had gone to when I was young, particularly on special occasions such as Mother's Day. It was composed of an old inn in the center of town, plus an annex. This night, only two small rooms were open for service. Three tables were occupied in one room, and we were given a table by ourselves in the second.
Kate filled me in on her job, which combined public relations with government affairs. She was paid well, she had no reluctance to tell me. I estimated that she was probably earning more than twice what she had been paid in Washington.
It wasn't until during the main course that she confessed that she missed Washington, primarily because it was at the center of power. She was sure she would return one day, but it wouldn't be to the position that she had left.
Kate asked about Jane and the baby. She probably didn't remember Mark's name. I told her everything was fine, not willing to get into a discussion of the marital difficulties that come and go. She asked me about my job in San Francisco. I told her it was fine. (I wished I had come up with a different term.) She heard from contacts she still had that I was well regarded in the department. She thought that some regional directors would soon be rotated, and if possible, I should attempt to get the New York job. That would be a logical stop on the way back to Washington. "You do want to get back to Washington, don't you?"
"Of course." I replied promptly, giving the expected reply automatically.
"Being out of government, I can't help you now. Although I do still have my information sources," she included unnecessarily. "My influence is very indirect. But I'll be back some day. I'm as sure of that as I live and breathe."
"You have the reputation, the contacts, and the desire. That will make it happen," I observed.
"Yes. You know me well."
As we left the restaurant, Kate noticed that her gas was low. The onboard computer indicated that one gas station in Morristown was open until ten. The trip was downhill and the road was empty. The gas held out, and we arrived in time. Kate put thirty-six liters in the tank.
"How much does it hold?"
"Thirty-eight liters, if I remember correctly."
I offered to pay part of the hundred-and-fifty-dollar gas bill. "Don't be silly." Kate dismissed my offer brusquely.
We drove back east to a hotel near Newark Airport where I had booked a room. I thanked Kate for dinner and for the opportunity to get together. She brushed my cheek with hers and murmured, "Until the next time, my friend."
Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's were spent quietly. Jane and I were encumbered by lack of cash and a toddler. We bought Mark a few presents, and—like most kids his age—he was most fascinated with the ones that made noise. To compensate for the noisy toys, Jane and I treated ourselves to a new TV with a better sound system, spending more money than we should have. We spent New Year's Eve at home, indulging by getting a take-out dinner and a bottle of sparkling wine from Mendocino County.
Then we settled in for the winter, which was much tamer in San Francisco than in most areas of the country. Winter temperatures seemed to average only six or seven degrees less than in summer, unless you ventured inland. But winter could be gloomy, and Jane's mood took on a hue to match.
Sometime in February, she commented, "I think Mark has something wrong with him."
"A cold, probably. All kids get colds in winter. You had one in January."
"No, this is something else. He's pale and listless. I think he has a bit of a fever."
"If you think there's a problem, take him to the doctor."
"Haven't you noticed a difference in him?"
"Not really. But you're around him much more than I am."
"Maybe I'm imagining it," Jane was second-guessing herself.
"Maybe, but maybe not. If you have any doubts, take him to the doctor. That's what doctors and medical insurance are for."
"I guess I'll make an appointment, if he's acting the same way tomorrow."
However, she did not make the appointment the next day because she perceived that Mark's symptoms had abated. "You can see; he seems somewhat better. Do you agree?"
"I'm not sure. I think mothers are more sensitive to these things than fathers are."
"Well, I think I've seen an improvement," Jane stated, a bit more emphatically.
"That's good enough for me."
A few days later, she had a different opinion. "Mark does not seem right to me."
"Did you call the doctor?"
"I will tomorrow."
This time, Jane made an appointment. Mark's visit to the pediatrician resulted in some tests being done. When the results came back, the doctor told Jane that the tests were inconclusive, and he referred her to a clinic in San Francisco for more tests. Jane learned that the clinic specialized in blood disorders.
Since the clinic was only about a kilometer from my office, I joined Jane and Mark for the appointment. About an hour after the blood was drawn, we were escorted into the office of Doctor Ann Milram. She was a pleasant looking brunette who, strangely, bore some resemblance to Pat Auriga.
"I don't want to draw any definite conclusions at this point. But there is a definite imbalance in Mark's blood. The red blood cell count is a bit low. We really need to do some additional tests. We'd like to put Mark in the children's hospital overnight. Mrs. Lendeman, you can stay with him at the facility. Would you be able to do this tomorrow?"
"I guess so," Jane replied, automatically.
I could tell Jane was a bit bewildered and not prepared for what the doctor was saying.
The tests in the hospital led to more tests. Then the diagnosis came. Mark had something that the doctor called a "leukemic type condition." It had started to appear in children between one and five years of age, and was more common in Northern California than elsewhere. Most children affected were responding to a mild form of chemotherapy. Naturally the term "chemotherapy" scared both Jane and me. The doctor tried to allay our fears by telling us that there were only mild side effects. I don't think her strategy worked. We left the office, and Jane burst into tears. "Why does this have to happen? What did we do wrong?"
"Nobody did anything wrong. Shit just happens. It's pure chance."
"It was that radiation from China," Jane declared.
"We have no reason to think that." But I had thought exactly the same thing.
Mark's treatments began. Most were done on an outpatient basis. On occasion, he stayed in the hospital overnight. We were told he was making progress, that the "readings" were improving. Jane would say that she sensed he was improving—and then a day or two later she would say the opposite.
I tried to concentrate on work, but also to be supportive of Jane and Mark. The truth was that I could escape to the office. Jane could not. She wallowed in the details of Mark's treatments. She followed his ups and downs, some imagined and some not.
For me, there were out of town meetings to attend. One in May took me to Washington, and it lasted three days. I came home, and all seemed the same with Mark. Jane, however, seemed withdrawn. As the weeks went by, she tended to neglect cleaning— except for Mark's room. She had never been an enthusiastic cook. Now she limited the menu to one of three things—hamburgers, spaghetti and meatballs, or broiled chicken. She never wanted to go out to dinner—she wouldn't trust a babysitter with Mark, given his health. Many nights she slept on an inflatable mattress in Mark's room. Sex was limited to about once per month. I knew Jane no longer enjoyed it, and in turn, I, too, found it obligatory, mechanical and unsatisfying.
People in the office were sympathetic to my situation. Keith and others worked a bit harder so I could join Mark for his doctor appointments and treatments. Of course, no one was under great stress because economic activity was still slow, leading to moderate workloads in the office. Leo Frase told me to take whatever time off I needed.
In July, the doctors told us that Mark would get a hiatus from treatments. They wanted to see how he would react to a withdrawal of medication, and felt his young body needed a break.
For a few weeks, Mark's energy seemed to improve. Then it began to fade again. The doctors evaluated the latest tests and recommended that Mark go back on treatments, albeit with a slight adjustment in medication. Jane was frantic. She sensed that Mark was going to slip away from us, and she was losing faith in the doctors. She thought she needed an alternate way to save him.
She began to go to church. At first, she went to the local Methodist church. Mark was put on a prayer list. This was not enough for Jane. She found a less traditional denomination where the preacher laid hands on Mark and personally prayed to Jesus to save Mark. These more-active attempts at intervention satisfied Jane—at least for a while. She donated quite a bit of money to the church, more than we could afford.
Jane thought that Mark's condition was improving through these efforts. She even occasionally skipped a medical treatment. I received a threatening call from the clinic, saying that they felt Jane was endangering the welfare of the child. I confronted Jane with this information.
"Yes, they called me, too. But the fact is: their treatments aren't doing much good. Mark needs stronger healing powers than they possess."
"You mean at the church?"
"That's one possible place."
"What does that mean?"
"None of your business," she replied brutally.
"What do mean 'none of my business'? He's my son, too."
"I'm the one who looks after him. You go off to work."
"I pay for his care, and I shell out the money for your goddamn church."
"Don't you ever say that. You're going to kill the child."
"No, you are," I countered.
We had long since passed the point of rational discussion. I'm sure that—at that moment—Jane and I detested each other.
A few days after that encounter I had to go to Washington for a two-day meeting. I was one of the regional directors added to a committee to develop a three-year plan for department initiatives. The planning effort would take about three months. Much work could be done through conference calls and document exchange, but three face-to-face meetings were planned. It was decided that I would host the second in San Francisco. It would be held in October, with the last meeting being held in Washington a week before Thanksgiving.
When I came back from the first meeting, I tried to talk to Jane about how Mark was faring. She answered with brief responses or evasions.
"Did Mark see the doctor?"
"He's being cared for."
"How's he doing?"
"Okay."
"How are you doing?"
"Do you really care?"
During the meeting in San Francisco, I spent one night at the hotel with the other attendees. Jane was not empathetic. By this point we were barely talking—and certainly not conversing. Frankly, I was happy to spend a night away from home and share some drinks with other department associates.
Leo Frase was in attendance. He asked about Mark and Jane. I answered in the abbreviated form that Jane used with me.
"There's more of a problem than Mark's illness, isn't there?" Leo asked perceptively.
"The illness is producing tensions between Jane and me."
"Not at all unusual. I'm sure you two can work it out if you will each meet the other half way."
"I'm not sure that will work."
"Then you two can get counseling."
"Maybe." I left it at that.
By the time I traveled to the final committee meeting in Washington, Jane and I rarely spoke to each other. We tended to leave notes. I was not sure if she read mine. My flight was the redeye, which left San Francisco around eleven at night. I thought I might have dinner with Jane before I left. She took her plate and sat in front of the TV, ignoring me. I sat at the kitchen table and did not follow her.
At eight o'clock, I took my bag and headed to the front door. "I'm leaving now," I declared.
"Good-bye," Jane replied, without taking her gaze from the TV.
There was no question of a good-bye kiss. Two years earlier, we would have made love the night before I left on a business trip. There was no expectation of that, either. And I knew when I returned I should not expect an embrace, let alone any greater form of intimacy.
In fact, when I did return, there was not only no embrace, there was no Jane. It was late afternoon and the weather was blustery. Could she have taken Mark for a walk and some fresh air? Perhaps she was doing shopping?
As I looked around the apartment, I sensed that it had been vacant for a while. There were no lingering food smells. There were no toys scattered around. No trash was in the kitchen container.
I explored further and noted that items were missing: a small picture of Jane's mother that had sat on a table in the living room; some of Mark's favorite toys were not in the toy box; the teddy bear he slept with was gone; Jane's cosmetics and toothbrush were missing. Jane was evidently prepared to spend a night, perhaps several, elsewhere.
Where could she have gone? She had few friends. In a few days it would be Thanksgiving. On impulse, could she have gone to her mother's for the holiday? A cross-country trip, given our finances, would have been highly impractical. But Jane's thinking was no longer logical.
Despite my misgivings, I put a call in to Jane's mother. My voice obviously surprised her, but I quickly got to the point. "By any chance is Jane with you? When I returned from a trip, she was gone."
"No, she's certainly not here."
"She's not on her way there?"
"No, I wouldn't think so. We haven't spoken for a week. When did you last see her?"
"Three days ago, when I left for Washington."
"So you just got back."
"An hour ago."
"Maybe she's just . . ." Her voice trailed off. Then slowly she continued. "I guess I should mention this. We last spoke about a week ago. She called me to say that I shouldn't be worried if she couldn't be reached for a while. She said she needed to go away, and she was taking Mark."
"Did she say how long she planned to be away?"
"No, just what I told you. She said 'a while.' Did she leave you a note?"
"I haven't found one."
"Well, I guess there's nothing more to do. Just wait for her. Would you call me when she returns?"
"Of course." Even though Jane's mother was told she was going to be away, I was still concerned, particularly about Mark.
A bit later I found a note in a drawer in our bedroom. It wasn't signed, nor was it addressed to me, but it was in Jane's handwriting.
I left with Mark. We'll be okay. I'm doing the right thing for him.
I sat on the bed, looking at the note, and tried to figure out what Jane was up to. After several minutes, I decided to call the police to see if they would handle her disappearance as a missing person's case. They told me an officer would stop by in the morning to get my statement and look at the information I had.
The officer arrived as promised in the morning. She asked me to describe my return from Washington, my call to Jane's mother, the items missing, and the legitimacy of the note I found. "Is there any indication of foul play?" the officer asked. I had thought she would determine that.
"Not that I found."
"What's your relationship with your wife?"
I paused to think before answering. "It's been somewhat strained." I told her about Mark's illness, his treatments, Jane's doubts about their effectiveness and her search for alternative cures. I explained that we didn't see eye to eye about these things.
"I see what you're getting at," said the officer, but with some restraint. Being a woman, she might have harbored some gender bias. I didn't know if I was getting a fair hearing. "Do you have another sample of your wife's handwriting?"
"I'm sure I do." I searched quickly. She had left a binder with some recipes. A few were written by Jane.
"So you have no reason to think she might be in danger?"
"Not particularly. Except she has no friends in the area. Who would she turn to? And she can't have much money with her. I'm even more concerned about my son."
The officer noted the name of the clinic where Mark received his treatments. She seemed to be running out of questions. "We'll make inquiries and let you know if anything turns up. You tell us if you hear anything." She gave me her card.
A few days later, Jane's mother called to ask if I had heard from her daughter. "No," I replied.
"Aren't you concerned?" she asked with a strong dose of exasperation in her voice.
"I am concerned—about Mark more than your daughter. That's why I've gotten the police involved."
"And what do they say?"
"They're looking into it."
When I ended the call with Jane's mother, I called the officer who had taken the case. She was not available. The next day she called back and told me there was nothing to report.
"What does that mean?"
"We have no leads."
I didn't have the audacity to ask if she was pursuing any leads. Instead, I asked, "Would you suggest I hire a private detective?"
"That's up to you."
I thought it best to inform Leo Frase and Keith Wheatley, my second in command, about what had happened. During my narration, Leo repeated at several points, "Very strange behavior, very strange indeed." Of course, he had not spoken to Jane in over two years, and had no idea of how she had changed from the efficient admin assistant he had known.
Keith's reaction was more direct. "I'd get a lawyer if I were you. She's abandoned you. That's grounds for divorce."
"I'm not sure I want a divorce."
"I'd still get a lawyer involved. He can give you good advice about the whole situation. I know one who's pretty savvy, and he doesn't charge an arm and a leg." He went to his desk and, in two minutes, returned with the lawyer's name and number.
It took another week for me to make up my mind to make an appointment with the lawyer. I wanted to meet face to face with him, and I was pleased to note that his office was located in a lower-rent area south of Market Street.
Grant Sherwood was a stocky man in his early fifties. He had a large head topped with tousled brown hair, flecked with gray. His bushy eyebrows shared the same color scheme. His open-ended direction to me was: "Describe the situation with your wife and child." As I did so, he leaned back in his reclining desk chair, closed his eyes, and put his feet up on the well-worn desk. His shoes could have used some polish.
It took about ten minutes for me to relate the history of the past six months. Sherwood was more interested in Jane's behavior than in Mark's illness. He asked for a copy of the note that Jane had left for me but, since, had been given to the police. In response to his request, I gave him the police officer's name and phone number. He told me that he'd find out what the police had done and were prepared to do. But, he warned me, "We're probably going to have to hire a private investigator to find out where your wife went."
"How much will that cost?"
"I can't say exactly. I know one who's good at tracking down people. He charges a thousand a day plus expenses, last I checked. That's pretty reasonable. It might take him a few days, maybe a week to find her."
"I see." I could see myself going into debt. I also got an estimate of the lawyer's fee, and then I told him I'd get back to him in a day or two to give him the go ahead. He urged me not to delay. The trail might get cold, and it could take the investigator longer to track Jane down.
Over the next two days, I wrestled with the decision to hire an investigator. Jane's mother called to find out what I had learned from the police. I told her that they did not seem to be pursuing Jane's disappearance aggressively, and that I was thinking of hiring a private investigator. She thought it was a good idea but did not offer to share in the expense. Of course, I did not ask.
I sought Leo's opinion. He thought it was a good idea to hire the investigator and pointed out that I could get a loan from my retirement savings account if I was short on cash. This I knew, but I thanked him for his advice.
After I spoke to Leo, I called the lawyer and told him to proceed. He assured me that I was doing the right thing and asked for a three thousand dollar retainer for himself and the investigator.
Although within the office I had told only Keith of Jane's departure, it became apparent that others knew. I could see it in their faces. They looked like they wanted to express some sympathy or understanding or pity, but they didn't know how to approach the subject. Instead, many avoided looking directly into my eyes.
This office knowledge was finally confirmed when Allison entered my office very late one afternoon. We had been avoiding any one-on-one contact since rumors of an affair had circulated.
She began directly, "I've heard rumors that Jane left you and took Mark."
"You heard correctly," was my straightforward reply, and I did not ask her to disclose the source of her information.
"I'm sorry to hear that. I just wanted to let you know that if you could use a home-cooked meal, we can set something up." I did not react immediately. "I guess I'm inviting you to come over if you want. If you think that's inappropriate, I understand."
It probably was inappropriate for us to get together, but I didn't care. "At some point, I'd like that meal."
"Should we set a date?" Allison persevered.
"What would you suggest?"
"Saturday evening?"
"Sounds fine to me."
"Around six thirty, then. Do you remember where I live?"
"I'm sure I do."
It took nearly an hour and a half to get from my apartment to Allison's. I handed her a bottle of Napa cabernet. "A remembrance?" she asked.
"Not the best occasion to commemorate, but hopefully the wine is good," I replied.
Allison led me into the living room section of her studio apartment, which probably totaled around forty square meters. We nibbled on hors d'oeuvres and sipped some wine while a chicken and noodle casserole gradually cooked in the oven. I did most of the talking, occasionally prompted by Allison's questions. It was not difficult to tell her about Mark's health problem and the deteriorating relations with Jane. She provided a sympathetic ear, having had her own marital problems.
When it came time to leave, I looked deeply into Allison's eyes. I could sense that she wondered, as I did, how far we should proceed on what some would consider a date. I thanked her for the dinner, the company, and the conversation. She thanked me for the wine. Our faces were close. I kissed her gently on the lips. She kissed back and let her lips linger for a few seconds on mine. I think she would have liked me to stay a while longer to see where this initial embrace might lead. However, my inconsiderate mind reminded me that I was her boss, and I hesitated. I'm sure Allison read my thoughts. We reluctantly pulled away from each other.
"Next time, can I take you out to dinner?"
"Yes, I'd like that," she answered quickly.