The Fearsome Particles Part 13

"You're warm," said Vicki as she straightened.

"Oh" Avis fluttered a hand "there's something wrong with the air conditioning and Peter refuses to lift a finger about it and I've been in the car since about nine this morning. Anyway I'm furious. You know the one I'm talking about?"

"Where they've added an addition and covered the whole west side with stucco?"

"Can you believe that?" Avis's fury sounded like the caroling of meadowlarks. She pulled the silk scarf from around her neck and pushed it fiercely through the handles of her purse. "I sold that house two years ago, and three years before that. It was simply gorgeous. The stone work! And now they've really made it a dog's business."

"It's a shame."

"It's a shock. I hate what's become of that whole end of the street, all those stucco additions spreading like disease."

"They finished the one on the corner about two months ago."

"Well, I hadn't noticed. I hardly ever come up that way." She was pressing the hair at her temples into place. "Anyway, dear, let's see what you've been up to!"

She stepped forward into the circular foyer and Vicki felt her heart quicken as Avis pa.s.sed her eyes over the flanking oyster-veneered mirrors, up to the Viennese chandelier with gla.s.s pendants, and down to the fresh flowers exploding from a coppery Pilkington's vase set on an enormous tripod table with a piecrust top.

"I'm never disappointed," Avis said, "to see that table in one of my houses."

Vicki smiled.

"Cherry, isn't it?"

"Walnut," said Vicki.

"But I don't think you've ever used it with that particular vase before."

Vicki crinkled her eyes, because she had.

"Well, whether you have or not," said Avis, "it's lovely. And the flowers."

As she continued her tour of the main level, Avis seemed pleased, even delighted, by nearly everything Vicki had done. In the grand living room, she cooed over Vicki's juxtaposition of swooping Regency curves against straight-backed Edwardian rigour, appreciated her medley of silk cushions and admired each of the topiaries she had placed in majolica jardinieres. In the library, she paused for a moment when she spied the thin, tapered legs of what Vicki thought of as Robert Lightenham's Carlton House desk, before p.r.o.nouncing the desk and Vicki's arrangement of a bound leather journal, a blue-and-gold Sevres inkstand and several loose tea-coloured papers featuring her own impersonation of a man's dashed handwriting "inspired."

She approved of the kitchen counter arrangements, which included a set of b.u.t.tery glazed Savoie pottery jugs under the window and a Victorian syrup dispenser in the corner, and said not a disapproving word as she pa.s.sed by h.e.l.la's concoction of dried flowers in the porcelain Worcester basket.

In the dining room, she seemed to hesitate over the George III III drop-leaf table, and bent down to peer closely at one of the Longton Hall plates. It was then that Vicki had an urge to admit to Avis that these particular plates were not ideal, that in fact she would probably change them before the weekend, to bring in something more appropriate (though of course she would not say "appropriate for Margeaux"). But before she could say a word, Avis straightened and proceeded to purse her mouth and lift her eyebrows in a way that suggested she was calculating the outcome of an intricate equation. And she said, "The couple I'm bringing tomorrow he's in tire manufacturing, and she's on a huge number of committees and of course I've been to their home for dinner many times...unless I'm mistaken" she bent down again to examine the plate's pattern "I think they have a set with this exact design." drop-leaf table, and bent down to peer closely at one of the Longton Hall plates. It was then that Vicki had an urge to admit to Avis that these particular plates were not ideal, that in fact she would probably change them before the weekend, to bring in something more appropriate (though of course she would not say "appropriate for Margeaux"). But before she could say a word, Avis straightened and proceeded to purse her mouth and lift her eyebrows in a way that suggested she was calculating the outcome of an intricate equation. And she said, "The couple I'm bringing tomorrow he's in tire manufacturing, and she's on a huge number of committees and of course I've been to their home for dinner many times...unless I'm mistaken" she bent down again to examine the plate's pattern "I think they have a set with this exact design."

When she straightened again, she squinted an eye at Vicki. "There are times, Victoria, when I think you're either a genius or some kind of clairvoyant."

Vicki brought a hand to her forehead and touched the soft place where her brow met the bridge of her nose. "Actually, Avis, I was thinking of replacing those tomorrow, possibly with a Chelsea set, or something a little more..." She waved her fingers in the air.

"Vivacious?"

"That's a good word."

Avis shook her head. "Don't these people are not the slightest bit vivacious."

"Oh."

"They are grim and disheartened people, quite frankly. It takes everything I have to get through dinner with them." Avis tilted her head toward Vicki. "Just between us."

"Of course."

Avis, lost in thought, shuddered at some memory.

Vicki clasped her elbows as though she was cold. "Do you think, Avis, they would be happy here?"

The agent surveyed the room and inhaled as though she were standing in a field, savouring the perfume of mown hay, and when she looked at Vicki she gave a wry little tilt to her head and showed her palms to indicate their generalized surroundings. "I think they will give every appearance of being happy."

Vicki smiled to signal that she understood and moved away from the table to the window. From here only a stretch of ground and a tall cedar hedge could be seen. She let her hand fall against a drapery panel of clay-red damask and felt at her fingertips the small imperfections in the weave that gave the fabric texture, that made it seductive.

"I just don't know why," she said, almost to herself, "you would want to bring people like that here."

Avis's phone twittered in her purse. "Excuse me one moment." She plucked it out, looked at the caller, and placed it against her ear. "Avis!" she barked. "No, that's ridiculous and I'm in a meeting." She closed the phone. "I'm sorry, darling?"

Vicki's face was to the window. "This is a happy house," she said. She turned back to the agent, who was showing the beginnings of a frown and seemed to be leaning over to one side. "Doesn't it feel happy to you?"

"I'm not following you, Victoria."

It seemed to Vicki almost as if the drapery panel were electrified; she could not let go. She felt the damask crunching in her hand. "I work so hard," she said.

"Of course you do."

She knew that it was wrong to give Avis trouble over the sorts of clients the "clee-on-tell" she cultivated. Their personalities, their behaviours, weren't really in her control. But this house, Vicki thought, this home she had made, was meant for joyful, contented people. Unhappiness had no place here.

"What are their names?" she asked, still facing the window.

"Who?"

"The grim, disheartened people you want to bring here."

Avis cleared her throat precisely. "I shouldn't have said that, Victoria. It was unkind. I hope you won't repeat it." She opened her purse and began to shuffle through its contents.

Vicki held tight to the damask as she faced out the window. "It wouldn't even occur to me," she said. She wished she could see trees from here. She wished Margeaux had not been so stubborn about the light.

"Victoria," said Avis behind her, "I still have some time. Would it be possible to see the upstairs?"

Though she could not place when it had happened, the discomfort under her ribs that she hadn't felt for several days had returned, a constriction that made it difficult to breathe. She felt the ridges in the damask weave chafing under her fingers. "But who are they?"

She heard Avis sigh. "Mildred and Alan Webb."

Vicki repeated the names silently and thought for a moment, trying to attach faces and facts to the blank substructure of "Mildred and Alan Webb." She turned partway toward Avis. "Aren't they quite old?"

"Late sixties, more or less."

"She has very hard features." Vicki searched her memory. "I can't picture him, but I've seen her somewhere. I remember her face looked grey and set, like a plaster cast." She tried to imagine Mildred Webb's plaster face smiling to put guests at ease, Mildred Webb staring at her plaster face in the mirror of the Empire dressing table, with the light streaming unwanted through the bedroom windows behind her.

Avis took her hand out of her purse; she seemed to be breathing more calmly. "You don't see him I expect because he spends his evenings holed up in his den, so far as I know. Kept company by big-shouldered bottles of gin. Well, of course it's been very hard for them, but I think Mildred is functioning rather remarkably. At least she puts herself out there and gets involved. You have to admire that, even if it gets a bit morbid, all the frenetic activity." Avis looked around the dining room. "Anyway, I think they could could be happy here. They still have lots of visitors, children with grandchildren, people who care about them. The main thing is for them to get out of the house they're in now." be happy here. They still have lots of visitors, children with grandchildren, people who care about them. The main thing is for them to get out of the house they're in now."

"Why?"

Avis blinked, as if startled by Vicki's innocence. "Because of their daughter, the one they adopted."

Gripping the damask as if she might otherwise sink, Vicki shook her head.

"She was a bit of a h.e.l.lion, as I understand it. Gave them a lot of trouble. And I don't know the whole story but one night she brought someone home with her, and he was a bad sort I gather there were drugs involved and she wound up dead. Really very tragic." Avis snapped her purse shut. "So. Shall we go upstairs?"

As she stood at the window, feeling the speculative warmth of April sunshine on her skin, Vicki began to see things in a way that perhaps she hadn't before. There were fresh colours and details in her awareness, and the discomfort under her ribs eased a little, as if it were being pushed aside by the arrival of a new acceptance of what she must do. She had always known that happiness was the product of wise choices, something a person, or a family, built and shaped from within. She saw now that once it existed, once it was alive, it needed to be protected. In that way, she saw, happiness was like a fire, fuelled by diligence and hope. She saw that unhappiness came from outside, like rain.

She loosened her fingers and released the damask curtain, then tried to pull the panel smooth where her grip had left creases in the fabric.

Avis lifted a hand and pointed. "I think that may need the touch of an iron." She turned and rounded the dining table on her way to the arc of stairs. "Just a quick peek at the bedrooms and then I'm off."

"They're not finished yet, Avis."

The agent hesitated, and blinked. "It's Thursday." For a moment this fact seemed sufficiently weighty to Avis that it was possible she might say nothing more. Then, for extra heft, she added, "I'm bringing the Webbs tomorrow."

Vicki left the window and started through the dining room toward the foyer. "There's still one room I need time with."

Avis was frowning as she whipped the scarf from the handles of her purse. "Houses this expensive don't have streams of potential buyers, which I know you appreciate."

"I do."

She arrayed the scarf in a haphazard tumble around her neck and gripped the clasp of her purse as Vicki pa.s.sed silently across the guilloche tiling on the way to the front door. "Tomorrow is when I'm bringing the Webbs," repeated Avis. "They have been expecting to come that particular day. Mildred made s.p.a.ce in her schedule."

"What time?"

"Two," she said, her face full of concern. "That was the opening she gave me. It was two and nothing else. It doesn't matter to Alan, he's like the last buffalo roaming the plains, but Mildred has a schedule. Aren't you afraid, Victoria, that you might be cutting it rather fine?"

The door, as it opened, produced the suckling sound of airtight seals temporarily letting go, which Vicki always found one of the great comforts of a new home.

"It has to be right," she said, standing aside to give Avis room to leave.

Avis was again shuffling through her purse. When she seemed to find what she was after, she lifted her head and turned as if her intent was to enter the small bathroom tucked away to the right of the stairs. Then she shook her head at an unspoken thought and murmured, "I have water in the car."

Near the entrance way she wedged her stocking feet into her shoes, then faced Vicki at the door.

"Two, tomorrow," said Vicki, smiling.

"Two," emphasized Avis. She stepped out into the sunshine and turned to face Vicki as if she had one more thing to say. Then something pulled her gaze downward. "You still have h.e.l.la working for you?" she said. emphasized Avis. She stepped out into the sunshine and turned to face Vicki as if she had one more thing to say. Then something pulled her gaze downward. "You still have h.e.l.la working for you?" she said.

"Yes."

Avis directed a finger at the ground. "There's a cigarette b.u.t.t."

Vicki, standing on the threshold with her thoughts cast forward to a more distant hour, didn't watch Avis bend to pick the cigarette up. But she heard her gasp and saw the new distress on her face when she straightened. Wordlessly, Avis placed the flattened b.u.t.t in Vicki's hand. Then, her mouth set at a tormented skew, she reached into her purse, pulled out a narrow leather folder, flipped its plastic pages and produced a tan card.

"My pedicurist," she rasped, suddenly hoa.r.s.e. "Do you never look down?"

6.

In his office, Gerald dialled extensions one by one. It was extraordinary "Trick? Hi. Like to meet with you in the boardroom in about ten minutes. Bring your market percentage projections. Yup."

it was extraordinary how invigorated he felt after taking decisive action with Kyle. One snip of a cable, and suddenly anything "Sandy? I want you to come to this meeting with Trick. Bring all your papers from our talk last night. That's right."

suddenly anything seemed possible. He tried not to think of all the times in his life he'd worried himself into paralysis in the face of a challenge, because today he was making things happen.

"Hi, Doug. I want you in on a meeting in the boardroom at nine-thirty. We'll probably get into budgets a bit, so bring all your numbers. Thanks."

One snip of a cable. And Kyle hadn't even flinched. That was surprising. Gerald had half expected an explosion of pent-up something anger or grief or whatever had gotten stuck inside him over there, before the military had washed its hands of him. Part of Gerald, while he was climbing up the ladder, had fervently hoped for it. But it hadn't happened, and he chose to believe his son had not been indifferent but rather had measured the fatherly resolve Gerald was discharging like sparks and understood it was game over! and nothing could be done. Regardless, the best result was not that he'd put an end to the betting spree, but that he'd prodded his son out of his chair, out of his room, and into the light. Kyle had walked down to the back porch while Gerald was putting the ladder away. He was still there when Gerald returned, eating half a bagel trowelled with cream cheese that Vicki had evidently given him. And instead of blasting anger or noise at Gerald, his son had simply held out his hand.

KYLE: Good work on cutting the cable, Dad. But now I need to borrow your car. Good work on cutting the cable, Dad. But now I need to borrow your car.

Under the circ.u.mstances, having taken his Internet away, and being pleased to see him breathing outdoor air for the first time in a week, it had seemed petty to quiz Kyle over what he planned to do with the car. Though in hindsight, after he'd handed over the keys, while he was sitting in the pa.s.senger seat of Vicki's Camry as she grudgingly drove him to work, Gerald had suffered through a pang of doubt so strong it made him see colours.

But that was momentary. That was behind him. Now he was back on the determined track and rustling up a strategy session of potentially company-shaking proportions. As he thought about who else to include, Gerald's finger hesitated over his phone's grey-gumdrop b.u.t.tons. In a situation like this protocol dictated that he call Bishop, but Bishop was sinking deeper into his Susan fog. Just minutes ago, Gerald had glanced out his window and discovered his boss standing at the edge of the gra.s.s that stretched from the main Spent building to the ditch next to the Service Road, looking as lost as if he'd forgotten where he'd parked his car.

He punched in Phil Barbuda's number. "Phil, it's Gerald. Sorry for the late notice. I'm getting a meeting together in the boardroom at nine-thirty and it'd be good to have finance there....Great."

At 9:35 in the main boardroom, as he waited for the last of his invited attendees (Trick Runiman) to arrive, Gerald stared at Bishop's empty chair and imagined himself being purged.

This was his great career-related fear. Often, when he sat with the business pages in the breakfast nook at home, he wasn't reading whole stories, he was focusing on one word: purged. Someone had been purged. Someone would be purged. There were rumours of purgings to come. It happened every time a CEO was fired. Gerald read the stories as he ate his breakfast and imagined the new board-appointed chief executive spreading around sweet jammy gibberish about getting to know the current team before making any snap decisions, about relying on the current team's expertise to persevere through the challenging times ahead, when everyone knew the current team was as gone as fuzzy milk, and the most gone of all, the dead body most dead, was the second-in-command, the CEO's right hand man, no matter what cinnamony claptrap was being sprinkled. Gerald saw in Bishop's empty chair intimations of performance reviews and emergency board meetings, he saw the founder of Spent Materials, its heart and soul, being ousted and publicly shamed, thrown from a figurative roof, sucked down a figurative drain, and he saw the inevitable news item to follow, the insignificant inch of type on the business section's third or fourth page, he saw the words in his head Reports surfaced yesterday that Spent Materials' Gerald Woodlore would be purged Reports surfaced yesterday that Spent Materials' Gerald Woodlore would be purged and he smelled toast. and he smelled toast.

"Sorry. Sorry I'm late."

The arrival of Trick Runiman, flushed and carrying a laptop that trailed its cord along the floor, offered Gerald the chance to refocus. Everyone was here: Doug Allsop in tie and short sleeves, setting up a series of pens, points aligned, on the table in front of him; Sandy at the end of the table, near the projector, clasping the leading edge of her notebook as if it buoyed her; Phil Barbuda, slumped in the chair opposite Sandy, drumming the edge of the table in a jouncey hip-hoppish rhythm; and now Trick, looking for a place to plug in his laptop.

Trick pointed to Phil Barbuda. "Can I sit there?"

"Why?" said Phil, continuing to drum.

"There's an outlet behind you."

Phil lifted his right hand off the table but maintained the beat of the left as he bent around to look for the outlet.

"There's one over here," offered Doug, from the other side of the table.

"This one's closer to the chair though," said Trick. "My cord isn't very long."

Sandy seemed to examine the leather grain of her notebook and shook her head almost imperceptibly.

"Those things work off batteries you know," said Phil, drumming.