Are You Happy Now? (13 page)

Lincoln nods.

“I need you to take on his books, at least until we can bring in someone else.”

Lincoln blinks. Suddenly, the overbright office transforms from the clinical setting for a risky and perhaps fatal surgical procedure to a sunlit meadow on a lovely spring day.

“I know you’ve already got a lot on your plate, particularly crashing the Lemke book,” Duddleston goes on. “But you’re the
only one who can handle this kind of work. It’s not really Hazel’s métier.”

“I can do it!” Lincoln chirps. (Of course he can—he can do anything, as long as he still has a job!)

Duddleston bathes him in a patronizing smile, and the thought crosses Lincoln’s mind that he’s squandered a tactical opportunity—that perhaps he should have held out a bit, acted slightly beleaguered (finagled for a raise? a title change?). But the moment passes as the two men discuss the status of the two books Wendt has on the fall list and the handful that lie in the pipeline. By taking on Wendt’s projects on top of
Wrigley Field
and
Walking Tours
, among other things, Lincoln realizes he’s facing a frenzied autumn—where will he get the time to edit Amy’s novel?

“I’ll start looking for a replacement for Arthur immediately,” Duddleston promises, perhaps sensing Lincoln’s concern. “And if you have any candidates, don’t hesitate to steer them my way.”

“About Arthur,” Lincoln says, then pauses, hoping Duddleston will take the bait and explain what happened. After a silence, Lincoln adds obliquely, “This was very sudden.”

Duddleston fusses with papers on his desk, signaling the audience is over. “These personnel matters are never easy,” he says, looking away. “The part of this business I like least.”

“I understand,” Lincoln consoles and takes his leave.

At about six that evening, after the rest of the office has cleared out and Lincoln is packing his briefcase, the phone rings. “It’s me,” says Amy. Lincoln can tell by the faint throb in the connection that she’s calling from a cell.

“Do you know what happened?” he asks.

“You can’t tell anyone. Byron would fire me in an instant.”

“Of course I won’t.”

Amy pauses, takes a breath. “Sexual harassment. Arthur kept hitting on Kim.”

Lincoln lets out a low whistle.

“Really,” Amy continues. “He never did anything—just lurked. She used to complain to me about it, but I figured, grow up, the world is full of creeps. But apparently Arthur said something to her last week, and Kim went to Mrs. Macintosh.”

“What did he say?”

“I don’t know. I’m sure it was innocuous—he probably complimented her on her figure, or something. And she does have a nice figure. I mean, give the guy a break—he’s got a wife and two kids.”

“Whew.” Lincoln sighs into the phone.

“Yeah.” Amy waits, then says carefully, “Byron doesn’t fool around.”

Lincoln gets her meaning exactly.

On his way out of the building a few minutes later, Lincoln’s curiosity leads him to detour past Wendt’s office. The room is already bare, Gettysburg after the battle. Bookshelves emptied, family pictures gone. Lincoln thinks of a cheap motel room whose endless string of weary visitors leave no trace.

13

B
ECAUSE OF WHAT
happened to Arthur Wendt, Lincoln and Amy go out of their way to appear indifferent to each other when they’re at Pistakee. They pass in the hall without acknowledgement. Amy no longer visits Lincoln’s office except when dropping something off, and then she enters and leaves wordlessly. On the few occasions when Lincoln finds himself together with Amy and Duddleston, Lincoln hints at a mild disapproval of her presence. Amy returns his chill at every possible moment, and Lincoln finds it somewhat curious that she appears to be as paranoid as he is that their indiscretion will be found out. After all, under the conventions of sexual harassment, she’d be presumed to be the victim of a predatory supervisor and thus not at risk of losing her job. Does her extreme caution reflect a grave concern about Lincoln’s standing in the company? Or does she suspect that Duddleston would be so put off by their poor judgment that he would sweep both of them out the door?

In any case, the wall they build between themselves in the office has the effect of broadening communications outside, since Amy gets in the habit of calling Lincoln—her cell phone to his—minutes after he leaves work most days. At first she calls to pass on bulletins about the Wendt matter. It turned out to hinge
on an adolescent joke. Kim had removed an earring to talk on the phone, and the faux pearl had accidentally dropped down her blouse. Wendt was hovering around the reception desk and cracked, “I’d like to go deep-sea diving.” Later, in the women’s room, Kim grumbled about the remark to Mrs. Macintosh, and that set the execution in motion. “That’s incredible,” Lincoln points out. “Arthur Wendt was utterly humorless. That’s probably the first joke he ever made in his life.”

“Maybe he really
was
getting dangerous,” Amy suggests.

Afterward, Kim felt terrible. She confessed to Amy that she wanted Wendt to stop annoying her, but she never dreamed he’d be fired. After several days of remorse, she made an entreaty on Wendt’s behalf to Duddleston, but the boss was unmoved. The senior editor’s behavior was unforgivable.

Within a few days, Wendt recedes as a topic of conversation, and Amy’s calls mostly provide updates on her novel, which she’s writing at a frantic pace. Her innocent young protagonist is getting drawn deeper into the life of a survey subject, a woman exploring the far reaches of sexuality—the search for the Ultimate Position. Amy bounces ideas and plot points off Lincoln. He listens patiently and pushes back here or there, but he knows to stay somewhat distant, at this point letting her imagination roam.

Sometimes their conversations stray beyond the novel. Amy tells Lincoln about her family—her mother, a child of County Cork who’s lived in Chicago since college; her father, a successful contractor in the south suburbs; her brainy, computer-jock, younger brother. The mother had wanted a large family, but after the brother’s difficult birth, she was unable to have more children. By Amy’s analysis, that disappointment turned her mother picky and demanding. It was bad enough that Amy abandoned the Catholic Church. But at the U of C, she turned from premed to the impractical precincts of the English department. “She’s constantly on my case about how I can still go to medical school,” Amy tells Lincoln one day as he pauses in his commute to make
faces at the orphaned dogs in the windows of the Anti-Cruelty Society building on Grand.

“Did you tell her you’re writing a novel?”

“God, no. She’d ask what it’s about, and then I’d never hear the end of it.”

“How often do you talk to her?”

“Every day, a couple of times,” Amy says, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world, and Lincoln wonders why his family only stays in touch every few weeks, usually when there’s a specific piece of information to convey. The mixed collie breed stares out at him disapprovingly, and Lincoln hurries on.

Riding the L home one evening, shortly after hanging up with Amy, Lincoln looks up from the
Times
crossword puzzle, and the thought suddenly strikes him that the sexual component has been laundered from their relationship—their inappropriate attraction has been suppressed, and they now address each other as colleagues—maybe friends, too, but not quite. More like close acquaintances. Lincoln is pleased with the evolution, and he credits himself with a new maturity. Could it be that he’s learned from the struggles of the last few months—the bust-up with Mary, the anxieties about his job, the threats from Tony Buford? Lincoln glances around at the other riders in the L car—mostly well-dressed young North Siders like himself, probably (like himself) working late to get ahead. Through the rattle and vibrations of the train, he feels a brotherhood with them, his generation, and with it an easing of tension, almost as if someone has turned a dial and slightly lowered his heart rate.

The restful mood lasts until the next day, when an e-mail arrives from Tony Buford. He’s back from Iceland and wants to get together, as discussed. Buford invites Lincoln to meet him next Thursday evening at seven at the northeast corner of Wacker and LaSalle. Lincoln spends an hour or so considering the message. Meet on the street? What’s that about, a set-up for a drive-by shooting? On the other hand, that corner is a bustling
public spot, right along the river. And several restaurants in the buildings across the street feature comfortable bars; maybe they’ll select one together. Or maybe Buford just wants to walk. Wacker along the river can be quite pleasant on summer evenings. Whatever, Lincoln knows enough from Chicago mob history not to get into a car with Buford, but otherwise, what’s the risk? Lincoln e-mails back: “See you there.”

On Thursday evening, Lincoln plans to arrive at the designated corner a few minutes early to establish a redoubt, so to speak. It’s been a warm, muggy day, and now the clouds have dissipated and the departing sun shoots horizontal blasts of light through the spaces between the buildings. Walking south on LaSalle, he falls into a light sweat. As he crosses the bridge over the river, he sees that Buford has already staked out the corner. The professor is wearing a tan tropical blazer and a pale mauve tie; in one hand he holds a large brown shopping bag, and in the other he carries that curiously thin briefcase. He spots Lincoln and lifts the shopping bag in greeting.

“So good of you to come,” Buford says. “Sorry to be a bit mysterious about the setting, but this is one of my favorite places in Chicago, and I wanted to share it with you. Follow me.”

He wheels and heads down a wide stairway toward the river. Lincoln watches him go. The stairs lead to a narrow concrete promenade just a few feet above the surface of the water. Several couples are lounging on benches. A little farther east, tables and chairs have been set out for lunchtime dining. It looks benign enough, so Lincoln follows and takes a seat beside Buford on a bench facing the river. “Nice—don’t you agree?” Buford asks.

It’s several degrees cooler this close to the water. The dark expanse of the LaSalle Street Bridge dominates to the left, and across the river an ancient factory, long ago converted to offices, presents a handsome redbrick facade. But in a city that celebrates its views from on high (why else put up the world’s tallest
building?), this vista is low, blocked, urban. “Very nice,” agrees Lincoln.

“And do you know what happened right here at our feet?” Buford points to the river below them.

“Ahhh...”

“One of the greatest disasters in American maritime history. On a Sunday in 1915, a tour boat, the
Eastland
, was docked on the river to make an excursion with the families of several thousand workers from the Western Electric Company. The ship was overcrowded, and when it pulled away from the dock, the passengers rushed to one side to wave good-bye and the
Eastland
tipped over. More than eight hundred people drowned.”

Of course, the
Eastland
Disaster. A highlight of one of Professor Fleace’s walks.

“Now, look.” Buford waves his arm, indicating the buildings, the steel bridges, the concrete riverbank, nothing like the pilings and dirt that must have existed a century ago. “You get my point?” Buford asks.

“Not really.”

“We are resilient! Hopeful, optimistic. That is man! We keep going. We bury our tragedies and construct expensive condos looking right over the graveyard.”

“I see,” says Lincoln.

Buford rummages in the shopping bag and pulls out a chilled bottle of Krug Grand Cuvee, two plastic glasses, a sliced baguette, a tin of caviar, a plastic knife, and a purple paper plate. “Provisions,” he says as he pops the cork on the bottle. He pours Lincoln a glass, and the two click plastic. He opens the tin of caviar and paints several slices of bread with the black delicacy, arranging the treats around the purple plate.

As Lincoln helps himself to the hors d’oeuvres and sips champagne, the poet asks, “Did you have a busy day?”

“The usual.” Mustn’t get personal, Lincoln tells himself.

“Working on any exciting books?”

“A couple.” Lincoln smiles insincerely.

“Well, I just read a wonderful book.
Undaunted Courage
, by Stephen Ambrose—do you know it?”

“The Lewis and Clark expedition. The book came out when I was in college. I haven’t read it.”

“Wonderful book,” Buford repeats. “In fact, I’m thinking of adding it to my syllabus next semester.”

“I thought you taught happiness studies.”

“I do. As well as introduction to psychology. But Happy Talk, as the kids call the course, is the big draw. I have to turn students away.”

“But doesn’t Meriwether Lewis end up a suicide?”

Buford smiles in appreciation of Lincoln’s knowledge. “Yes, Lewis ends badly, but that was well afterward,” the professor explains. “The expedition itself, for all its hardships and dangers, was the happiest time of his life—it was probably the same for all the men on it. The focus. The
engagement
.”