“No!” Eric was disgusted. He shook his head at the floor, sighed, leaned back, and shook his head at the ceiling. “That’s what’s so fucking crazy about it. I’ve given back some of the profits, that’s all. Tom’s still way ahead. His friends are still way ahead. These guys. They’ve never known what it is not to have money. And yet they’re so greedy.” Eric looked at her, with reproach. “You never told me your father was so greedy.”
“So if you’re not losing, what’s the problem?” Nina wanted to stay in pursuit of the disease, not be distracted by all these symptoms.
“Joe has called up your father and the others. He’s told them he can’t stand behind my investment decisions.” Eric mocked Joe’s voice — prissy, pompous, Henry Kissinger on Vietnam: “ ‘We disagree on the kind of stocks, not the direction of the market. And I no longer wish to associate the firm with Eric’s selections. Of course, he’s still here. I simply wish to give you the option of changing the current management philosophy without going to the extreme of taking your funds elsewhere.’ ” Eric cackled. He jumped up from the chair, ejected back into the furious pace of his thoughts. “Funds! Joe can’t even say the word ‘money’! For God’s sakes. Money!”
Nina had never understood Eric’s relationship to Joe. She had concluded after many years that Eric’s complaints must be pro forma, that the stories had to be exaggerations. No sensible person would continue to work with the Joe Eric described. “That’s disgusting,” she said. She felt it too, Joe’s betrayal was conjured as a dark cloud of villainy, an incomprehensible force of nature; when she thought of it, it had no context in her experience. “Father told you Joe said all this?”
“Joe said it in front of me!” Eric’s voice squealed. Eric got up on his tiptoes; his forehead crinkled; his hands spread out and arched to the ceiling in agony. “He made the call right in front of me, in front of the entire office!”
And now, the nameless dread was hers. What was Father’s answer? He had her husband’s self-respect in his hands, maybe the happiness of her marriage, probably the future of her son. She waited for Eric to volunteer the information.
But Eric said nothing. He brought his agonized fingers to his rumpled forehead. He massaged the skin, as if the tips could push something back into his leaking brain.
Help him, Nina. Help him. He’s like Luke, he has no real weapons to fight with.
But Nina had lived to be free of her family. She had married Eric and lived in New York to be away from them. Now, like some nightmare, everything in her life depended on the one thing she had never been able to count on: her father’s love.
WHAT IS he thinking? that he should come out and meet me here, in the reception area? That he’d be safer in public? But not if I start talking. What is he thinking?
I’ve spent the better part of my life wanting to know what he was thinking. Did he think at all, or was it just a physical craving, nothing diabolic, nothing calculated, an addiction, a yearning he couldn’t squelch?
The assistant returned. She looked unfriendly. “Mr. Hummel? Come with me.”
Peter followed her.
Is this a trick? Will I be led into a room of security guards and thrown out?
They passed the usual lineup of secretarial cubicles opposite medium-sized private offices, the doors open, overdressed men and women on phones talking the friendly chatter of a phony business:
“Bill? Hello, how was London? Yeah, I hoped you could—”
“Are you kidding? I’m fatter than ever!”
“Great. Let’s do the Tea Room? I know it’s a bore—” We’re heading for the corner office, Peter knew. He rubbed his palms. They were wet. His throat felt thick and clogged. In a moment of panic, he thought he might not be able to talk. He could see himself, a hand on his Adam’s apple, choking, mute.
He cleared his throat. He wanted to shout before he entered. There were only a few more feet to go.
Speak! Make sure you can speak!
The assistant stopped a foot or so before the door. It was open. Peter could see an L of couches, empty, cornering a huge black glass coffee table. Larry was out of sight, probably behind a desk. The assistant gestured for Peter to go inside alone.
Alone in an office with Larry. Come with me, Peter wanted to say to this neutral woman. Come with me. Don’t leave me alone with him.
“IT’S ME, Grandpa,” Luke called at the door. Eric knelt at his son’s height, and saw the sight he had seen all his childhood, the door to his parents’ apartment towering in front of him, a tall, fat guard with its one circular metal eye, blind and fixed.
“Hey! Hey!” Barry said from the other side, and the police lock clanged. Luke hopped up and down. The door opened and they were in each other’s arms, the bookends of Eric’s life, his softhearted father, his sweet-spirited son.
They don’t need me, he thought. No one needs me.
Since Eric had become cruel to Luke, the implacable explicator of life (everybody goes to the bathroom, Luke, it’s time), since then, Luke had flourished. Gone were all the moody reactions to new things. The shyness remained, but only a normal amount. The intelligence test proved Luke was more than sound. Nina’s success at work proved she was more than sound. Gone were all their difficulties. Luke adored her. Unlike Eric, Nina still got the gift of Luke’s tender side, his baby self. “Mama,” Luke would say when she got home, and wrap his legs around her stomach, rest his head on her shoulder, and gaze into her eyes with absolute concentration.
Eric entered the home of his parents unheralded, an afterthought, a nanny. His mother and father circled about Luke, chattering over his height, listening to him talk, telling him what he could have, what they might do, and Eric wandered in unnoticed. He went to the kitchen, in search of coffee. He looked for coffee all the time now, because his brain never seemed to reach consciousness, because he never got enough sleep, because only coffee was warm and for him alone, only coffee narrowed his vision to the thing he had to solve.
Which was what, exactly?
The Boston Beans were gone, had moved their accounts to Joe’s supervision. Therefore, Eric had lost half his management fee. Tom had done nothing, which was good and bad. Tom hadn’t called Eric after speaking with Joe, hadn’t phoned to say that he continued to have confidence in Eric. And when Eric discarded his pride and initiated a call to Tom, Tom didn’t reassure Eric, didn’t say that his refusal to let Joe take over the management was permanent, or merely a final trial of Eric’s abilities.
What do they want? Two bad quarters after eight good ones! Do I have three months to keep Tom? Do I have six? Do I have nine? Do I have a week?
Eric could have asked Tom to declare his intentions. But he didn’t. He convinced himself that to pretend with Tom that nothing had happened showed self-confidence. Later Eric realized it was an excuse for cowardice.
Nina’s response to the situation wasn’t helpful. Leave, she said. Open up your own firm. You can work out of our apartment. Next fall Luke will be in school, we can make it on what you earn from Tom’s money, and my salary, and soon we won’t need Pearl anymore—
Work alone? With no one to tell me what I should think, no one to fight off, no one to give in to, no secretaries, no coffee machine, pay for my own Quotron, pay commissions to some broker … it was sickening, impossible. Nina’s suggestion caused despair, forced Eric to face himself in a way he had hoped never to.
I don’t have the guts. And if Tom left me then, I would be ruined. Maybe we could make it without my salary for a while, as Nina had suggested, maybe I would get some of Joe’s clients, the ones who know me, people like Fred Tatter, to come along, but then I would have to produce every day, every week, and—