He needs a moment to gather himself. He calls Mrs. Apple. He dials and hangs up. He can't talk to her; he knows he will blurt-Why are you moving? He will accuse-Why am I the last to find out? He will defend-I'm just wondering about my time, trying to plan my days.
How can he ask without seeming to have formed an attachment, without seeming to cling, which is the one thing that isn't allowed? No expectations. No attachments.
Paul looks out his window. Across the street the windows are being washed, an urban ballet, men on a rig, descending-har- nesses, ropes, safety belts.
His secretary buzzes. "You've been summoned," she says. "Down the hall."
"Pardon?"
"Mr. Warburton has asked to see you."
Do they fire people on Monday mornings? He thinks of
the palm kisser's advice: begin again. He stands up, dips his hand into his pocket, and pulls out a fistful of pills. With no idea of which is for what, he takes three-yellow, red, blue-figuring he's covering all the bases, primary colors.
The big guy is behind his desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, his tie thrown over his shoulder. He's pushing paint around on a glossy white piece of fingerpaint paper. He raises his hands, flashing his palms at Paul. Dipped in red, the lines of his palms are thrown into relief-heart, health, long life. "The sensation is incredible," Warburton says, squirting paint through his fingers. "This is what work should be about, getting your hands dirty. I'm doing the quarterly report." Using his index finger, he cuts an arrow through the red. "Things are going up," he says.
"Looks good," Paul says.
"It's so much fun," Warburton says, grinning, and then he gets serious. He wipes his hands on a paper towel. "Have you given any thought to our discussion last week?"
Paul raises his eyebrows. He doesn't want to give anything away, doesn't want to assume, presume, or be disappointed. "Which discussion?"
"The empty office," Warburton says.
Paul nods. "I'm looking into desk chairs. I'm thinking a cushion might be just the thing."
Warburton gives him the nod. "Will a cushion be high enough?"
"I may need a pile."
"Whatever it takes," Warburton says, and then he's back to painting. "Whenever you're ready it's yours. And by the end of the week I'd like to have your thoughts on fat. How do you make people think fat is good?" He stops. He meets Paul eye to eye. "Have you heard the stories about fat substitutes and anal leakage? Are they true? I want you to investigate, personally."
Paul sits at his desk in an anxious stupor. He conjures the sensation of good work, productivity, and pride, the dream of the office. Images move through his mind, flashbacks, juxtapositions: the boy with the barbells in his brows, the date, the palm kiss- er-"Every minute is a new beginning." Paul looks at his watch; several new beginnings tick by. He takes out his paper and paints. He dips in.
A package arrives; his secretary buzzes. "B and B Office Supply. Shall I sign for it?"
Paul steps out of his office. "Don't sign anything. Don't open anything. Send it back. I didn't order anything." He thinks of ticking packages, Unabombers, mercenaries, girls gone mad, men at work with blown-off fingers, with stumps and stubs. "It's not worth the risk."
"You asked for it," the messenger says, trying to hand the package to Paul.
Paul refuses, he hides his hands behind his back. "I did not," Paul insists. As he's insisting, he remembers that he did order something last Friday, a portfolio for his watercolors. He remembers them saying they'd send it on Monday, but he can't say that now, he can't undo what's already being done; it's gone too far. He remains indignant. "This is a scam."
"Whatever," the messenger says. "I'll take it back. No skin off my dick."
"That's right. You'll take it back," Paul says, storming back into his office.
He sits at his desk. He cannot call Mrs. Apple, he cannot call Henry. He cannot go out for lunch; he is afraid she is out there, still waiting.
"I'm going to grab a sandwich," his secretary says. "Can I bring you anything?"
"Some soup would be good," Paul says. "Some crackers and a bottle of water."
"The prison diet. How about a bowl of gruel?" she teases.
He gives her a twenty. "My treat," he says.
Later, when the call comes, he will think it is the date, he will think it is a game she's playing-impersonating the school secretary.
"Okay, very funny," he'll say. "I'm hanging up now. Don't call back again. This is a place of business. This is not a joke."
And the phone will ring again immediately.
"This is an emergency, Mr. Weiss. I'm calling about your son Samuel."
"Enough is enough. Not funny."
"Mr. Weiss, there is a situation here at the school. The principal is on the phone with your wife now; the police have been called."
"What?" Paul will say, sobering.
"This is an emergency, Mr. Weiss. You are needed here at the school. We hope to have the situation under control shortly, but it would help to have both of you here."
"It's Monday afternoon, I'm in the city, at work. It'll take forty- five minutes, minimum."
"Mr. Weiss, never in my thirty years as school secretary have I had to make a call like this, and never in my imagination, if I had to make such a call, would it have gone this way. I'm telling you something is wrong. Get in a cab!" she says, and hangs up.
Paul calls Elaine-the line is busy.
He washes out his paintbrush, puts on his jacket, and dials again. The machine picks up; he hears the sound of his own voice. Everything has fallen out of order. "Are you in there? Elaine? Pick up," he says. "Pick up, pick up," he says, his voice increasingly panicked. "They called from Sammy's school. Did they call you, too? Elaine? Where are you? I'm getting in a cab. I'm on my way. I'll meet you there."
In the elevator, going down, he worries that she is still out there, waiting. The coast is clear; he is out the door and into a
cab. He is on his way as fast as he can, his chest squeezing, chemicals coursing through.
"Hurry," Paul tells the driver.
It is not an accident. If there had been an accident, they would have said so. If Sammy had had an asthma attack, they would have told him. Accidents and asthma don't require the police. The school secretary was so strange, so cryptic and insistent. It makes no sense. It must be something Sammy said or did. He must have insulted a teacher, stolen something, or pulled a fire alarm.
Suddenly, it occurs to Paul that it's not Sammy at all; it's Elaine and Paul. It's a setup. A sting. The police have been called-"it would help to have both of you here," the secretary said.
Show-and-tell. Smokey Bear. Fire prevention. The fire department must have paid a visit to the school. They must have given a lecture on not playing with matches. And Sammy must have spilled the beans. He must have told them the story about his mother sitting in the yard saying she couldn't do it anymore, his father coming home and finding nothing to eat. He must have told them how his father squirted the stuff against the house and how his mother kicked over the grill and how they all went out to dinner and ate steak and ice cream and how his father said, "Fuck the fat." He probably told them about driving home, seeing the fire engines blocking the street, then going to the motel, and how he woke up in the middle of the night not sure where he was and how his parents were in the bathroom talking. And then he must have told them how they drove home in the dark, how they slept in the car-how they lied.
Paul never thought Sammy would be the one, but that explains it, that explains it all. "It would help to have you both here.. The police have been called." The less they tell you, the worse it is.
Busted, framed, hung out to dry. They're going to arrest them-Paul and Elaine.
He wishes to hell he'd never given the cell phone back to Henry. He wonders if you're allowed to make calls from the back of a police cruiser. He wonders if you're really allowed only one call from the station after they arrest you. If you are, he would call Tom again. Not Henry, George, or Ted. Tom. Tom was so nice, so calm, so good about things the other night. He makes a deal with himself: As soon as he can, he will call Tom, and everything will be all right.