"I can't. I have an appointment at four," Elaine says as they're walking out.
"I want to go with you," Sammy says. "I want to go home." "I'm not going home, I have an appointment. But I'll tell you a secret," Elaine says, whispering in Sammy's ear. "You'll be back in your own room very soon. And I think you'll be pleasantly surprised."
"I'm getting a banana split," Nate says.
"So am I," Sammy says.
"I'm getting two banana splits and a chocolate milk shake," Nate says.
"Me, too," Sammy says. "Whatever you get, I get, too."
Paul has been at his desk all day-painting. When he went to dump his dirty water, word spread that he was up to something. And that he was walking with a bit of a limp.
"That must have been terrible with the shrimp," his secretary says, ordering him a bowl of chicken soup for lunch. He mentions that he tried to call her about not emptying the trash can. "Oh, I was gone by then," she says, unapologetically.
Herskovitz and Wilson stop by while Paul is eating at his desk, crumbling crackers into his soup. Sheets of watercolor paper are spread out all around him.
"Doing a little OT?" Herskovitz says.
"Overtime?" Wilson asks.
"Occupational therapy," Herskovitz says. "My mother-in-law does that in her Alzheimer's day-care program."
Later, as Paul is about to go wash out his brushes and call it a day, Warburton sticks his head in. "Nice colors. May I have one? Or are they only available in a set?"
"Help yourself," Paul says, quickly zipping his pants, standing, stretching his legs.
Warburton picks the one that says "Assume Your Right." "I'm feeling the need for an inspirational slogan," he says, sitting in Paul's chair, leaning forward. "You don't want that corner office, do you?" he asks conspiratorially. "Theoretically, it could be yours. But I like to keep one office empty; it keeps the tension up, gives the boys something to aim for. There should always appear to be something to aspire to. Don't you agree?"
Paul would like that office. Nothing good has happened to him at work in a long time-he's just been sitting there, waiting.
"It's got a view, it's got an executive loo. Do you know how fantastic it is not to have to go down the hall and lock yourself in a stall when you have to shit? I can't shit in public places, can't do it," Warburton says.
Paul nods. He wonders if Warburton is playing with him. He checks his watch; he's going to miss the 4:23, he's going to be late for Mrs. Apple. "It's a nice office," Paul says. "But the decor is awful. Sid Auerbach had no sense of style."
"It could be redecorated."
"Repainted? Recarpeted?" Paul asks.
"Outfitted," Warburton says. "Just the other day, I saw a desk chair with arms that were adjustable in a thousand small increments. A chair so comfortable it's like a coffin; you can sit in it for years. Something to think about," Warburton says, leaving. "Something to sleep on."
Elaine is going to meet the guidance counselor. He will tell her what to do, she will do it, and she will feel improved. She drives down Central Avenue. The traffic is heavy. She hurries. In the parking lot of the diner, she freshens her lipstick, brushes her hair, and checks herself in the rearview mirror.
He sees her immediately. He waves from a booth in the back. "Bud Johnson," he says, shaking her hand.
"Elaine."
He is dressed like a teacher: short-sleeved dress shirt, pen protector in the pocket, glasses. His hair is not dark and curly;
it is deeply receded, thinning, and largely absent. "You're probably wondering why you're here. Let me tell you who Bud Johnson is," he says. She gets the feeling that he'd done this before. "In high school I was an average student from an average family. I grew up in Yonkers. No one talked about options. At the end of high school, I joined the Army. I believed 'Be All That You Can Be.' I wanted to fly helicopters." He taps his glasses. "I have bad eyes, I couldn't fly anything. I hated it. After four years, I got out, went back to school, and studied counseling, figuring I might be a college counselor, help kids decide where to go. I ended up at Westchester Tech because I mentioned that I like fixing things. Anyway, that's where I am. I arrange internships, placement services-I know lots of good mechanics, technicians, repair people. It serves me well. If I can't fix it myself, I know who can."
"What do you fix?" Elaine asks.
"I can do most of my car, simple carpentry and electrical, a little plumbing, painting, and I like computers." He tells her this the way some people say they speak foreign languages-a little French, a bit of Italian, a few phrases in German. He pauses. "I thought we could talk about what might interest you. I did a little digging; the most obvious areas would be nursing, travel, and real estate. But I don't guess those appeal?"
Elaine shakes her head. Without warning she begins to cry. She doesn't mean to cry, but she does. She pours uncontrollably. He hands her paper napkins. He looks a little uncomfortable-hoping no one sees him with a weeping woman. "I don't think it can be fixed. I don't think you can help me. Our house caught on fire, my husband got a tattoo, the children are staying with neighbors, and you wouldn't believe the rest if I told you. This isn't just about a career. It's my life. I'm stuck." She sniffles. "You're probably wishing you hadn't come. You're probably thinking, Who is this crazy woman?"
"What does 'stuck' mean?"
"It means I should make some big decision, I should do some enormous thing. And I can't do anything. I can't stand my life, and I can't change it."
"Maybe it's not an enormous thing," he says. "Maybe you have to do one small thing and then another small thing."
"How could I let this happen? I don't remember myself this way."
"We're going to take this one step at a time," Bud says. "You reached out and called me-that's a good thing."
Elaine looks at him. He doesn't seem to want to fuck her; Elaine is relieved. Is he married, is he gay? She can't tell.
"I brought some interest questionnaires." This is his big moment, the moment he studied for. He spreads a pile of pages out across the table. Elaine picks up something called "The Fear In- dex-Are you afraid of the vacuum cleaner? Taking a bath? Being naked? Seeing others naked?"
"That's from something else," he says, taking it away. "It must have gotten mixed in."
She picks up another one. More questions: "Do you like numbers? What are your favorite subjects? What is your favorite time of day?"
He orders a piece of pie while she fills in the blanks. When she's done, he collects the pages. "I'll review them later."
The waitress brings her a cup of coffee.
"Some things are nearby," he says. "Iona, Sarah Lawrence, and if you're willing to travel, to go into the city, the whole world opens. You could become a polygraph expert in six weeks, you could learn dog grooming in ten."
"I just want to feel better."
"When you have something of your own, you'll feel better. Go to the library, ask the librarian for career books. Start making lists. You don't have to commit to anything, just start thinking about what interests you. You have my number, call me. And if you need someplace to go, to get out of the house, or hide out, come by the school. I'm there from seven-thirty till four."
The check comes. Elaine grabs it. "Let me get this," she says. "It's the one thing I can do."
"I'll talk to you on Monday," he says. "We'll figure it out. We'll get you unstuck."
"Thank you."
EIGHT
PAUL IS LATE. He scurries. He gets off the train two stops past home and walks three blocks to the motel. He goes into the office and gets the key.
Her car is parked, waiting.
"I'm late," he says.
"I thought maybe you weren't coming, I always think maybe you aren't coming."