No Way Back (17 page)

She looks dubious. But then she smiles. She takes my hand and guides me into the house.

We order pizza from Domino’s. We sit on the little veranda just off the master bedroom, above the pool. There are two chaise longues here, but we share a single one. We
sit cross-legged, facing each other, with the grease-soaked pizza box between us.

I tell Libby about my day – most of it, but not everything. I tell her about my meeting with Pete Bland, and his neon tie, and his Doc Martens, and his long sideburns. I recount how Pete
described people over forty as ‘old folks’, about his advice that Tao fire people in a precise mathematical ratio, according to sex and race.

I do not tell Libby about my trip to 56 Windmere, or my discovery in the Sanibel attic.

Things feels right and comfortable between us – maybe for the first time since I arrived. Not great, exactly, but comfortable. How many times have we sat this way, facing each other, with
a pizza box between us? How many meals have we shared? Many, surely, and these are the moments that make up a marriage – these small events of no great note. It’s
these
moments
– not the big dramatic ones – that determine the fate of a relationship. I’m happy finally to have a quiet, boring evening with my wife. Our lives could use a little less
drama.

We finish the pizza. I get up from the chaise, stretch my legs, and look through the glass door, back into the bedroom. ‘Should we go inside?’ I ask.

This was not really meant as a question, of course. It was more a statement. What I really meant was: Time to go inside now, Libby.

But Libby looks into the bedroom in a way that suggests she is actually deciding whether to join me there. Whether to return inside.
Ever
. A strange expression crosses her face –
a momentary darkness – like a shadow of cloud racing across a sunlit meadow. ‘I wish we didn’t have to go back in there,’ she mutters.

I look through the glass again, trying to understand what she means. I stare at the bedroom. There is nothing in the bedroom, save for the bed, of course, and a few bureaus, and a ceiling fan.
Is it possible that I misunderstood her? I say, ‘You don’t like the bedroom?’

‘I don’t like the house,’ she replies.

But then, as suddenly as the darkness appeared, it is gone, and she laughs, throwing back her head, showing me the pale white curve of her throat. ‘Oh never mind!’ she says, and
smiles. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just... I like it out here. I like the fresh air.’

She takes my hand, and starts to lead me to the door. But I pull away from her, and I lay my palm on the door handle, to keep her from opening it.

‘Wait,’ I say.

Something tells me not to let this moment pass. Maybe this is Libby’s way of reaching out to me. Maybe this is her way of letting me know that she is ready to talk about that night. The
night that Cole died.

I say, ‘Sometimes I see him, Libby.’

She looks at me. Her face is wary. ‘You see him?’ she repeats.

‘Our son,’ I say.

‘Oh.’ She nods. ‘Of course.’

‘I know you blame me for that night. And you should. Of course you should, but... ’

‘Please,’ she says, and grabs my hand. ‘Please, Jimmy. Let’s not talk about it.’

‘We lost our child, Libby. How long can we not talk about it?’

Libby looks beyond me, into the distance, to someplace very far away. To a different time. To a different place.

She remains silent. Staring. Distant. What is she thinking about?

When she speaks, at last, her voice is just a whisper. ‘Something we share,’ she says.

‘What is?’

‘Losing a child.’

‘Of course it is,’ I say.

But before I can say more, or ask what she means, she steps forward, and kisses my cheek, very softly. Very sadly.

She turns, and goes back into the bedroom, leaving me alone on the veranda, as if it were I who resisted returning to the house in the first place.

Downstairs we watch TV – one of those reality shows where people try to act naturally while performing for cameras that they pretend do not exist. An hour of this is
enough to convince us to go back to our own reality show, and so we climb the stairs, back to the bedroom.

We undress for bed. My wife stays on the opposite side of the room, keeps the bed between us, her back turned to me. As she slides on her T-shirt, I catch a glimpse of her naked breast, in
profile, and – despite myself – am aroused.

She slides into boxer shorts – men’s boxer shorts – there’s nothing sexier than a woman in men’s boxer shorts, is there? – and she climbs under the covers,
and turns off her nightstand light. ‘Good night, Jimmy,’ she says. ‘I’m tired.’

Not tonight then. Another image comes to me, unbidden, of my receptionist’s breasts, her small, pink nipples, that weird tattoo.

I turn off my own nightstand light, and we lie together in the dark. I listen to the creaking electric ceiling fan above us.

‘There’s something I didn’t tell you,’ I say, into the darkness. ‘About how I hurt my head.’

I know immediately that I’ve made a mistake, that I’ve chosen a path that will lead to conflict. But there was an instant tonight, out on the veranda, when Libby connected with me
– or
nearly
did. It lasted just a moment, but maybe that’s what I’m searching for now, again – another moment of intimacy – a connection with this woman who
always seems so far away.

‘You said it was the supply closet at work,’ she says.

‘I lied. It was a house, actually. I broke into someone’s house.’ I have that familiar feeling now: that I’m ruining things – the pleasant evening we just shared,
the pizza on the chaise longue, the moment of intimacy on the veranda – all the closeness, all the comfort. I just can’t leave things alone. Here comes Jimmy Thane, with a torch, ready
to burn it all down. ‘I climbed into the attic. I found a bag filled with cash.’

I tell her the story: about 56 Windmere, about the cheques written by someone at Tao and sent to that address, about how I slipped into the house through a back window, and found cash in a
garbage bag, and was almost discovered by men speaking Russian, men with guns.

When I finish, she is silent.

Silent for so long, in fact, that I wonder if she fell asleep during my recounting of the tale. But no, I feel her sitting upright beside me in the dark. She is awake. But silent. Completely
silent.

I must admit: I was not expecting silence. I was expecting a reaction,
some
kind of reaction, because that’s what a wife does when her husband tells a story about breaking into a
house and finding four million dollars of cash in a garbage bag – she reacts, somehow.
How
she reacts is beside the point. Maybe she is titillated. ‘You broke into a
house?’ she might say. ‘
You
? Jimmy Thane?’

Or maybe she is angry. ‘What a terrible risk you took!’ she might say. ‘You could have been hurt! They had guns!’

But silence? I was not expecting silence.

This silence continues for a long time.

Finally, I say, ‘Libby?’

She whispers, ‘Jimmy.’

I can’t read her tone.

‘What are you doing, Jimmy?’ She sounds sad, disappointed. She mutters, mostly to herself, ‘Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy.’

‘What?’

‘Why do you ruin things?’

‘I don’t ruin things,’ I say, even though she’s right, even though this is the exact thought I had about myself, just a moment ago. I tried to ruin things this afternoon
when I broke into the house; and when that didn’t work, I tried ruining things again, just now, lying in bed, when I insisted on telling Libby about the house and the money. I couldn’t
leave things alone. I couldn’t let our nice evening together end... nicely.

‘I just wanted to find out who’s stealing money from the company. I need to figure out who’s responsible. It’s my job.’

‘Your job?’ she repeats. She turns on her nightstand lamp. In the sudden brightness, her skin is pale and lined, her face haggard.

She stares at the teak fan blades, spinning lazily above us, and addresses her next words to the fan, not to me. ‘Why do you think you were hired, Jimmy?’

‘Because Tad Billups—’

‘Tad Billups
what
?’ she spits. ‘He thinks you’re a great CEO? Is that what he thinks, Jimmy? That you’re a great turnaround artist? He hired you because
you’re the best candidate? In all of Silicon Valley, you were the best one he could find? You’re his last great hope?’

‘No,’ I say weakly.

‘What did Tad tell you when he hired you? Do you remember what you told me? “Protect me”, he said. “Protect me, Jimmy.”’

‘What does that have to do with anything?’ I ask. But even as the words leave my mouth, I know. As usual, I am one step behind her. As usual, she understands things long before I
do.

But she continues, relentless, pressing her advantage. She stares at me the way an entomologist stares at a beetle she’s about to pin to a specimen board. ‘We finally have a chance,
Jimmy. After everything you’ve done to us, we still have a chance. God only knows how.’

‘Libby... ’ I croak.

‘We still have a chance,’ she goes on. ‘But you want to ruin it. Tell me something. If you keep digging, what do you think you’re going to find? Do you honestly think
you’re some genius detective, uncovering a big secret? There
is
no secret, Jimmy. Why do you think you’re here? I tried telling you before, but you didn’t listen. Why do
you think Tad Billups, your so-called friend, who practically gave you up for dead – why do you think he gave
you
this job in Florida, to save some crappy company that he knows
can’t be saved? Because of your impressive pedigree?’

I’m shocked into silence. When I look at my wife, I see an anger and intelligence I never recognized before. Where is that soft waitress I flirted with at The Goose, so many years ago?
Where’s the girl who knew nothing about venture capital when we married, or high technology, or CEOs, or corporate turnarounds? She is gone. She has been replaced, by someone else. Someone
new.

Lying in the bed beside me is a clever and hard woman.

I say, ‘I just want to know what’s going on.’

‘You don’t know what’s going on?’ she asks. ‘
I
know what’s going on, and I’m your wife. Should I lay it out for you?’

I stay silent.

‘All right,’ she says. ‘Here’s what’s going on, Jimmy. You were
not
hired to dig and investigate what’s happening at Tao. You were hired to be so
goddamned grateful you’re there, that you ignore whatever the hell you see. You were hired to shut up and act stupid. That shouldn’t be too hard for you, Jimmy, should it?’

‘Libby... ’

‘Four million dollars stolen from your company, Jimmy. Four million dollars in a garbage bag. Who do you think is behind it?’

‘Tad?’

She smiles. Not a mean smile. It’s much worse than that. A smile of compassion. The smile that smart people make for dumb people, strong people for weak. A patronizing smile. When I see
that smile on my wife’s face, I think I might cry.

Maybe she realizes she has gone too far. She takes my hand. Her voice is soft and warm. ‘Jimmy, listen to me. We’re not going to get another chance. This is it.’

‘I know that.’

‘You were hired
not
to notice missing money. You were hired
not
to investigate. That is why Tad selected you. Because you owe him everything. Do you see now?’

I nod.

‘Jimmy.’ Her voice is gentle, and I want to roll over and melt into her. How I love this woman. ‘Jimmy, you can do this. If you give Tad what he wants, he’ll reward you.
I know he will. He wants you to keep things quiet. So keep them quiet. No bankruptcy, no lawyers, no accountants poring over the books. You see? When everything blows over, when it’s all
quiet and no one’s looking, he’ll shut the company down. And then, he’ll owe you. He’ll owe you big time. He’ll find a way to thank you. Maybe he’ll give you a
real company to run. Maybe back home. In California. You see?’

I do. What was I thinking, exactly? It seems crazy now. Skulking around in attics, hiding behind shower curtains. My wife is right. Of course she’s right. Tad Billups knew I’d
discover the missing four million dollars. How could I not? He didn’t hire me to
find
it. He hired me to ignore it.

‘You know the definition of insanity, Jimmy?’ Libby asks.

‘No.’

‘Doing the same thing, over and over. Doing it again and again, despite all the evidence in the world that it isn’t working.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Not saying. Asking.
Begging
.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘I’m begging you, Jimmy. Don’t make the same mistake again. This is our chance. This is our way
back.’

The next morning, when I arrive in the office, Amanda is manning the reception desk, smiling beatifically, happy with everything in the world.

‘Good morning, Jim,’ she practically sings. ‘Your head looks healthy today.’

‘Only on the outside,’ I say, as I brush past. I want no further discussion about my head wound. I will put away all memories of yesterday – of dark attics filled with garbage
bags of cash, of looking down Amanda’s shirt. My bedtime conversation with Libby has inspired me. I will be a good soldier, a good CEO. I will lead Tao quietly and efficiently, to the best of
my ability. I will keep the company afloat for as long as I can. I will protect Tad Billups. No more rusty nails in my forehead. No more self-destruction.

‘You missed a phone call,’ Amanda says. She hands me a pink message slip. ‘Just a minute ago. He said it was urgent.’

I glance at the note. ‘Sandy Golden,’ the paper says, and a phone number. I walk into the bullpen, studying the message.
The
Sandy Golden? From Old Dominion? What on earth
could he want?

‘Good morning, Jim,’ someone says.

David Paris’s head pops over a cube wall.

‘Morning, David.’

‘Jim... ’ he starts, and before I can walk away, he leaps from his cube like a thoroughbred from the starting gate. He’s off, bounding towards me, waving a white pad of paper,
which I notice – even from this distance – is filled with copious notes and sketches, the jottings of a man locked in a mental institution. ‘I really want to show you this, if you
have some time.’