M ymother always said, “ You know that feeling when you’re in aroom by yourself, and you sense something moving near you, and you turn to look, and nothing is there? Well, something was there; you just couldn’tsee it or understand it or comprehend it, yet it was and still is.” Perhaps some might refer to this experience as ahal lucination, abrief moment of delirium. However, as achild and even now, Ihave felt this, and continue to feel it, as aspiritual presence aligned in away to communicate or connect with me, yet in adif ferent form. And if you have had this happen to you, isn’tthat event, while afleeting moment, almost otherworldly, abit of magic? When Ifirst met Dave, aside from our mutual love of writing, Ifelt aspecial connection to him that might be something more than words can express. Perchance, that’sthe joint belief in more than what’sattain able by logic, that magical part of life, the part that makes the curious existence of being, joyful and consuming, yet filled with mystery all at once. The Dave I’ve had the privilege of knowing has aprofound love for his community and humanity, and aphilosophical understand ing of the world’scomplexities regarding relationships and people in general. I’ve found this in my friendship with him, in his sharing of personal experiences, and in his navigation of life, as expressed in his own writing. He is an inspiration as he continues to build our literary community and weave people together, encouraging them to write and share their stories through poetry, narratives, collected works, and anthologies. The Dave I’ve come to know is more than agenerous human being; he’san officiant, aguide, ateacher, or, some might say, ashaman who gathers us, as acollective, on this journey called life, as we explore, narrate, and even create new possibilities through writing. That’sexactly how his new book, “On Your Way to Nirvana Would You Please Put Out the Cat?” speaks to me. This novella is filled with acaptivating array of characters who, through aseries of intentional and accidental events, ultimately in teract with one another for amultitude of personal and universal motives: for inspiration, for truth, for benefit and gain, for accep
tance, and last but not least, love and honor, as aplethora of human missteps unfold along the way. These human missteps, no different from real life, become the most intriguing and challenging parts as we witness decision-making that undoubtedly changes the course for those who metaphorically close one door while opening another. This is not dissimilar to the butterfly effect, grounded in the theory of chaos, in which asmall change or decision by an individual can create an unpredictable result for another, with irreversible conse quences. This emphasizes the power and validity of recognizing the choices we make, good or not-so-good, that shape long- or shortterm outcomes. Having said that, the most intriguing and certainly most discern ing character Iencountered in this extraordinary literary journey is the omniscient narrator, whose charm, wit, humor, and wisdom about the world’spotential for disorder are captivating. Isn’tthat the reason one reads abook in the first place, with the hope of experienc ing something impactful enough to be long remembered? Ibelieve that has been achieved in my case, as this novella will stay with me. These characters will continue on as will the narrator’svoice with his astute offerings, intellectual curiosity and commentary on life with all the possibilities of outcomes complex or otherwise depend ing on the sorting out of options along the way—how these choices, however abrupt or well-constructed define each day’sreality, making things alittle better, or even alittle more than what we’re able to cope with, but sometimes accompanied with asense of integrity, depend ing on who you encounter, due to the sudden flap of abutterfly wing shifting the system’spath. Reminding me to look around, find that bit of magic, the Nirvana, and enjoy the wonder of life, the parts we can control and the parts we can’t. After all, it’sall we have, along with each other. Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas
Humphries Feelgood was having abad morning. Avery bad morning. Outside of being in the midst of ahangover only asailor would enjoy, he was also waking up to the prospect of his life forever changing. He didn’tknow this yet, but he’dfind out soon enough. The hangover, however, he knew about. He felt it surging through his soul each time he attempted to stand up from the floor he had passed out on. It was aliving room floor, that much he was sure of. But was it his? This was the fundamental question— whose floor was he on? At about the same time Humphries was coming to grips with his reality, Florence was packing her hair in aneat ball on top of her head. She packed her hair in this manner every morning. She’dbeen doing it this way for the last thirty-five of her forty-five years. Florence was not one to adapt to changes in fashion readily. In fact, it would be safe to say that Florence didn’tadapt to changes, period. Fashion or not. Flor ence more or less lived in aworld of her own making. There were alot of people who had known Florence for several years that could not tell you what that world was, but the fact that she kept up anice house, kept her dogs groomed and her yard well maintained were testimony to her ability to blend in with her cul ture. Florence was Humphries’ wife. Their culture was americanus suburbus. And yes, they both took great pride in their yard. The chimes on the clock in the hallway struck insanely loud. The sound reverberated off the base of Humphries’ neck and continued upwards to the tips of his thinning hair. Great spasms of white light from the murderous chimes, the most gut-wrenching, soul-searing, head-splitting and anal-twitching sound he had ever had to endure, would not cease. One, two, three times the clock chimed. “God have mercy on my soul,” Humphries cried out. Four, five, six times the clock chimed. “Please! Make it stop! Make it stop!”
Seven. Eight. “Enough! Enough! Where the hell am I?” he screamed in one last burst of energy. Nine. Ten. “For God’ssake, Humphries, get agrip on yourself. Look at you. You’re amess. You stink. You’re drunk. And you’ve even wet your self. Again. At least this time it wasn’ton the sofa.” The voice had arecognizable quality to it. It seemed to be coming from far across the room. Yes. The room. Just where the hell was this room? Where the hell was he? “ And another thing, you lousy bum, you ran the car into the tree again last night. We just got through paying for the last repair job and now... oh, Iguess it could have been worse. At least this time you didn’ttear up the lawn.” Of course. He knew that voice. He knew from his corroded memory banks that it belonged to his wife, Florence. Dear Florence. Sweet Florence. Wonderfully fragrant Florence. He knew she hated to hear that, which is why he repeated it so often. “Uh huh,” he replied in his best John Wayne imitation. John Wayne, he thought to himself? What the fuck did John Wayne have to do with anything? He slowly removed himself from the floor. His floor. His very own floor. The same floor that he had been acquainted with for near ly twenty-two years. Yes, it was his floor and now things were begin ning to make sense. He was hung over. No doubt about that. He was still, in fact, drunk. He did stink, he was alousy bum, although upon reflection he realized he had never met agreat bum, only lousy ones, perhaps there was aneed for afew good bums? He was mulling this thought over in his soaked, stinking state when he also realized that he was indeed, soaked. Damn! Did it again. He could hear his mother scolding him for making wee-wee on the floor when he was five years old. “Look at you, ” she would call out in that taunting voice he would learn to loathe. “Just look at mommy’s BIG BOY, all wet from making wee-wee on mommy’sshiny kitchen floor. Ibet the neighborhood can’twait to hear what a BIG BOY mommy has. ” And then she would lean out the window and scream from the bottom of her lungs to anybody that would listen, which was, naturally, the whole neighborhood, “Guess what mommy’s BIG BOY did for mommy? He made wee-wee all over her shiny kitchen floor. Isn’tmommy’s BIG BOY proud? Mommy’sproud of mommy’s BIG BOY. ” Then she would close the window and clean up the puddle on the floor. As for Humphries, he was made to wear the same clothes the rest of that day. All day he would wear the wet clothes until his stench was hardly bearable. At which point his father would return home from work, smell the stench that was his son and, without aword, go to his closet, remove the thinnest belt he had there, the special one that was reserved for special occasions such as these, and beat Humphries until his naked bottom glistened. Only then was he al lowed to change out of his wet clothes. “So,” the voice jerked Humphries back into the present, “just what is your story this time, dear?” Florence had now moved into the living room where Humphries was still attempting to set reality back onto its proper course. He was failing miserably. “Oh, don’tbother. Just go clean yourself up. Or at least manage to stagger into the other room and collapse there. I’ve got company coming over in half an hour and I’ dlike the house to look decent. At least this part of the house. Why don’tyou go sleep it off in the guest room? Iput fresh sheets on the bed last night. Ifigured you’ dneed them. ” And with that she turned smartly on her heels and walked off into the kitchen. Humphries stared at the spot on the floor where Florence had been standing. He noticed the indentations her heels had left in the carpet. He noticed they looked frighteningly similar to the dimples on atopless dancer’sass he had known years before. He dwelled upon the meaning of this revelation as he stumbled into the guest room. Yep. Fresh sheets, alright. “Florence,” he shouted out to no one in particular, “she’smy wife.” And with that he fell plump on his ass and passed out once more. * * * * * *
This book is not about mom and apple pie. It has afew refer ences to both, but it is not about them. It is abook about two peo ple; Humphries and Florence Feelgood. It is about their marriage, their dreams, their ultimate divorce and their quest for anew life. It doesn’tnecessarily happen in that order, but it is about these things. Oh, Ialmost forgot. It is also about Lawrence Mathews the Third. Not Lawrence Mathews III. No. It is about Lawrence Mathews the Third. His family called him Lance, his gay lovers called him Bunny. We’ll get into that later. Right now, suffice it to say that this book is about alot of things. If you figure them all out you don’twin aprize. But you might feel better for doing it.
Lawrence Mathews the Third did not know Humphries Feel good, or his wife Florence. They did not know him either. Which is kind of agood place for them all to be. For the mo ment. He drove abright red Porsche with gold wheels. Red leather upholstery. Red leather dash. Even the car phone holder was encased in red leather. Lawrence, however, always dressed in black. Never wore any other color. Humphries, on the other hand wore every color in the book. Usually at the same time. He was heavily into plaids and considered himself to be afashionable trendsetter. Seeing as how Humphries sold life insurance, that could have been acloser truth than he real ized. Humphries’ car did not have red leather upholstery. He wasn’tsure what color his seats were, for he had them covered with aplaid seat cover years ago. Humphries drove a 1974 Dodge Dart. Lawrence, if you asked him, would tell you that a Dodge Dart was something that you did in asports bar on the lower side of town. He did not sell life insurance. He didn’tdo anything. He was rich. That’skind of the way it goes. When you’re rich, you don’tdo much of anything be cause you don’tneed to. You’re rich. You have alot of time to ponder alot of questions, and puzzle life’smysteries. For instance, when you stop and think for amoment, as you of ten should, of freedom…the aspect of freedom is apowerful feeling. Ilike to think of freedom as alarge bowl of vanilla ice cream. Isup pose it could be any flavor, I’mjust particularly partial to vanilla. See, if the ice cream is too hard, it is hard to scoop out of the container and generally does not taste as well as if it is in asemi-soft state of existence. The state that ice cream should be in. However, if it is al lowed to soften too much, it becomes runny and is impossible to scoop out of the container. You generally have to resort to pouring it into alarge glass and make believe it is avanilla milk shake. Athick one, no doubt, but it is not the same as agood bowl of ice cream.
Freedom is like this. If it is too hard, too exact, it becomes controlled. Hardened. Ahard bowl of ice cream can be called “hard as arock.” Not ice “cream.” Which indicates adegree of softness. Ahardened, exacting freedom is called fascism. It is useful only for limited purposes. Such as asmall group of people becoming free and independent at the expense of amuch larger group of people who allow themselves to wallow in such silliness. On the other hand, if the ice cream is allowed to soften and run all over the counter, splattering onto the floor where the dog will come and lick it up, then it has no character, no usefulness outside of athick, pseudo-milk shake or ahappy treat for the dog. At times freedom, like runny ice cream, can leave stains where it falls. Stains that are at times hard to remove. Stains that are some times called anarchy. The trick to good ice cream, and good freedom, is to make it just right. Not too hard. Not too soft. At just the right consistency they both are remarkable experiences. Unless of course you prefer flavored ice cream. Say, perhaps, pistachio or rocky road. Then of course you must deviate from this simple analogy and delve into the intricacies and silliness of philosophy. That’swhy Ilike va nilla. It’smuch simpler that way. Humphries Feelgood was fond of ice cream. Well, not exactly ice cream, but sherbet. Which was close enough for Humphries. He also was fond of freedom but had never quite grasped the aspect of what it was. He knew that being an American, especially an america nus suburbus, he was most free indeed. But he had the unmistakable feeling that somehow, someway, he was missing out on something key to the aspect of freedom. He pondered this thought as he stared up at the ceiling of the guest room. He had never noticed how old it had looked. It looked ancient. Like it had been there for hundreds upon thousands of years. He looked around at the rest of the room and noticed the same thing. The whole room looked ancient. Boring and ancient. Ancient and boring. How could he have missed this? Did Florence notice this too? Hadn’tthey just painted the room last spring? Shouldn’tit still look “new and refreshing,” as his wife was fond of saying? Humphries sat up on the edge of the guest room bed and pon dered this while slowly allowing the rest of the house to come into focus. In the distance he could hear the sound of voices. Female voic es. They were chattering in asing-song manner that reminded him of dimples and topless dancers. God, that incident had been over and done with nearly twenty-five years ago. You’dhave thought that by now the man would have grown tired of rerunning the same tape over and over until it would have worn itself out. And that would have been true with most men. But not with Humphries. This was the only real memory the man had of a “wild” life. It happened on the eve of his marriage to Florence. His brother, Ed mond, his cousin, Niles Jerzy (the same Niles Jerzy that would later become one of America’sforemost photographers), and his friends since grade school, Mortimer and Richard Silwell, all chipped in to give Humphries one last thrill. They conspired to kidnap Humphries from his mother’shouse where he was quietly awaiting his wedding day with his mother and awarm glass of milk. Soon after the two of them had gone to bed, Edmond let himself and the others in through the back door and they swiftly carted agagged Humphries off to his destination with glory. In this case glory being atopless dancer named Wanda who had, shall we say, alucrative side business in volving sexual favors in trade for cash. Not prostitution, mind you. No, Wanda was no common whore. Wanda only took on the most hardened of cases; forty-five-year-old virgins; acne-ridden teenagers hoping to learn basic techniques before they moved on to college; and, what she was known for far and wide, her ability to make asoon-to-be-married man one of the happiest individuals in the gal axy. Perhaps, in her prime, even the universe. That’sthe kind of girl Wanda was. Atrue blue servant to men from the word go. Anyway, after effectively kidnapping Humphries from his mother’sgrip of warm milk and lace curtains, the conspiring young men swiftly escorted Humphries to his date with destiny, er, Wanda. They met her at the topless club she was performing at for it was felt that Humphries might react to the situation better if he were to be alittle looser than he normally might have been; which was stone cold sober. The boys
proceeded to gingerly nurse this suffering excuse for agroom into astate of complete relaxation. So relaxed that Edmond had to remind them of his brother’sunseemly habit of wetting his pants at inappro priate moments of excitement. This was agreed to by all to fall under the category of “bad taste,” so they held off some on the watering down of Humphries’ brain in fear of the watering down of Humphries’ chair. Wanda, already alerted to her task for the night, had spent the last hour enticing Humphries into astate of sexual arousal that he had only read about once in amedical journal. And then only vague ly. He couldn’tbelieve his immense good fortune when his friend Mortimer presented him with acard for his wedding present featur ing anude photograph of Wanda on the inside of the card with the inscription “ Anight you will always remember, Humphries,” writ ten in red across her fully disclosed thighs (The “H” in Humphries beginning at her pelvic area added anice touch, Humphries would later recall). Her shift at the club over, Wanda took over custodial care of Humphries and assured the men that she would get him to his wedding on time. They had arranged to meet an hour before the wedding at Niles’ house where they would dress Humphries up as best they could, but Wanda insisted on doing it herself and promised their money back if she failed. Seeing as how Wanda had areputation that was near spot less—there was that one incident with the German Shepherd and the Mayor afew years back—the men saw no reason to mistrust this woman of sexual good fortune. So, off in Wanda’scar they roared, her and Humphries of course, and the rest of the gang stayed behind for anew girl to come on stage. They had heard she was from Brazil. Exotic to be sure, Wanda had informed them. * * * * * * Now, most of you reading this will think nothing of aman get ting in one last escapade before his marriage. Iam told that it is done by all. Iknow Idid it. If you’re married and male you probably did it too. Which is okay. There’sno one here but you and I, we can level with each other, right? Wasn’tit one of the most silly experi ences of your life? It was? You poor bastard. You should have known Wanda. And, you should have known Humphries. You see, not only was Humphries avirgin, which wasn’tso extraordinary for aman in his early twenties during the sixties, given Humphries’ state that is, but he had also, outside of his soon-to-be wife Florence, never even dated awoman. Here was aman who had never done anything in his life without permission from his mother. He hadn’teven thought about looking through the women’slingerie section of the Sears catalog until his mother showed it to him in one last-ditch effort at “maleness” two weeks before his marriage. She patiently turned the pages for her lit tle Humphries, all the while telling him that it was now okay to think about what awoman looked like underneath her clothes. Naturally, he told her he was shocked and disgusted by the whole thing. But at the same time he felt asense of excitement and fulfillment that he held back from her. He also felt an erection, but he was too embar rassed to tell his mother about that, too. And as far as his marriage to Florence, it had been arranged by Humphries’ mother and father long before his father had passed on. Florence was the daughter of Humphries’ father’sbest friend. She was anice girl, Florence was, but she was aslow one. Not at all ready to live on her own and, unfortunately, she wasn’tmuch to look at either. So, being apractical man, her father, Humphries’ father’sbest friend, struck adeal with Humphries’ father that if Humphries would marry Florence when Florence finished college, Humphries’ father could borrow his best friend’sboat whenever he chose. Adeal like that only comes along once in alifetime, and, given the state of their two children, it was probably the best thing going. Humphries’ father immediately agreed and took the boat out that next weekend. Unfortunately, he forgot he did not know how to swim and fell overboard while bass fishing alone at five in the morn ing. Which was really silly seeing as how everyone knows that bass don’tlike to wake up early. They like to sleep in before they’re caught and put into someone’sfrying pan. Especially on aweekend. Imean,
after arough week of swimming about, bringing home food for the family, don’tyou like to sleep in? See my point? Why do you think it is any different for fish? Especially bass? Anyway, drowning caused by water filling the deceased’ship waders is how the coroner’sreport would read. Atragic accident, to be sure. But adeal was adeal, and when Florence graduated from college years later, there was Humphries, as ready and willing to be gin his life with his new love as only arespectable, virginal, never quite having gone through adolescence adequately male could be. So, you can see how Wanda would have made quite an impres sion upon such aman as Humphries. And an impression she cer tainly made. Twenty-five years later, he would still compare anything and everything he encountered to the dimples on her lovely ass. Ah yes, she was well worth it. It would turn out to be Humphries’ only shot at normalcy. That is, until Sheila. But we’re way ahead of our selves there. And Lawrence Mathews The Third, you ask? What about him? We’re getting there.
Florence Feelgood had two passions in her life: exercise and bridge. Even anuclear war, yes, the real thing, would not have deterred Florence from her thrice weekly workout or her twice weekly bridge games. Never in the history of the game was there amore devoted member to the game of bridge than Florence Feelgood. And right now she was feeling about as good as you could feel. Between her partner’sadept strategy and Florence’sruthless cunning, they had thoroughly trounced their opponents with little, if any, mercy. The sense of victory was still sweet in the air as Florence and her partner dutifully extolled the virtues of their opponents’ play. After all, it really wasn’tthe game that mattered, it was the socializing. Of course, they all knew this was bullshit, but it was the appropriate thing to both do and say after thoroughly trouncing one’sopponent. Thus said and done, their opponents for the day drove off, and life went on in suburbia. “Will those girls from the club never learn,” exclaimed agenu inely puzzled Florence to her partner. “You would think by now they would show alittle more respect for our prowess and throw us some pros, hey, baby?” This came from Florence’spartner and aerobics instructor, Eileen. Nicely built, full body tan, blonde hair that really was blonde, avivacious and perky personality, Eileen was your average all americanus suburbus aero bics instructor. Eileen and Florence had been bridge partners for close to twen ty-five years. They had their game down, believe me. “Yes, it is getting boring never losing agame, isn’tit?” Florence had been asking her friend the same question for well over nine years now. And, for well over nine years she was given the same answer. “Well, maybe next time. Say, where is the drunken old sot? Don’ttell me he actually made it into work?” Eileen did not like Humphries. In fact, she hated him. She had
seen her friend in this miserable marriage for so long that at times it was all she could do to keep from castrating Humphries in order to eliminate the one outlet that might just maybe (lord knows how) keep their marriage together. “No, not today. He’sasleep in the back room.” Florence was busy cleaning up after the bridge game and did not want to get into another conversation with Eileen about the evils of her husband. Too late. Eileen was already well into it. You see, Eileen was not married. Never had been. She had lived with aman, once, but she said it was such ahorrible experience that the only way she would ever live with aman again was if the earth stood still, hell froze over and politicians slept only with their wives. In short, Ei leen had no plans for living with aman. Which seemed to be okay with the men in her general vicinity. Including Lawrence Mathews the Third, and he didn’teven know her. Yet. That’show much Eileen hated men, and how much men cared for Eileen. No, Eileen was what they called “gay.” Alesbian to be exact. It was still undecided if she was abull dyke, but she was definitely alesbian. Everyone knew this. Everyone except for Florence. Not only did she not know this, she could not have even understood what it meant. Florence and Humphries, as anyone would tell you, were very sheltered individuals. Very sheltered. “Flo, Ireally don’tsee why you put up with that cretin.” Once Eileen got started on her Humphries rampage it was im possible to stop her. “Imean, look at you. You could have the pick of any man in this town.” Florence stopped for amoment and considered this. No, her friend was merely being kind. “Sincerely, Flo, you’ve got to do something to improve your self-esteem. You improve your self-esteem and you lose the boozer. Guarantee it. Easy as that.” Eileen sat back on Humphries and Florence’scouch and pon tificated as to what life without Humphries would be like for Flor ence. Florence had been hearing the same speech for Lord knows how many years, but it did seem to strike aresponsive chord inside of her this time. Maybe life without Humphries would be better. It certainly couldn’tbe worse. Or could it? There were all the wonder ful things that they had; the house, the cars, the yard. But that was about it. Humphries never paid her any attention. He hadn’tbrought her flowers in at least twenty years. Even when she pointedly asked him to bring her flowers so she would feel wanted, he failed to do so. Would life without such aman be such aterrible thing? But what about their marriage? What about all the time they had spent together? What about the fact that Florence had absolutely no training in any money-making matters whatsoever and if she left
Humphries she would be dependent upon only herself? “Eileen, Ilove Humphries and that is the end of it. Iappreciate your concern for me, and Iknow that on the outside he looks alittle rough around the edges, but inside he is abeautiful man. Please, can we talk about something else?” Florence, as she had for the last two plus decades, had faced her reality and as always, she ran from it as fast and as far as possible. Florence lacked alot of things. Among the major items was the concept of freedom. Florence never ate ice cream.
Lawrence Mathews the Third had entirely too much money. He would never agree to this. But nonetheless, Lawrence Mathews the Third had entirely too much money. He came from awealthy family and was given apromising port folio when he was still ayoung boy. Eager to impress his father, Gen eral Lawrence Mathews the Second, the young boy studied the mar kets with adetermination to make his own way. Quickly adapting to the family’sstandard of “Our money is our money and everyone else’smoney should be ours as well,” the lad began accumulating wealth at an astounding pace. Though he was not able to legally participate in the markets, due to his age, and due to his father’sstrict rules of being of age, thirty-eight according to his father’swill, his older sister Amelia, twenty-eight, aplain woman twice Lawrence’sage, eagerly offered herself as the “front” for her little brother’senterprise and conducted all of Lawrence’sbusiness on his behalf. In time, well, years actually, the traders and operators of the mar ket began to take notice of Amelia. Her portfolio was astounding for its accuracy. In fact, it seemed as if her information were too clear, too precise. This fact was eventually noticed by the local regulatory board and Amelia was called upon by one of the board’sfinest inves tigators. Agentleman’sgentleman if you will, with the name of Pierce Williams. Pierce Williams had pretty much seen it all. In nearly thirty-two years of catching scam artists using the market to make their fortune he had developed asound philosophy towards his fellow man and adhered to it religiously; “Iwould rather spend time with my cat than with another human being.” True to this philosophy, Pierce had never married, nor even car ried on asomewhat serious relationship, for the entirety of his fifty years. He had been abandoned as ayoung boy and had grown up in the orphanages around New York. Prone to escaping these institu tions, he eventually won his freedom at the age of twelve when he finally succeeded in escaping their dismal environment for good by stealing aboard afreighter bound for England. Halfway across the Atlantic his hiding place aboard the freighter was compromised by two sailors eager to embrace each other down in the hold. Not sure as to what to do with the young boy, the two took the boy to the ship’scaptain, who just happened to be having dinner with the freighter’sowner, Sir John Hapscomb. Sir John immediately assessed the young boy as being alad that was comfortable with his silence. He saw before him alad that could be trained as an invaluable servant. Taking charge of the boy, Sir John took him under his protective wing and upon reaching Eng land began teaching and schooling the young boy as if he were his own. He legally created apersona for the lad, one of Pierce Williams. When one is an English lord, one can do agreat many things. Creat ing apersona is one of them. Within two years Sir John had transformed the once rough and tumble street orphan into agentleman’sson. Pierce became the eyes and ears for the aging Sir John. Atrust and bond of fellowship came between the two which lasted until the untimely demise of the old man when Pierce was eighteen. Sir John left his entire estate to Pierce as he had no immediate family. But there was the non-immediate family. What followed next was all the sordid details that one might expect to find in asituation such as this. Half siblings long ago forgotten appeared demanding their share of the estate. Distant cousins gave interviews to the press recounting their summers spent with “dear Uncle John.” And, ulti mately, the accusations that Pierce was Sir John’shomosexual lover came out. This was the proverbial straw that eventually broke Pierce’scamel’sback (ironically, Sir John had also left Pierce asmall zoo as well). Pierce was repulsed by the act of homosexuality. He had grown up with it in the orphanage and the experience left him with about as much achance of becoming ahomosexual as apolitician had in acting truthfully and honorably; none.
Upon the advice of the family solicitor, in order to avoid these sordid accusations, Pierce relinquished his claim to Sir John’sfortune in exchange for alucrative job with the securities commission in the United States. He was able to begin his life anew, again, and was left alone with only the solicitor knowing the details of the arrangement. Oddly enough, within ayear of Pierce’sclandestine settlement dealings with Sir John’s “family” , the whole lot of them were found dead one fine morning, victims of adisastrous natural gas leak at Sir John’sestate. It was reported in the tabloids that the victims had died entirely buck naked with large jars of marmalade strewn about the floor. The zoo, fortunately enough, was not affected and the ani mals were transferred to animal refuges throughout Britain with the exception of the camel, whose back had been broken during the aforementioned homosexual accusation and, unfortunately, had to be euthanized. This was Pierce Williams’ past and now, thirty-two years later, Pierce was handed the difficult task of proving that Amelia was in volved with “insider” trading. He began his investigation by paying avisit to the Mathews estate and having tea with Amelia. At once smitten by her, Pierce found it increasingly difficult to focus on his investigation. While Amelia was certainly aplain woman, with no astounding body characteristics to speak of, she was endowed with amost impressive sense of poise and delicacy, with which Pierce readily fell in love. Needless to say, this caused quite astir within Pierce’smind, for here was awoman for whom he actually had feelings. There was an emotional reaction upon hearing her speak. The very air around her seemed to soften with her presence. In short, for the first time in his sordid excuse for alife, Pierce was falling in love. Amelia was also captured by this strange man who had called upon her for tea. Never before had she encountered aman so gentle manly in his ways. His dress was immaculate. His speech was im peccable. Here was aman she could discuss any number of topics with. Perhaps ashort chat about the late blooming of the cherry tree. Or perhaps alonger discourse on the current state of the nation’seconomy. Why, he was even able to carry on aconversation about the horrendous music that was called “rap.” Something Amelia had heard about, but only from afar. It involved African Americans. But that was all she knew. Lawrence kept his distance and watched his sister’stea from afar as he was not astupid man at all. In fact, by now he was of age, thirty-eight, according to his father’swill, and would soon be able to involve himself directly with his business dealings, without the need for his sister. The thought of what to do with his sister since he had become of age had been bothering him for quite some time as he knew that Amelia needed something to keep herself occupied. Now, as he saw the look in his sister’seyes when the stranger came to call, he knew what her new occupation could be. He also knew that the stranger was there to investigate them as he had friends in high places that could always be bought off and had previously alerted him to Pierce’sinvestigation. For the moment, though, he would stay in the background and allow his sister and her newfound potential suitor some respite from the ugly dealings of trading and making money. Yes, the tiresome and oftentimes burdensome task of making money would have to wait for awhile. He had plenty enough as it were, and Amelia was radiant with love for the first time in her life. Lawrence’sfortune was already vast. He was content to sit back and watch his sister glow.
The First American Teleflorist and Life Insurance Company was in deep trouble. Annual revenues had dropped sharply the past two years, and aseries of unfortunate events had left the company virtually bankrupt. The Chairman of the Board was frantically looking for any and all deals. Banks, large and small, were not wanting to deal with this nasty situation at all, and the situation was growing more dire by the minute. If the Chairman, Manfred Young, did not come up with aminimum of $50 million by the end of the fiscal year, which was in fifteen days, the company would have no choice other than to fold. The disgrace was more than Manfred could bear. Humphries Feelgood had been a Senior Account Executive with the First American Teleflorist and Life Insurance Company for the past twenty-plus years. He had started out in the company as atowel boy in the corporate washroom and had worked his way up from there. Throughout the years he had weathered many storms with the company, including the latest where the company was forced to in clude the sales of floral arrangements over the internet in order to keep the doors open. Yes, he had witnessed quite abit during his tenure with the First American Teleflorist and Life Insurance Company. Now, however, the tide was certainly changing again. Humphries could feel it. He could feel the water rising about his ankles, then to his shins, mov ing upward to his thighs….wait….he was still recovering from his latest binge and he suddenly realized where he was. Equally sudden, he realized he had yet again wet himself. Rising waters indeed. More like aseeping sea snake. Humphries pulled himself together and headed towards his shower. He knew once he got into motion it was downhill from there. Shower. Shave. Dress. Kiss Florence goodbye for the day. Off to work. Clockwork. Every week. That’sthe routine. Only this time Florence was not there to kiss goodbye for the day. It threw him off. Completely off. It was abad omen. He knew that there were pressures at work. Insurance policies were falling by the wayside. New policies were athing of the past. And now the Telefloral business was in grave peril. Something about shipping them via common drayage and wilting petals. Technical stuff that he barely understood and, for the most part, really didn’twant to understand. But, in all honesty, he did have asense that something was gravely amiss at the company. As Humphries was driving to work in his trusty Dodge Dart, he attempted to recall the last two days. Try as he might, he could not. He recalled hitting atree with his car, perhaps in his driveway. That certainly explained the crumpled bumper of his trusty Dodge Dart. And there were vague recollections of clocks chiming and aged walls, and, most of all, there was the vision of the dimples on Wanda’slovely ass. Humphries drove along transfixed by this image until he nearly ran off the road. The cries of the downtown tamale vendor brought him back to life as he nearly severed the tamale vendor’sarm. The pushcart was acomplete wreck, but Humphries knew the man was an illegal alien and would never report the accident. Humphries quickly accelerated back onto the road and pulled into his company’sparking lot. Close call, he reflected. Afew tamales smeared against the right side of the Dart, but other than that, all was well. Manfred Young pulled into the parking lot immediately after Humphries. “Good lord, Humphries,” he called out. “You nearly severed that man’sarm back there. And just look at your car.” Humphries quickly responded to his boss, “Yes, but he is an il legal.” With that, both men shrugged and went into the building. Humphries to his desk, Manfred to the washroom. Older than Humphries, Manfred suffered from an enlarged prostate. He stayed close to the washroom most of the day and was known for his fre quent runs down the hall in order to not embarrass himself.
As deep as the financial troubles were for the First American Teleflorist and Life Insurance Company, Manfred had never consid ered putting in awashroom in his executive suite. Not real bright, as far as Chairmen of the Board come. Not real bright at all. The clock was ticking down and Manfred knew it. He had to find away to salvage the company. What the hell else would he do with his time? Sure, he was independently wealthy and didn’tneed ajob, but it gave him aposition of power, aposition of authority. He simply could not lose that. Not at all. He reviewed the latest loan turn downs from banks across the country when atap could be heard on his door. He knew instinc tively it was Humphries, wanting to sit down and go over the weekly sales figures. Maybe Humphries could figure something out. “Come in, Humphries, the door is always open to you,” Manfred cried out. They had been doing this same routine for so many years that both of them had forgotten exactly when it had begun. “Only for amoment, chief,” Humphries responded. And then both of them in unison, “only for amoment.” How many years had it been going on? Far too many. “Humphries,” Manfred began, “do you know the company is in abit of trouble?” Manfred was fishing to see how transparent the company’sproblems were. “Yes, sir. But it seems to me that if we were to find another way of shipping our floral orders, perhaps by expedited carrier, that might just bring back afew customers.” Excellent, Manfred thought. No one knows the trouble we are in. He thinks the only trouble is with the shipping of the floral products. Imight still have some time. “Humphries,” Manfred continued, “Iwant you to drop the floral and the insurance sales for atime and focus on another more im mediate project.” Now came the tricky part, how to enlist his help without giving away the true state of the company’ssituation and their all too dire need. “Ineed you to…” but Humphries was already cutting him off. “With all due respect, sir, Iunderstand the problem completely. I’mnot as stupid as Imight look.” This was Humphries’ moment. He had been waiting for this mo ment for years. “You understand?” avisibly shaken Manfred responded. “Of course Ido. And your secret is safe with me. Not asoul shall know. Discretion, that’smy middle name.” This was adisaster. Manfred began sweating profusely and start ed to feel the need to rush to the washroom. In fact, he began rising to rush to it. “You go right ahead, chief. I’ll wait right here and when you re turn we’ll talk about how you will never need to rush down the hall way again.” Humphries was practically bursting with pride. Manfred stopped at his doorway and slowly turned around. “What did you say?” “Chief, it’sokay. Somehow, Iwill find the money.” God, this was too much to bear. Humphries’ day had come at last. “The…money….” Manfred stammered out. “Yes, sir!” Humphries shouted out. Quickly composing himself, he rushed over to Manfred Young, Chairman of the Board of the First American Teleflorist and Life In surance Company, bent forward and whispered into the Chairman’sear, “Iwill find the money to put awashroom in your executive suite, sir. Your secret is safe with me.” Manfred stopped amoment, unable to completely grasp what he had just heard. “It will be our secret, sir. The floral arrangements and the life in surance sales can wait. You deserve, and will receive, the finest wash room a Board Chairman can have.” And with that Humphries dashed out of the room to begin his quest for the Board Chairman’swashroom, calling out behind him as he left, “Iwill not disappoint you.” Manfred stood as stoic as an English Oak. “That man is mad,” he muttered. But he smiled nonetheless,
knowing that not only was his secret still safe as far as the company’simminent bankruptcy and failure were concerned, but, by golly, he was going to have his own washroom. Perhaps things were looking up after all.
The aforementioned series of unfortunate events that had left the Manfred’scompany virtually bankrupt was quite explain able. For years, decades really, Manfred had been conduct ing insider trading using tips he received from aconfidant. Using the “float” , money the company received up front through premium pay ments but not paying out the money until aclaim was filed, in some cases years down the road, enabled atidy sum to be used for just such investments. For many years he had been able to keep the First American Teleflorist and Life Insurance Company afloat through the gains made via these illegal insider trades. But this, however, had come to an abrupt end. The illegal trading had virtually ceased in the last several months and his contact was loath to resume their illegal trading, citing his fears of being discovered. It was just too risky, Manfred was told. Far too risky. It could not have come at amore unfortunate time. Manfred had overextended himself. Sales were down across the board and the looming $50 million payment was certain to end the company. Times were dire. Dire, indeed. * * * * * * Eileen had left Florence’shouse as she had so many times be fore; infuriated. She wanted the best for her friend but Florence was having no part of it. “Stupid woman,” she shouted out to no one in particular. She took stock of her situation; she was at an intersection, some what patiently waiting for the light to change. Being an unseasonably warm day, the front windows of her car were down. It was astylish automobile. Nothing lavish, but it did have an air of luxury to it. Naturally, it was spotless. Everything in Eileen’sworld was spot
less and clean. Neat, tidy and everything in its place. Except for her friend, Florence. The one constant in her life that she simply could not control. “ Any woman in particular?” The voice laughingly came from the car next to hers, abright red Porsche. With gold wheels! The car was abeacon calling out to Eileen. “Sorry,” avery well-dressed and manicured man continued, “but Icould not help but overhear you.” At that, the light turned green and the Porsche raced ahead, turning right into arow of business condos. Eileen was dumbfounded. She had never been in such apresence before. So much so that she barely heard the car horn behind her and its driver shouting at her to either “move it, sister, or park it at home!” Abrief thought of being no one’ssister ran through her mind as she blankly drove through the intersection and pulled into the driveway the red Porsche had turned into, nearly taking out aminivan filled with nuns on their way to the ocean. Fortunately, the sister driving the mini-van had previous skills as acabbie in Philadelphia before hearing the call to serve Christ, quickly averting what could have been anasty incident. Eileen surged ahead of them and turned into the driveway of the business condos, all the while searching for the red Porsche and completely oblivious to the sight of some very unchristian charity being offered her by avan full of nuns. Lawrence Mathews the Third turned at the sound of horns and, what appeared to be the sounds of achoir, admonishing afemale dog to learn how to drive, from the entrance to his cousin’sbusiness condo. He smiled broadly at Eileen as she pulled up next to him in the parking lot. In most instances he probably would have been slightly worried about someone following him, especially someone that incurred the honking of horns and celestial choruses cursing afemale dog, but he instantly felt completely at ease with Eileen. Her eyes were wide open and larger than any set of eyes he had ever seen. And she had this strange glow about her that lent itself to, well, aglow. Later, he would discover that Eileen was adevout addict of tanning salons and Botox treatments. But for the moment, he was captivated by her glow. “Ididn’tmean to insult you,” he politely offered. “Insult me?” Eileen heard her words being spoken, but they seemed to be coming from someone else. “You didn’tinsult me.” There, that was better. “That’sgood to hear. Is there something Imight help you with?” He was delighted with the sound of this woman’svoice; it was endearing. And that glow, how did she come by it? Eileen stammered on about being lost in thought about her friend, Florence. Lawrence Mathews the Third, always the gentle man, patiently listened and then, in as much asurprise to Eileen as it was to him, he offered to buy her lunch. “Lunch?” Eileen was taken aback but at the same time, she felt oddly at ease with the idea. “Iapologize,” he burst out. “Ihave no idea where that came from. Extremely forward of me. Please, my utmost apologies.” Lawrence Mathews the Third could feel himself blushing. He had not felt this exposed since that time with the Chinese boys at the local bath house led to an all weekend orgy and shopping spree. “No, not at all,” Eileen stammered. “That would be lovely. Iwould like that.” Amid flashbacks of almond scented oil and glistening black hair, Lawrence Mathews the Third managed to return to the moment at hand. “There is awonderful restaurant Ifrequent not too far from here. Please, allow me.” With that he walked around his car and opened the door. Eileen was transfixed. She never glanced at aman, yet alone ac cepted an invitation to lunch from one. But there was something soothing about this man in front of her...not quite aman, she mused, almost aboy. But still, there was something different here that simply had to be explored.
She was so transfixed in fact, that she entered Lawrence Mathews the Third’sbright red Porsche while forgetting to turn off her own car. Lawrence Mathews the Third was equally smitten and left the parking lot after missing not two, but three, gear shifts. This was un heard of. Something was most certainly afoot. Down the road they went. Eileen, with her radiant glow and Lawrence Mathews the Third, Bunny to his gay lovers, wondering what in the world had just transpired. George, Lawrence Mathews the Third’scousin, had seen his cousin pull into the parking lot and stood outside his office waiting for him. He too was not certain of what had just transpired. Several times he attempted to move towards his cousin to see just exactly what was going on. He vaguely remembered thinking the very odd thought of aminivan filled with nuns chastising afemale dog as he watched his cousin invite avery attractive woman into his car. It was the juxtaposition of these two thoughts that would later wake him in the middle of the night, but for the moment he stood silent as his cousin’sbright red Porsche, with gold rims, attempted to leave the parking lot. Good lord, he would not have believed it had he not seen it with his own eyes; his cousin missed shifting gears by atotal of not two, but three times! The sound of acar’sengine brought George back to apresent state of awareness. Was it coming from the woman’scar? It was. He briskly strolled across the lot and, reaching in through the driver’sside window, shut Eileen’scar down. What to do with the keys, he thought? What to do indeed. But there were more important things to think about. This week’sguide to television programs was late and George was none too hap py about it. He would have to find one in astore, he supposed. Why was it not in his mail as usual? Was there astrike going on that he was not aware of? His television guide was missing and now his gay cousin was taking off with awoman. It was more than he could cope with. He slowly began to walk towards his office, oblivious of the fact he held Eileen’scar keys in his hand. Something good would come of this, he told himself. He could only hope it was good. He could only hope. George was an optimist at heart.
Humphries was elated and filled with joy. It had been longer than he could remember since he had felt asolid connec tion with his boss. Manfred Young, Chairman of The Board of The First Ameri can Tele-florist and Life Insurance Company, needed his trusted Humphries and Humphries was loath to let the big man down. Strolling smartly towards his loyal Dodge Dart, Humphries was vaguely aware of abright red Porsche, with gold rims, passing by. He shuddered for amoment. Laughingly, he reminded himself the only time he shuddered like that was when Florence’sfriend, Eileen, was around. Strange, he thought. What would Eileen have to do with anything? Cautiously glancing down the street, making certain the tamale vendor had left for the day, it was, after all, past lunch, Humphries made aplan in his head as to how to proceed with the aforemen tioned “Executive Washroom” . The tamale vendor had indeed left for the day, afew stains on the sidewalk the only remnants of the morn ing’smishap. Sliding behind the wheel of his trusty Dodge Dart, he recalled acontractor Florence had retained to remodel their kitchen afew summers past. What was his name? Bob? Ted? No, something with a Gin it? Gerry? Jerome? As Humphries pulled out of the parking lot, rather lost as to where to start, he caught aglimpse of alarge man removing the keys from, what looked to be, Eileen’scar. Again with Eileen? “What the hell,” he shouted out loud. Then he saw George turn around and im mediately recognized him as the contractor that Florence had hired. “George,” he shouted. Of course. Humphries immediately pulled into the parking lot and watched as George went into his office. Opening the door to George’soffice, he was immediately re minded of how large aman George was. In fact, he was not only large, he was huge. George, startled by the sudden appearance of Humphries, turned abruptly, his mind still dwelling on where his beloved TV Guide could be. “Hi,” Humphries enthusiastically stated. “Idon’tknow if you re member me, but you did some kitchen work for us awhile back. Acomplete remodel, in fact.” Humphries stuck out his hand in the age-old arrangement of grasping another’sflesh to make certain they were real, and, to give them reassurance you were real as well. George, still alittle stunned by the interaction, slowly began drawing his brain away from the elusive, perhaps purloined, TV Guide, and shook Humphries’ hand. “Sure, Iremember you,” he told Humphries as he visually checked Humphries out to make certain he did not have his treasured TV Guide. “Your wife...” “Florence,” Humphries energetically stated. “Yes, Florence, she was areal stickler for neatness, if Iremember correctly.” The remodel came back to George, slow at first, then it barreled onto him. The job was adisaster. Florence, changing her mind at least adozen times on cabinet colors, finally settled on an egg-shell white with apink trim that made George shudder when the memory became full blown in all its garish glory. “Indeed, she does have arequirement for neatness,” Humphries agreed. George, not one to banter, got right to the point. “What can Ido for you?” “Well,” Humphries blurted out, “my boss needs an ‘Executive Washroom’ and Ihave been tasked with producing it.” George took amoment to let the entire conversation set in. It was confusing, by all accounts, and he could certainly use the work, but something about Humphries threw him off. “How is it that you came here,” George asked. “Ionly moved into this office awhile ago.”
“Oh,” Humphries eagerly responded, “see, Iwas on my way out to my car to leave to find acontractor because the tamale vendor had left when Ihappened to see abright red Porsche, with gold rims, go by and it made me think of my wife’sbest friend, Eileen, Idon’tknow why, which made me think of my wife and then that made me think of her hiring you as acontractor for our kitchen afew years back and then Ilooked up and saw you from across the street turning off the engine to Eileen’scar and then you walked into your office.” Humphries, elated at how well things were going, stood smiling at George. “Do you know Eileen?” Humphries asked. “Who’s Eileen?” George, not certain if Humphries was an escapee from the men tal institution down the road, carefully re-inspected the man before him. “Eileen is my wife’sbest friend. Those are her keys you are hold ing,” as he gestured to George’slarge left hand. George looked down and saw he was indeed holding aset of keys. In all the commotion he had nearly forgotten the events of the past few minutes. “You say you saw abright red Porsche?” George asked. “With gold rims,” Humphries finished. “Yes, yes Idid.” “That was my cousin’scar. How do you know Bunny?” “Who’s Bunny,” Humphries asked with ablank face. “Itold you, my cousin. He tore out of here with that broad...” “Eileen?” “Yeah, Eileen. Iguess. Never seen her before. She left her car run ning and Iturned it off. That’swhy Ihave her keys.” George went to give Humphries the keys then suddenly took them back. “Is this some sort of show?” George snorted. “Like some hidden camera thing?” “No.” Humphries was getting exasperated. Things were not going smoothly, not going smoothly at all. “Idon’teven know if Eileen was in the red Porsche. Ididn’tsee her. Ijust thought about her.” Humphries sat down on George’scouch, catching his breath and trying to figure out how to get things back on track. George was obviously upset about something. Humphries could readily see that, but he wasn’tsure if George was entirely upset at him. Humphries settled into the couch abit more and, looking down, saw the spine of a TV Guide protruding from between the cushions. In an attempt to change the tempo of the conversation, he held up the guide, proclaiming, “aren’tthese things just amarvel?” George, still looking about for hidden cameras and afilm crew, looked at Humphries with glee when he spied the elusive TV Guide. “You found it,” he loudly proclaimed, quickly snatching it from Humphries’ hands. After checking to make certain it was the current issue, he joyful ly thanked Humphries and then, now in amuch better mood, asked him what he could do for him in return. “My boss needs an ‘Executive Washroom’ . Can you help me?”
George was aman of many talents, and colorful ones at that. He had worked the odd bouncer jobs in college (his nick name then being Large George), helped develop afew start up companies along the way, and while he had also dabbled in con struction, his real money was from designing and installing broadcast antennas. It was agreat gig, but as with all good things, the antenna gig finally came to an end. It was not unexpected. Clinging to the teat of adead company can only last so long, and he knew it. The trickle of money that flowed from “the great digital build-out” eventually shut off altogether, and that was that. He left his adult A.D.D. afflicted partner to wallow in his schemes of “drawing apaycheck” and moved on to loftier heights. Thoughts of professional bull riding had been creeping about in his head, but he was not certain as to how to train. So, back to construc tion, remodeling in particular, he went. Adult Attention Deficit Disorder (Adult A.D.D.) is an interest ing phenomenon. The newest craze to hit the medical/psychological field, it has all the earmarks of awonderful disease. It enables medi cal professionals to prescribe really great drugs with awonderful profit margin, and better still, you cannot stay on any one drug for too long as they need to switch out to another drug every so often. Adderall, Ritalin, Concerta—the list goes on and on. Talk about an awesome disease! The symptoms are perfect. Hyperactivity, inability to concen trate, and an inability to make complete connections in regard to higher brain functioning. By the way, what the hell does it mean to have an inability to make complete connections in regard to higher brain functioning? And, yes, that is an actual, clinical diagnosis. But here’sthe beautiful part: the minute you get diagnosed with Adult A.D.D., you have afree ticket to do as many goofy and stupid things as you can think of. It’snot your fault. You’re sick. Afflicted. Would you make fun of adiabetic because he cannot eat apiece of your birthday cake? Hell no! That would just be plain rude. Allow me to explain. For example, say you are working on the house. You’re tired from the work week, you want to see the game coming on soon. But no, you need to paint the house or your spouse will have your balls. Now, in anormal situation, you would paint the house and be pissed about it. With Adult A.D.D., you merely begin to paint the house and include the windows, the car, the cat, and the back of the dog’sass. Pretty soon someone is bound to notice. Alittle shouting and yelling from the spouse will ensue, but this will soon be over. You smile childlike at her and blame it on your Adult A.D.D. She fumes for awhile as she cleans off the car, the cat, and the dog’sass, then she apologizes to you, saying she understands. It’snot your fault. She calls your intrepid, brown-nosing brother-in-law to see if he’ll paint the house, which he will, because he’stoo fucking stupid to go to adoctor and get diagnosed with Adult A.D.D., and your problems are over. See how this works? All across the land, men—because the vast majority of Adult A.D.D. patients are men—are catching on to this scam. You get bet ter drugs than you used to drop in college, and you get to take them legally. You get to do stupid shit whenever you feel like it, and none of this is your fault. You’re part of an epidemic. An epidemic! What can you do? George knew there was not much he could do with his business partner in the antenna business. Those that knew his former partner would often tell him his partner was crazy. Areal nut case. George would look at them and reply, every single time, “Are you kidding me? We’re the ones that are crazy. He’s agenius. He got adoctor to diagnose him with Adult A.D.D.” Again, these things happen when the antenna gig ends.
About the same time as Humphries was grappling with his “Executive Washroom” reality, Florence was doing alittle reality grasping of her own. “Maybe Eileen was right,” she said out loud. “Maybe life would be better without Humphries.” Florence was not certain why she stated these facts out loud, but she did. She also knew that she had put up with his drunkenness and aloofness for far too long. He didn’tlike her friends. He didn’tsocial ize. He didn’tplay bridge, or even try to feign an interest in Florence whatsoever. The bastard never brought her flowers, no matter how many times she asked. So, yes, perhaps it was time to think about alife without Humphries. Feeling emboldened by these thoughts, Florence did something she rarely did; she put akettle on to boil for acup of coffee. At two in the afternoon! She never drank coffee past eight in the morning; it was simply unheard of. But here she was, contemplating life without Humphries, all the while fixing herself anice cup of coffee to get her started on her journey. Now, normally, Florence took her coffee with abit of cream and two spoonfuls of sugar. Sometimes honey, to help with seasonal al lergies, but always with asweetener to mask the acrid taste of the strong coffee she preferred to brew. She had read years ago that strong coffee, freshly ground, was good for the digestive system, especially when it came to cleansing the colon. And who wouldn’twant acleansed colon? The article also stated top brands that came in cans, brands such as Folgers, Maxwell House, Yuban, and especially Chock Full O’Nuts, should be avoided. Preferred coffee was listed as that coming from beans found locally, and roasted by an experienced Master Roaster. Immediately after reading said article (Florence was fairly cer tain it was in the Christmas edition of Better Homes & Gardens), she set out looking for local coffee beans. Sure enough, at the PigglyWiggly down the road they had asign stating coffee beans on sale for $4.99 apound. What great fortune, she thought. Not even two miles from her home they had local coffee beans for sale. It could not get more local than that. When she asked the manager, Sheila, if the beans were roasted by a Master Roaster, Sheila enthusiastically told her they were. She could not divulge the name of the Master Roaster, as it was atightly held company secret, but she could certainly verify the beans were roasted with the utmost of expertise. Sheila had previously read the article in question as the PigglyWiggly sold many copies of the Christmas edition of Better Homes & Gardens. They were nicely displayed at the front entrance to each register, so they were pretty hard to miss. Florence was not the only local who came in looking for coffee beans roasted by a Master Roaster. Sheila, as her employers knew, was at the top of her game. So there was Florence, with afresh cup of coffee at two in the afternoon sitting in front of her. Should she dare to drink it without cream? Without sweetener? Should she dare to drink it black? Could she even think that? Would it be racist to think of it as “black”? She didn’tthink she was aracist, but, oh my, perhaps she was. Florence pondered this pivotal question of “black” coffee for quite some time. She eventually assured herself the whole thing was silly and, since the coffee in front of her had been cooling for quite some time, she steeled herself and took along drink. “Ughhh,” she cried out in disgust. “That is the most disgusting thing Ithink Ihave ever tasted.” She said this, again, out loud to no one in particular. She grimaced and forced herself to take another drink. It was not as harsh as the first drink, but still, it was fairly bitter and not at all what she was used to. Understanding that if she were going to actu ally leave Humphries, life would be just that; bitter and harsh, she might as well get used to it. The mere thought of Humphries set her passionate hatred for him on fire. Fueled by her mid-afternoon caffeine break, she downed the rest of the cup, then poured and drank two more!
Florence was definitely awoman on fire as she readied herself to go into the world as achanged, and impassioned, woman. “Where is Eileen,” she wondered. Maybe alate lunch or early din ner with her best friend would be an appropriate time to reveal her newfound revelation of casting the chains of Humphries from her soul. “Casting the chains of Humphries from her soul,” she said out loud. It had anice ring to it.
A s Florence spun in her caffeine-induced enlightenment, Eileen sat across from Lawrence Mathews the Third, com pletely mesmerized by his charm, his cobalt blue eyes and, she blushed when she realized it, the nicely formed bulge in his crotch. Of course, she could not see that lovely, curved banana now that they were seated, but she got quite enough of it as they walked into one of the oldest, and most prestigious, dining establishments in the region: The Flatulent Goose. Dating back to pre-Colonial days when the region was con trolled by the British, it was awell-known eatery and pub favored by the British military brass. Lord Cornwallis, himself, was rumored to have frequented the establishment on many occasions when he was not out fighting rebels and quelling “the rebellion” , until, of course, that nasty incident at Yorktown which effectively ended hostilities, leading to peace negotiations between Britain and the newly formed United States. The Continental Army, with help from their French allies, were so overjoyed to have won this last major land battle, siege really, that led to the signing of the Treaty of Paris in 1783, ending the Revo lutionary War for good and giving legitimacy to the newly formed United States as an independent nation, went to burn down the eat ery and pub in an act of defiance against the British. Fortunately, calmer heads prevailed. French General Jean-Bap tiste Donatien de Vimeur, comte de Rochambeau, (those French guys love their long names) having trained for the church before he began his illustrious military career, halted the burning of the build ing by telling the men, both French and, now, American, they should leave the building standing as amonument to the victory they had just achieved. Accordingly, in order to further remind future genera tions of the arrogance of the British, who vowed to annihilate the Continental Army and failed, they would rename the establishment
my life, I’ve never come here. Iguess...” and here she coyly looked at him, “Iguess Iwas waiting for the right moment to come.” Lawrence nearly spit his wine across the table as he felt amag as “The Flatulent Goose” , aname befitting the hollow claims made by the British. All agreed, amidst loud praise for Rochambeau’sgenius. The building, while renovated many times over during the ensuing eras, maintained the name, becoming aregional, if not national, monu ment to the victory at Yorktown where aragtag army, with help from their allies, defeated the mighty British realm. So it was here, in this honorable building, that Eileen sat wonder ing if perhaps, just maybe, this was the guy for her, bulge and all. Lawrence was also deep in his own thoughts. “Who is this wom an,” he pondered, while gazing into her loving eyes. She had such grace, such presence. He had been around stun ningly attractive women before, but not once was he attracted to any of them as he was now of this vision of beauty before him. Since his early teenage years he knew he was most assuredly “gay” . God, how he hated that word. Gay. Did it mean he was happy all the time? Well, he was wealthy, that was true. And wealth, of course, did bring about asense of happiness, he supposed. So, was he never to be sad at times? Always “gay” . What aridiculous word! Who thought of such aword. It was nearly as irritating as fag, a British slang for acigarette. Leave it to the British to come up with such nonsense. Reaching for his wine he let out achuckle. “What’sso funny,” Eileen purred? Caught off guard for amoment, Lawrence nervously coughed trying to regain his composure. “Oh, it’snothing,” he replied. “Iwas thinking of how perfect aname The Flatulent Goose is in reminding us how arrogant and stu pid the British can be.” Whew, dodged that one with ease. “You know,” Eileen said as she leaned in close, “I’ve never once been here.” “Really,” Lawrence stammered. Eileen’svoluptuous breasts were right in front of him. He could see the fine hairs of her cleavage glis tening in the light, breathlessly moving in unison as she spoke. “Yes, truly. The entire time Ihave lived here, which has been all of nificent erection forming under the table. Thankfully, he blessed the table for hiding it. “Well,” he said earnestly, again trying to regain his composure, “I’mglad Icould be your first.” Your first? What the hell was he saying? Why was he feeling like
alovesick adolescent at his first dance? Who was this woman, this woman that could make him feel so...so alive? He was gay, for god’ssake. You know, ahomosexual. He never paid asecond look to any woman and now, here he sat across the table from this temptress hid ing what he believed to be the largest erection of his debauched life. Eileen saw how Lawrence squirmed when she mentioned “the right moment to come” . Was she coming on too much? Should she back off abit? What the hell was going on anyway? Who was this man in front of her? She had just met him, in aparking lot of all places, and now here they were at lunch with her mind reeling with the thought that all she wanted to eat was him! What the hell! She was alesbian, after all. She’dgiven up on men long ago. Imean, for ever. But this man, this primal specimen of lust in front of her made her so wet she wasn’tcertain how she would be able to stay in her seat any longer. “So,” she tried to speak in an even voice, “this place has quite the history, doesn’tit?” Taking her cue to slow the pace, Lawrence began telling her the history of The Flatulent Goose, hoping beyond all hope he could maintain his composure. “So it was Rochambeau who named it?” she said while looking innocently around the restaurant. Lawrence went to reply when their waiter suddenly appeared to take their order. Perhaps their meal would slow things down atad. Just atad, he thought. But then he felt her foot rub up and down his calf and all he could muster was “steak, medium rare, and water, cold... lots of cold water.” Eileen ordered ashrimp salad, delighted to find that he felt as bothered as she was. She raised her glass to him, “here’sto awon derful lunch,” while leaning forward, giving Lawrence another long, beautiful view of her loving breasts.
T osay that Pierce Williams was captivated by Amelia would be amassive understatement. It would be as if to say the Grand Canyon was aslightly deeper ditch than most. He was more than captivated, he was smitten. As they sat in Amelia’sparlor, sipping tea and partaking of ade licious array of cakes she had especially prepared for the occasion, Amelia, too, felt astrange feeling within her. She felt almost nau seous, not quite ill, but enough for her to take notice. She also felt flushed and worried that at any moment she would, heaven forbid, perspire. Pierce, too, was feeling abit flushed and alittle more than discon certed over the fact that despite all he had researched, sitting across from Amelia he was now loath to recall asingle bit of “evidence” that there was any wrongdoing at all. “Charming,” he thought to himself, “but amastermind of finan cial misdeeds? Hardly.” Affron, Amelia’sbutler, gently rapped at the door to the parlor. “Excuse me, madam,” Affron’sdeep baritone rumbled through the parlor. “The gentleman has received aphone call. Shall Ihave it transferred here?” Amelia, relieved at the opportunity for composure, however brief, looked to Pierce for direction. “You say Ihave acall, here?” he asked with alittle more incredulity than was warranted. “Yes, sir,” again the deep baritone rumbled around the room. “They said to tell you it was of the utmost urgency. Ican transfer it here, if you wish, but if you might want to receive the call in private, Ican transfer it into the den where you might have more privacy.” “Please,” Pierce exhaled, “that would be fine.” Pierce slowly rose, taking pains not to be so rude as to drop the napkin that was on his lap, and turned to Amelia, slightly bowing. “Iapologize for this uninvited intrusion. Forgive me.”
Pierce followed Affron into the den, taking aseat in alarge, com fortable chair. Shell Cordovan, he noted. Affron handed him aportable phone and then quietly left Pierce alone, closing the door to the den behind him. Thoroughly bewildered by why his office would contact him here, during an interview, let alone contact him at all (he rarely worked cases that were of dire need, if ever), Pierce held the phone to his ear. “Hello,” he stated with some trepidation, “this is Pierce Williams speaking.” “Pierce,” the booming voice on the other end instantly identified the caller as Reginald Newhouse, head of operations for the Securi ties Fraud division. “I’mso sorry to bother you as such, but we have avery exacting situation that is unfolding as we speak. Ineed you to return to the office immediately. Time is of the essence. Ido not wish to go over it on anon-secure line, but suffice it to say Ineed you to return as quickly as possible.” Before Pierce could make areply, Reginald Newhouse ended the conversation and hung up. Pierce sat looking at the phone in his hand. He looked around the room, noted the wonderful artwork on the walls, the sculpture, even what he imagined to be an antique stained glass window from some distant, long lost castle in Europe...the Shell Cordovan easy chair. The room had wealth practically dripping from it. Surely, as he thought of Amelia’ssweet countenance, this could not have been achieved through anything but hard work and diligence. Amelia, concerned over the sudden phone call for Pierce, was waiting impatiently for his return. She was about to ring for Affron, to make certain all was well, when Pierce hurriedly blew into the parlor. “I’mafraid we must continue our conversation another time, dear lady.” He wanted nothing more than to phone Newhouse back, telling him he would talk to him first thing in the morning, but the urgency that Newhouse spoke with, coupled with the fact that he was, indeed, his superior, quickly dispelled these thoughts. “Iapologize for the immediacy, but Imust return to the office at once.” Pierce saw the confusion on Amelia’sface. He gently lifted her hand as he told her that he was “certain she had nothing at all to worry about. Everything he had seen was on the up and up.” Amelia, slightly blushing as Pierce took her hand, poised it for him to give it alight kiss, which he did. “Alater time, Ihope,” she breathed out. “Most assuredly,” Pierce readily replied. Affron was at the front entrance, Pierce’scoat and hat at the ready. He also had two small cakes wrapped in foil, explaining to Pierce as he handed them to him, “Miss Amelia insisted. They are her favorites.” Pierce thanked Affron for his assistance, and hurriedly walked to his car, the scent of Amelia lingering about him as he did so. Pierce’smind was spinning as he drove off. What an incredible day! In all his life he had never met awoman such as Amelia who could readily touch his soul. Did she feel any affection towards him? Any excitement at all? Was he merely imagining that she was as en tranced with him as he was with her? “Oh, what asilly fellow,” he shouted out as he turned out of Ame lia’sdrive onto the main road. “Pierce, you are but afool.”
Humphries looked about the room as George, completely giddy with joy, set about directing each of his prominently displayed television screens. “My word,” Humphries murmured, “how many TV sets did one man need?” “What was that,” George asked, briefly taking his gaze off of the remote in his hand to acknowledge Humphries. “Something about TV sets?” Not realizing he had verbalized his thought, Humphries quickly stated what afine collection of televisions George owned. Humphries also realized it had been quite awhile since he was face to face with someone he barely knew. He kept to himself, Humphries did. Not socializing outside of his work or family left
him rather sheltered, afact he was just now discovering as he sat in George’sliving room, or office. Actually, he was not at all certain as to what it was. In fact, he was not entirely certain as to where he was. Humphries had not devoted any real, significant amount of time contemplating the social goings on in America. As it were, alot can happen in ahandful of years, and Humphries had been out of the loop for nearly ten. Adecade. An entire decade! He recalled Flor ence going on about something called a “Walkman” , or perhaps it was a “Zune” , some kind of agoofy named thing for playing music. He did recall hearing it mentioned on his local call-in talk show, how it was supposed to revolutionize listening to music, again. But it was all sort of ablur. Nothing was really making sense and he felt light headed and dizzy. “You okay over there?” George called out. “Yes,” Humphries replied weakly. “I’ll just sit here for amoment, if that’salright?” “ Are you kidding me,” George laughed. “You found my TV guide, you can stay as long as you like,” and went back to doing whatever it was he was doing with his TV sets. “Hey,” George looked over at Humphries, “Dancing With The Stars is on later, I’mgoing to record it but we can watch it live if you’dlike.” “Hey, buddy,” George took alonger look at Humphries and no ticed he was pale, perhaps even sweating abit too much. George sweated quite abit, due to his size, but Humphries was nowhere near as large as George and George had recently had his air-conditioning serviced, so it couldn’tbe that. “I’mfine,” Humphries stammered. “Just need to rest abit.” George decided to take him at his word and to leave him be for afew minutes. Besides, there was alot of programming left to do. Odd fellow though, that much was certain. At the mention of “Dancing With The Stars,” Humphries re called seeing it with Florence, once, perhaps twice. He recalled that Emmitt Smith had won it. One of the greatest running backs of all time, awinner of four NFL rushing titles, athree-time Super Bowl champion, Emmitt Smith leaves the gridiron for afew telecasts as asports commentator but shows everyone his real talent when he knocks them all dead with his hot Salsa dancing on “Dancing With The Stars.” Yes, he remembered it. He also remembered Florence leaving to get more tea and the indentations from her heels on the carpet reminding him of the dim ples on atopless dancer’sass. Wanda. Humphries smiled at the memory. “Acommon curse of Satellite TV is that there are too many chan nels to watch.” George’svoice seemed friendlier than ever. Humphries, lost in his reverie recalling the dimples on Wanda’sass, looked directly at George. “Satellite TV?” “Iseldom, if ever, venture into the land of Network TV anymore,” George proudly declared, “but damned if they didn’tslide one by me with that show.” Humphries, for abrief moment, was lucid.
“Iremember that Emmitt Smith won one year.” George was overjoyed! “Yes, yes he did! Ididn’trealize you were afan. Iremember clear ly Emmitt and his hot Salsa dancing. ABC definitely had something going with that.” George sat down in his recliner and sighed wistfully. “Those were great days.” “Ilike to sit in front of four screens,” he continued. “Ihave cable hooked up to all of them. In two of the screens Ihave apicture with in apicture, so Ihave atotal of six images going on in front of me at any one given time. I’ve attempted to sit and watch less, but Ican’tlast more than acouple of minutes. Ineed multiple images.” Humphries’ mind was spinning again. Was there apoint to this conversation? “Did you know, according to recent surveys, the American household has atotal of 4.6 television sets per household? When you break it down, it really is not that many. The family room has aset. Mom and Dad have aset. Brother has aset. Sister has aset. The other .6 televisions are the ones that don’twork—or in my case, the one in the bathroom for emergencies.” Humphries felt abit of drool run down the right side of his chin. “One of my friends, Jonny Vee, told me along time ago Iwas pedestrian in my watching habits. That’swhen Istarted watching more than one screen. He said if Ihad asetup like his Icould watch lions eating azebra, Emmitt Smith winning the dance competition, adocumentary on U-Boats, apast episode of MAS*H, the Fresno State–Oregon State football game, and arerun of CSI Las Vegas, all at once.” George stopped to take abreath. “Six programs at once,” he proudly said. George’smood quickly turned ugly when he realized that one of his units with the Picture in Picture feature had stopped working. It now only had a ‘picture’ . George looked over at Humphries, who was now completely im mobile and drooling fairly rapidly. “Hey, buddy,” George leaned over Humphries. “Should Icall someone?” Humphries lay on the couch, slackened, drooling, and, yes, be fore completely losing consciousness, remembered seeing the dim ples on Wanda’sass.
Florence drove her Volvo with the kind of reckless determina tion that comes from three cups of black coffee and twentytwo years of suppressed rage. She had intended to find Eileen, to discuss casting off the chains of Humphries from her soul, but Eileen’scar was not at her apartment. Nor was it at the gym. Nor was it at any of the other seven places Florence checked with increasingly manic energy. The caffeine was doing strange things to her nervous system. “Ineed to relax,” Florence said aloud to herself in the car. “Ineed to think clearly about my future. Ineed—” She spotted asign for Serenity Now Day Spa and made an impulsive left turn that nearly killed aman on abicycle. Oddly enough, he reminded her of the tamale vendor down at Humphries’ office. The spa smelled of lavender and lies. Soft music played—the kind of music that has no melody, only the vague suggestion that you should be calmer than you are. Florence approached the reception desk where ayoung woman with anose ring and the vacant smile of the professionally serene greeted her. “Do you have an appointment?” “No,” Florence said, “but Ineed amassage. Immediately. I’ve been married for twenty-two years and Ijust drank black coffee for the first time and Ithink I’mleaving my husband and Ican’tfind my best friend and Ineed someone to touch me.” The receptionist blinked twice. “We have an opening with Marcus in ten minutes.” There is adelicate cruelty in the way we are taught about touch. As children, we are held, embraced, and comforted through physi cal contact. Then, somewhere around puberty, we are informed that touch is dangerous, sexual, inappropriate—something to be rationed and controlled. By the time we marry, we have forgotten that touch can be anything other than obligation or transaction. We forget that hands can communicate kindness without agenda, that skin can re ceive comfort without shame. Florence had not been touched with attention. Ever. * * * * * * Marcus was not what Florence expected. She had imagined someone large and muscular, perhaps with an Eastern European ac cent and the emotional availability of arefrigerator. Instead, Marcus was slight, perhaps forty, with gentle eyes and hands that looked like they had never thrown apunch or changed atire or done anything more violent than knead tension from astranger’sshoulders. “I’mvery nervous,” Florence announced as she lay face-down on the massage table, her face pressed into the cushioned headrest. “I’ve never done this before. Well, Ihad amassage once at ahotel in 1987 but the woman was very rough and Ithink she dislocated something and Humphries—that’smy husband—said Iwas being dramatic but Iwasn’tbeing dramatic, Iwas in actual pain, and anyway, I’mthink ing of leaving him. Humphries, Imean. Not because of the massage incident, although that didn’thelp. Do you think I’m aracist?” Marcus’shands settled on her shoulders with awarmth that made Florence’sbreath catch. “Why would you be aracist?” His voice was soft, genuinely curi ous. “Because Idrank black coffee today and Ikept thinking about the word ‘black’ and whether it was offensive and then Irealized I’dnever questioned it before and what does that say about me as aper son?” Marcus’sthumbs found aknot in her left shoulder blade and pressed gently. “Ithink,” he said carefully, “that you’re someone who thinks alot.” Florence felt something inside her chest crack open like an egg. For the next forty minutes, Marcus worked his way across Flor ence’sback, shoulders, neck, and legs while she talked. She talked
about bridge tournaments and Humphries’sdrinking and the inden tations in the carpet and Eileen’srelentless criticism and her father’sboat and the arrangement that became her marriage. She talked about never having been asked what she wanted, about exercise as aform of control, about the terror of black coffee and the larger terror of freedom. Marcus listened. He made small sounds of acknowledgment— ”mmm” and “Isee” and “that must have been difficult”—while his hands moved across her body with aprofessional tenderness that felt, to Florence, like the first honest communication she’dexperi enced in years. When he worked on her feet, pressing his thumbs into her arch es, Florence made asound she didn’trecognize as her own. “You carry alot of tension here,” Marcus said. “Icarry alot of tension everywhere,” Florence replied, and then, horrifyingly, she began to cry. Marcus handed her atissue without comment and continued working on her feet until her breathing steadied. When the session ended, Florence stood in the changing room staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her face was flushed, her hair disheveled, her eyes bright with something she couldn’tname. She looked, she thought, like awoman who had just been unfaithful. But she hadn’tbeen unfaithful. Had she? She paid at the front desk in adaze, added athirty percent tip, and walked to her car. Halfway there, she realized she had forgotten to ask Marcus if he was married, if he had children, if he would like to have coffee sometime—black coffee, she thought wildly, and then laughed at herself. She sat in the Volvo with the engine running, trying to under stand what had just happened. Was she attracted to Marcus? Or was she simply starved for someone to listen to her, to touch her with intention, to treat her as though her thoughts and feelings and physi cal presence mattered? The distinction seemed important, but Florence could not, for the life of her, figure out what it was. She put the car in reverse and backed out of the parking space, narrowly missing the same bicyclist from earlier, who shouted some thing obscene that Florence did not hear. She was too busy wondering if Marcus worked Thursdays.
Pierce drove toward the Securities Fraud office with the kind of mounting dread usually reserved for men summoned to their own executions. The cakes Amelia had insisted he take with him sat on the passenger seat, wrapped in delicate paper that smelled faintly of lavender. He had kissed her hand. He had told her everything appeared “on the up and up.” He had lied in afederal investigation because awoman made him feel something. The office building loomed ahead—agray monument to bu reaucratic righteousness and the systematic punishment of financial impropriety. Pierce had worked here for thirty years, investigating fraud with the mechanical precision of aman who had learned early that emotion was aluxury orphans could not afford. He had never once compromised an investigation. Until today. He parked in his designated spot (Employee 247, Senior Investi gator, Securities Fraud Division) and walked through the lobby with the grim determination of aman approaching the gallows. The el evator rose slowly, giving him time to rehearse explanations he knew would sound hollow. Iwas thorough. Iconducted acomplete inter view. There was no evidence of wrongdoing. The doors opened on the seventh floor. Reginald Newhouse was waiting in the hallway. “Pierce,” Reginald said, his face the color of spoiled milk. “My office. Now.” There is aparticular species of panic that afflicts middle manage ment when catastrophe strikes. It is not the clean terror of soldiers un der fire or the sharp fear of men facing physical danger. It is instead abureaucratic hysteria—the knowledge that one’scomfortable position, one’spension, one’scarefully constructed life of modest authority is about to collapse, and there is absolutely nothing one can do to stop it. Reginald Newhouse was experiencing this panic in its purest form. “Sit down,” Reginald said, closing the door behind them. His of fice was small, cluttered with files and motivational posters about integrity that now seemed grimly ironic. “We have aproblem.” “What kind of problem?” Pierce asked, though he already knew the answer would be terrible. “First American Teleflorist and Life Insurance Company,” Regi nald said, pacing behind his desk like acaged animal, “is bankrupt. Completely, catastrophically, irreversibly bankrupt. They have may be seventy-two hours before the whole thing collapses publicly. They believe it is fifteen days, but it’snot. Seventy-two hours. Fifty mil lion dollars in losses. Gone. Vanished. Embezzled, misappropriated, fraudulently traded away.” Pierce felt his stomach drop. “The Mathews investigation—” “Is the tip of avery large, very ugly iceberg,” Reginald interrupted. “Lawrence Mathews the Third has been running an illegal trading operation for years, using his sister Amelia as the front. They’ve been systematically bleeding First American dry through insider trading, stock manipulation, and God knows what else. The company’sentire portfolio has been gutted.” Pierce thought of Amelia’sdelicate hands holding the teacup. Her gentle voice. The way she had blushed when he kissed her hand. “How do you know this?” Pierce asked quietly. “Because,” Reginald said, pulling out athick file and slamming it on the desk, “we’ve been monitoring Lawrence for the last six months. We have phone records, trading patterns, bank transfers— everything. The man’s afinancial sociopath. And his sister is either complicit or the most convincing actress in history.” Pierce said nothing. He stared at the file, feeling the weight of his own stupidity settle over him like ashroud. “Here’sthe problem,” Reginald continued, his voice dropping to aconspiratorial whisper. “If we prosecute Lawrence and Amelia, the scandal will destroy what’sleft of First American. Thousands of employees will lose their jobs. Pensions will evaporate. The entire
regional economy could collapse. And—” he paused dramatically, “—our department will be blamed for not catching this sooner. We cannot allow that to happen.” “So what are you proposing?” Pierce asked, though he already knew the answer would be worse than terrible. Reginald leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with the desperate cunning of acornered rat. “We need ascapegoat,” he said. “Someone inside First American who can take the fall. Someone drunk, incompetent, with no alibi and no credibility. Someone the public will believe is responsible.” Pierce felt his mouth go dry. “Who?” “Humphries Feelgood,” Reginald said, opening another file. “Se nior Account Executive. Twenty-two years with the company. Per petually intoxicated. Incontinent. Even crashed his car in the park ing lot this morning, nearly missing atamale vendor. He has access to company accounts, no oversight, and ahistory of erratic behavior. He’sperfect.” Pierce stared at the photograph clipped to the file. Humphries looked like aman who had given up on life sometime in the early 1990s and never bothered to inform his body. “He’sinnocent,” Pierce said. “Of course he’sinnocent,” Reginald snapped. “That’swhat makes him perfect. Innocent men don’thave alibis because they don’tthink they need them. Innocent men don’tcover their tracks because they don’tknow there are tracks to cover. We plant some documents, backdate some emails, create apaper trail showing Humphries had access to the accounts Lawrence was manipulating. The man’sso drunk he probably won’teven remember what he did last week, let alone six months ago.” “This is fraud,” Pierce said quietly. “This is damage control,” Reginald corrected. “Lawrence and Amelia walk away quietly. First American gets avillain to blame. The employees keep their jobs. We look competent. Everyone wins.” “Except Humphries.” “ Again, Humphries is adrunk,” Reginald said dismissively. “He was going to destroy his life anyway. We’re just accelerating the time line.” There is acertain moral calculus that occurs in moments like these. We tell ourselves that sacrificing one innocent person to save many is pragmatic, even noble. We convince ourselves that the in nocent person was already doomed, that we are merely hastening an inevitable conclusion. We construct elaborate justifications for why our betrayal is actually aform of mercy. We do this because the alternative—admitting that we are cow ards who protect the powerful by destroying the powerless—is too terrible to contemplate. Pierce sat in silence, thinking of Amelia’sface when he had told her everything appeared “on the up and up.” She had believed him. Or perhaps she had simply been relieved that her performance had worked. “What do you need from me?” Pierce asked finally. Reginald smiled—the smile of aman who has just won agame he was certain he needed to win. “Ineed you to write the report,” he said. “You’re the investigator. Your signature carries weight. You document Humphries’ access to the accounts, his suspicious behavior, his lack of oversight. You make it look like you’ve been investigating him all along, and the Mathews angle was just adead end.” “And if Irefuse?” Reginald’ssmile vanished. “Then I’ll find someone who won’t. And I’ll make sure everyone knows you compromised the Mathews investigation because you fell in love with asuspect. Your career will be over. Your reputation will be destroyed. And Humphries will still take the fall, except you won’tbe around to make sure it’sdone cleanly.” “You don’tknow that,” Pierce began to protest. “All Ineed to know is you need to play along,” Reginald sneered. Pierce looked at the cakes sitting on the chair beside him, wrapped in lavender-scented paper. “How long do Ihave?” he asked.
“Forty-eight hours,” Reginald said. “First American collapses on Friday. We need the scapegoat in place by Thursday night.” Pierce stood slowly, picked up the cakes, and walked toward the door. “Pierce,” Reginald called after him. “You’re doing the right thing. Sometimes we have to sacrifice one person to save many. That’sjust how the world works.” Pierce paused in the doorway, his hand on the handle. “No,” he said quietly. “That’sjust how we justify it.” He walked out, leaving Reginald alone in his office, surrounded by motivational posters about integrity that neither of them believed anymore.
Florence’s 1992 Volvo 240 had always been reliable in the way that Swedish engineering promised—solid, practical, utterly devoid of personality. It had carried her to over twenty-five years of bridge games, countless aerobics classes, and approximate ly eight thousand trips to the grocery store without complaint. The odometer read 187,432 miles, each one asmall monument to subur ban routine. Which is why, when the engine began to sputter at 2:47 PM on a Tuesday afternoon, Florence experienced something close to be trayal. The first cough came as she accelerated away from the strip mall containing Serenity Now Day Spa (where Marcus worked Thurs days, she had confirmed). The second came louder, accompanied by agrinding sound that suggested metal components were reconsid ering their relationship with one another. By the third cough, the Volvo had slowed to apathetic crawl, its dashboard lights flickering like apatient in cardiac arrest. Florence guided the dying vehicle to the shoulder, where it shud dered once more and expired with the dignity of a Swedish grand mother who had simply decided enough was enough. “No,” Florence said to the steering wheel. “No, no, no. Not now.” She turned the key. The engine produced asound like acat being strangled by avery small, but very determined child, then fell silent. Florence sat in the sudden quiet, her caffeine-fueled determina tion colliding with automotive reality. She had been driving to find Eileen, to discuss casting the chains of Humphries from her soul, to embrace the wonders and bitter harshness of black coffee and free dom. She had been ready. And now her car had died approximately two hundred yards from The Flatulent Goose. There is aunique variety of frustration that afflicts suburban
women when their carefully planned moments of transformation are interrupted by mechanical failure. It is not the clean anger of injustice or the sharp fury of betrayal. It is instead abureaucratic rage—the knowledge that one’sdramatic gesture, one’scarefully re hearsed speech about liberation and self-actualization, must now be postponed while one deals with atow truck and amechanic who will inevitably explain the problem using words like “timing belt” and “catalytic converter” while looking at one’sbreasts. Florence was experiencing this rage in its purest form. She grabbed her purse, locked the Volvo (though who would steal adead Swedish sedan was unclear), and began walking toward The Flatulent Goose. She would use their phone. She would call Ei leen. She would explain about the car and the coffee and the epipha ny and—the restaurant loomed ahead, its pre-Colonial architecture somehow both dignified and absurd. Florence had never eaten here. It was too expensive, too pretentious, too much the kind of place where Humphries would order the wrong wine and embarrass her in front of people who mattered. But they would have aphone. She pushed through the heavy oak door, her eyes adjusting to the dim interior. The hostess—ayoung woman with the kind of severe haircut that suggested she had opinions about farm-to-table sourc ing—looked up with professional warmth. “Good afternoon, ma’am. Do you have areservation?” “Ineed to use your phone,” Florence said, her voice still carrying the caffeinated authority of her earlier epiphany. “My car broke down just outside.” “Of course,” the hostess said, gesturing toward the bar. “Right through there, you’ll find—” But Florence had stopped listening. Because there, at acorner table beneath aportrait of Lord Corn wallis looking constipated, sat Eileen. And across from Eileen, looking like aman who had just discov ered his entire identity was alie, sat Lawrence Mathews the Third. We all perform our identities with the conviction of method ac tors who have forgotten they are performing. We declare ourselves this and not that, we construct elaborate philosophies to justify our declarations as we lecture others about the superiority of our chosen performance. We become so committed to the role that we forget it is arole at all. Until desire—that most honest of betrayers—reminds us that we are all just making it up as we go along. Florence stood frozen in the doorway, watching ascene that made absolutely no sense. Eileen—Eileen, who had spent over twenty-five years explaining why men were worthless, why heterosexuality was apatriarchal trap, why Florence should leave Humphries and embrace her authentic self—was leaning forward across the table with the unmistakable posture of awoman in the throes of sexual fascination. Her face was flushed. Her eyes were bright. Her hand rested on the table approximately six inches from Lawrence’shand, close enough to suggest intention yet far enough away to maintain plausible deniability. And that man, Lawrence—wealthy, gay, cobalt-eyed Lawrence— looked like aman experiencing apanic attack while simultaneously trying to hide an erection. His face was pale except for two bright spots of color on his cheeks. His hand gripped his wine glass with the desperation of adrowning man clutching driftwood. His eyes kept darting between Eileen’sface and Eileen’schest. Neither of them had noticed her yet. Florence watched Eileen laugh at something Lawrence said—agenuine, delighted laugh that Florence had never heard directed at any man in over twenty-five years of friendship. She watched Law rence’sface transform with pleasure at making Eileen laugh, watched him lean forward slightly, watched the space between them crackle with the kind of sexual tension that Florence had only read about in the romance novels she hid from Humphries. The hostess was saying something about the phone, but Florence couldn’thear her over the sound of her entire understanding of real ity collapsing.
Eileen had been lying. Or—worse—Eileen had been lying to herself. Perhaps both. All those lectures about male worthlessness, all those speeches about authentic identity, all those years of encouraging Florence to leave Humphries and embrace her true self—and here was Eileen, practically vibrating with desire for aman, yes, aman, in arestaurant named The Flatulent Goose. Florence felt something shift inside her. It was not quite anger and not quite betrayal. It was instead akind of dark, caffeinated clar ity—the realization that everyone, everyone, was just as confused and hypocritical and desperately uncertain as she was. Eileen caught sight of her then. Their eyes met across the restaurant, and Florence watched over twenty-five years of friendship collide with approximately ninety minutes of sexual awakening. Eileen’sface went through aremark able series of expressions: surprise, guilt, defiance, fear, and finally something that looked almost like relief. Lawrence followed Eileen’sgaze and turned to see Florence standing in the doorway. His face achieved ashade of pale that sug gested his blood had abandoned his head entirely and relocated to more optimistic regions. The three of them stared at each other in atableau of mutual exposure—each one caught performing an identity they no longer believed in, each one desperate to explain and utterly unable to begin explaining. Florence thought about the three cups of black coffee sitting in her stomach like battery acid. She thought about Marcus’sgentle hands on her shoulders. She thought about Humphries’ uncon scious, dreaming of Wanda’sdimples. She thought about her dead Volvo on the shoulder of the road, its Swedish engineering finally surrendering to entropy. And she thought about walking over to that table and asking Ei leen asingle question: So. Tell me again about the worthlessness of men. But she didn’tmove. She just stood there, watching her best friend discover that de sire makes liars of us all, wondering if she should feel vindicated or simply sad that hypocrisy was apparently the only thing humans did with any consistency. The hostess touched her elbow gently. “Ma’am? The phone?” Florence turned away from the table, away from Eileen’sguilty face and Lawrence’spanic, and followed the hostess toward the bar. Behind her, she heard Eileen say something in avoice too quiet to make out. Aquestion? She didn’tturn around to hear the answer.
Sheila Kowalski left the Riverside Market at 2:43 PM, her apron still damp with spilled coffee and the particular desperation that clings to minimum-wage retail. She had worked the ear ly shift—6 AM to 2:30 PM—stocking shelves, manning the register, and helping Marcus in the café area during the lunch rush when cus tomers flowed through in waves. The job required her to smile at customers while translating their casual cruelty into the kind of po liteness that kept her employed and barely solvent. Marcus worked part-time at the café between his massage appointments, and during the midday surge, Sheila would abandon her register duties to help him manage the espresso machine and the endless parade of people wanting their caffeine fix before returning to their offices. She was divorced, childless, and tired in the way that people be come tired when they realize their lives have settled into ashape they never intended. Her 2003 Honda Civic started on the second try, which was bet ter than usual. She pulled out of the employee parking lot and headed toward the business condos on Riverside Drive, where she and her mother shared amodest two-bedroom apartment that cost $1,450 amonth—approximately $800 more than Sheila could comfortably afford on her salary alone. But they were the cheapest in town and served adequately as living spaces. Though they did have all the ap peal of “business condos” , which was not much appeal at all. But her mother couldn’twork anymore. Her mother could barely walk anymore. Her mother, the one-time stripper and queen of the clubs, was little more than afaded memory that soured more with each and every day. In truth, we build our sexual fantasies on fleeting encounters with real human beings, then preserve those fantasies in the amber of memory where they cannot age, cannot disappoint, cannot re veal themselves to be ordinary people with ordinary lives. We reduce complex women to apair of dimples, acurve of breast, amoment of professional seduction performed for money and forgotten by morn ing. We do not realize them as “people” , preserving their memory for eternity in aflawed attempt to keep them immortal. Not at all. We do this because desire requires simplification. The actual woman—with her mortgage payments and her arthritic knees and her daughter who works in alow-paying retail job—would compli cate the fantasy. It would make it impossible to sustain the erection of memory across the years. So we edit. We reduce. We dehumanize in the service of our own arousal. While the woman we’ve reduced to asexual object goes on living her life, completely unaware that somewhere adrunk insur ance salesman is comparing his wife’sheel indentations to the dim ples on her ass. Such is the way of life. Sheila pulled into the business condos parking lot at 2:58 PM, parking in her assigned spot (C-17) next to acontractor’svan that she recognized as one of the tenants’ . She grabbed her purse and the bag of groceries she’dpicked up at lunch—applesauce, Ensure, the soft white bread her mother could still chew—and headed toward her apartment. The business condos were astrange hybrid of commercial and residential space, built in the 1980s when developers thought people would want to live above their offices. The experiment had failed, leaving abuilding where half the units housed small businesses (George’scontracting office, a CPA firm, achiropractor who special ized in workers’ compensation fraud) while the other half housed people who couldn’tafford to live anywhere else. In reality, it was kind of adump, but it was better than being homeless. Sheila and her mother lived in Unit 2-C, directly adjacent to Unit 2-B, where George kept his television sets and his dreams of satellite supremacy. She climbed the stairs slowly, her knees protesting. The elevator had been broken forever. Wanda Kowalski was sixty-two years old, though she looked
closer to seventy-five. The years had not been kind to her. Diabetes had taken three toes from her left foot. Osteoporosis had compressed her spine by two inches. The dimples that had once graced her pos terior—the dimples that ayoung man named Humphries Feelgood had fixated on during abachelor party twenty-five years prior—had long since disappeared beneath the weight of age and gravity and the particular cruelty of time. She sat in her recliner by the window, watching the parking lot below with the vacant attention of someone who had run out of things to hope for. The television played agame show she wasn’twatching. Her oxygen tank hissed softly beside her chair. She had been beautiful once. Genuinely beautiful, not just in the way that young bodies are beautiful but in the way that made men stupid. She had worked at The Velvet Touch for years, dancing topless for businessmen and performing at bachelor parties and for lonely divorced men who paid money to pretend she cared about their problems. She had been good at it. Atrue professional. She knew how to make aman feel seen without actually seeing him. How to perform intimacy without feeling anything. How to accept money without accepting shame. She had saved almost nothing. The club had closed long ago. She’dworked retail after that—Ma cy’s, then Target, then adollar store—until her feet gave out and her daughter had to take her in. She did not think about the men she’ddanced for. Couldn’tre member their faces. They had been ablur of ties and wedding rings and desperate eyes, all of them seeking something she could not pro vide and did not owe them, yet they all fervently believed she could. If someone had told her that one of those men—asheltered, vir ginal insurance salesman who’dbeen dragged to her club against his will—had spent twenty-five years obsessing over the dimples on her ass, comparing every woman to her, building an entire fantasy life around abrief encounter she’dforgotten by the next shift, she would have laughed. Or cried. Or both. Sheila unlocked the apartment door and stepped inside, imme diately hit by the smell of closed windows, old age and the faint me dicinal odor of prescription ointments. “Mom? I’mhome.” Wanda turned her head slowly, her oxygen tube shifting. “You’re early.” “Same time as always, Mom.” Sheila set the groceries on the counter and began unpacking them. “How are you feeling?” “Tired.” “Did you eat lunch?” “Some applesauce.” “That’snot lunch, Mom. That’s asnack.” Sheila opened the refrig erator, surveying the untouched containers of soup and pasta she’dprepared over the weekend. “You need to eat.” “I’mnot hungry.” This was the daily script. Sheila had memorized her lines years ago. She walked over to her mother’schair and adjusted the oxygen tube, checked the tank gauge (half full), and picked up the empty water glass from the side table. Wanda’shands, once graceful and expressive, now trembled with essential tremor. Her nails were yel lowed and thick. “I’ll make you asandwich,” Sheila said. “Turkey and cheese. Soft bread.” “Idon’twant—” “Iknow. But you’re eating it anyway.” Wanda sighed, asound like air escaping from atire. She turned back to the window, watching the parking lot where adrunk man named Humphries Feelgood lay unconscious on acontractor’scouch, dreaming of her dimples. She could not see him. She had no idea he existed. She certainly had no idea she had been the defining sexual experience of his life. Wanda was oblivious to the fact that his entire marriage had
been measured against aprofessional performance she’ddelivered for some money which had then been forgotten immediately. This is what we do to the objects of our desire: we make them mythical, eternal, perfect. We freeze them in time and refuse to let them age, suffer, or become human. Yet they go on living anyway, unaware of the monuments we’ve built to them in our minds. Monu ments they never asked for and would not recognize. Sheila made the sandwich, cut it into small pieces, and brought it to her mother on aplate. “Eat,” she said gently. Wanda picked up apiece with shaking hands and chewed slowly, her jaw working with effort. Outside, against the parking lot, through his windows, George’stelevision sets flickered with six simultaneous images. And some where in the distance, Florence’s Volvo sat dead on the shoulder of the road, its Swedish engineering finally surrendering to the same entropy that had claimed Wanda’sdimples, her beauty, and her abil ity to remember the men who would never forget her.
Humphries woke to the sound of acommercial for adult dia pers playing on three screens simultaneously. His mouth tasted like copper and shame. The couch beneath him was damp—whether from drool or something worse, he couldn’ttell and didn’twant to know. “George?” His voice came out thick, slurred. George appeared from behind awall of television sets, holding aremote control in each hand like agunslinger. “Oh good, you’re back. You were out for maybe ten minutes. Thought you’dfainted or something. Low blood sugar, probably. You want a Coke?” Ten minutes. Humphries tried to sit up and discovered his left
arm wasn’tresponding correctly. It felt distant, numb, like it be longed to someone else. He stared at it, willing the fingers to move. They twitched weakly. “George,” he said slowly, “Ithink something’swrong.” “Yeah, well, you did pass out on my couch. That’sgenerally asign something’snot optimal.” George clicked through channels without looking at him. “But you’re awake now, so that’sgood. Means you’re not dead.” Humphries touched his face with his right hand. His left cheek felt slack, unresponsive. Athin line of drool had dried on his chin. This is how the body betrays us. Not dramatically, not all at once, but in small surrenders—anumb arm, aslack face, amoment of darkness we can’taccount for. We spend our lives pretending we’re in control, that our flesh is loyal, that consciousness is guaranteed. And then one day we wake up on astranger’scouch and realize we’ve been evicted from our own body without notice. “Ineed to go,” Humphries said, though he wasn’tsure where. “Sure, sure, it’sright down the hall,” George said absently. “Just let me finish programming this Picture-in-Picture. You still want me to build that washroom?” Humphries couldn’tremember. He nodded anyway.
Lawrence’sred Porsche pulled out of The Flatulent Goose parking lot with Eileen in the passenger seat, both of them flushed and silent. The sexual tension from lunch still hung between them like humidity. “That was—” Eileen began. “Yes,” Lawrence interrupted, gripping the steering wheel too tightly. “That was your friend.” They drove in silence for thirty seconds before Lawrence spot ted the broken-down Volvo on the shoulder. And standing beside it, looking lost and furious and somehow smaller than usual, was Florence. “Oh God,” Eileen whispered. Lawrence slowed the Porsche. There was no avoiding this. Flor ence had already seen them—her face registered shock, then some thing harder. Betrayal, maybe. Or vindication. Lawrence pulled onto the shoulder twenty feet ahead of the Vol vo. Eileen didn’tmove. “We should—” Lawrence started. “Iknow.” They got out. Florence stood with her arms crossed, her expres sion unreadable. “Florence,” Eileen said carefully. “Your car—” “Broke down,” Florence finished. “Iwas coming to find you.” The three of them stood in atriangle of awkwardness, traffic rushing past on the road behind them. Lawrence, who had charmed his way through athousand impossible situations, found himself completely mute. “This isn’t—” Eileen tried again. “Isn’twhat?” Florence’svoice was calm, which was somehow worse than anger. “Isn’tyou having lunch with aman? Isn’tyou do ing exactly what you’ve spent over twenty-five years telling me Ishouldn’ttolerate?” Eileen flinched. “It’snot like that.” “Then what is it like?” Lawrence cleared his throat. “Perhaps Ishould—” “You should stay,” Florence said, looking directly at him for the first time. “Iwant to understand what’shappening here. Because an hour ago, my best friend was lecturing me about leaving my hus band. And now she’s...” Florence gestured vaguely at the Porsche, at Lawrence, at the entire impossible situation. This is the moment when hypocrisy becomes visible. When the person who has been your moral compass for over twenty-five years is revealed to be just as lost, just as confused, just as capable of con tradiction as you. The truth is we build our identities on consisten cy—Iam this, not that; Iwant this, not that—and then desire arrives and makes liars of us all. “Idon’tknow what this is,” Eileen said quietly. Florence nodded slowly. “Neither do I. About anything.” She turned and started walking along the shoulder, away from both of them. “Florence!” Eileen called. But Florence kept walking. * * * * * * Pierce sat at his desk in the Securities Fraud office, the fabricated documents spread before him like aconfession. Reginald had left
him alone, which was akindness or acruelty, depending on how you looked at it. The documents were elegant in their deception. They showed Humphries Feelgood as the architect of the insider-trading scheme, the man who had orchestrated the collapse of First American Tele florist and Life Insurance Company. They were complete with forged signatures, backdated memos, falsified transaction records. All Pierce had to do was sign his name at the bottom. Verify that the investigation had been thorough. Confirm that justice was being served. He picked up his pen. Here is the moment we discover what we’re actually made of. Not in the grand gestures, not in the dramatic declarations of principle, but in the quiet rooms where no one is watching. When the choice
is between the person we love and the person we’ve pretended to be. When integrity becomes negotiable and love becomes the excuse. Pierce thought of Amelia’sface as he’dkissed her hand. The way she’dblushed. The hope in her voice when she’dsaid she hoped they’dmeet again. He thought of Humphries Feelgood, aman he’dnever met, whose life he was about to destroy. He signed the document. The pen made asoft scratching sound against the paper. Pierce set it down carefully, as if it might explode. He had just murdered aman’slife to protect awoman he’dknown for three hours. If even that. And the worst part—the part that made him want to vomit—was that he’ddo it again. Amelia sat in her parlor, the teacup Pierce had used still on the ta ble beside her, and realized with absolute certainty that she was in love. Not infatuated. Not charmed. Not merely smitten by ahandsome investigator who’dtreated her with gentleness. In love. She was fifty-two years old and had never felt this before. Had never understood what the novels meant, what the songs were about, what made people do stupid, reckless, impossible things. Now she understood. Pierce Williams had walked into her carefully controlled world and detonated something she hadn’tknown was there. Some capac ity for feeling she’dburied under years of serving as Lawrence’sfront, of managing his fortune, of being useful rather than alive. She touched the teacup, still faintly warm. Outside, the sun was beginning to set. Somewhere, Pierce was driving back to his office, unaware that he’djust become the most important person in her world. Somewhere, her brother was driving alesbian woman in his Porsche, equally confused about desire. Somewhere, an innocent man was waking up on acouch with anumb arm and no idea his life was about to transform. And Amelia sat in her parlor, holding ateacup, transformed.
Manfred Young sat at his desk and watched the clock on the wall tick toward 4:47 PM. Humphries had been gone for nearly six hours. Six hours to find acontractor. Six hours to discuss asimple ex ecutive washroom. Six hours during which Manfred had rushed to the bathroom eleven times, perhaps twelve—he’dlost count—and received no phone call, no update, no reassurance that his most loyal employee was actually solving the problem. The problem being, of course, Manfred’senlarged prostate and the humiliation of sharing apublic restroom with subordinates who might hear him struggle. Not the other problem. The $50 million problem. The fifteendays-until-bankruptcy problem. The problem that made Manfred’shands shake when he thought about it too directly. He stood and walked to the window, then immediately regretted it. The pressure in his bladder announced itself with familiar urgen cy. Thirteen times, then. When he returned from the executive washroom—the one that didn’texist yet, the one Humphries was supposed to be arranging, in reality the common company restroom—Manfred stood in the mid dle of his office and admitted what he’dbeen avoiding all afternoon. Something had happened to Humphries. Acar accident, perhaps. Another drunken episode. Another col lapse into whatever private chaos the man inhabited when he wasn’tpretending to be a Senior Account Executive. Manfred picked up the phone and dialed the Securities Fraud Division. “Newhouse,” the voice answered on the second ring. “Reginald, it’s Manfred Young. From First American.” “Mr. Young.” Reginald’stone was professionally neutral, which somehow made it worse. “What can Ido for you?”
Manfred cleared his throat. “Iwas wondering if there were any... developments. Regarding the legal situation. The investigation into the company’s... difficulties.” There was apause. Manfred could hear papers shuffling on the other end. “ As amatter of fact,” Reginald said slowly, “we’ve made signifi cant progress today.” Manfred’sheart began to pound. “Progress?” “We’ve identified the source of the fraud,” Reginald continued, his voice taking on the careful cadence of someone delivering re hearsed information. “ An insider at First American has been run ning an insider-trading scheme for some time. We have substantial evidence pointing to the individual responsible for the collapse.” “Who?” Manfred whispered. “Humphries Feelgood.” The name hung in the air like smoke. Manfred sat down slowly. “Humphries?” “Senior Account Executive, correct? Twenty-plus years with the company? Access to sensitive financial information, client portfoli os, trading schedules?” Reginald’svoice was smooth, factual, utterly convincing. “We have documentation showing apattern of illegal trades coordinated through his position. Falsified records. Backdat ed transactions. The evidence is quite comprehensive.” Manfred’smind raced. Humphries. Loyal, drunk, incompetent Humphries. Humphries who couldn’tremember what day it was half the time. Humphries who had just spent six hours trying to find someone to build abathroom. Supposedly. Humphries who Manfred had sent away this morning on ameaningless errand. Who had been conveniently absent all day while someone—Reginald, presumably—constructed an entire case against him. “Isee,” Manfred said carefully. “This solves several problems simultaneously,” Reginald contin ued. “The federal investigation will have its culprit. The public will have an explanation for the company’sdifficulties. And First Ameri can can begin the process of recovery with aclear narrative about internal corruption being rooted out.” Civilizations have always worked like this. When the temple needs cleansing, when the city needs purifying, when the accounts don’tbalance and the gods are angry, we find agoat. We load it with our sins—the ones we committed, the ones we merely enabled, the ones we pretended not to see—and we drive it into the wilderness to die, or sacrifice it, whichever is the most beneficial way to proceed. The ritual is as old as Leviticus, as old as the first priest who real ized that guilt is transferable if you have enough authority. One man can absorb the corruption of an entire system. One name can explain away athousand compromises. One sacrifice can purchase absolu tion for the many. We call this justice. We call this accountability. We call this nec essary. What we don’tcall it is wrong. “Mr. Young?” Reginald’svoice cut through Manfred’ssilence. “Are you still there?” “Yes,” Manfred said. “I’mhere.” “Do you have any objections to this resolution?” Manfred opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. He thought of Humphries arriving drunk this morning, nearly killing the tamale vendor. Humphries who had somehow under stood about the washroom, who had smiled conspiratorially and promised to solve the problem. Humphries who was probably sitting in some contractor’soffice right now, completely unaware that his life was being dismantled by men in suits who had never met him. He thought of the company. Fifteen days until bankruptcy. Thou sands of employees. His own position, his own power, his own care fully constructed empire of insurance policies and floral arrange ments. He thought of his enlarged prostate and the eleven—no, twelve— no, thirteen—trips to the bathroom today. “Mr. Young?” Reginald repeated. “Ineed to know if you have any concerns about moving forward with this.”
Manfred looked at the clock. 4:53 PM. In seven minutes it would be five o’clock and he could go home. In fifteen days the company would either survive or collapse. In some unknown amount of time, Humphries Feelgood would be arrested for crimes he didn’tcommit, or even know about. “No,” Manfred heard himself say. “No concerns.” “Excellent. We’ll coordinate with your legal team regarding the public announcement. I’dsuggest early next week, before the media gets wind of the bankruptcy filing.” “Of course.” “Is there anything else?” Manfred felt the familiar pressure in his bladder. Fourteen times. “No,” he said. “Nothing else.” He hung up the phone and sat very still. Outside his window, the sun was setting over the parking lot where Humphries had nearly killed aman this morning. Where the red Porsche had passed by. Where everything had seemed, briefly, like it might be manageable. Manfred stood and walked toward the bathroom, wondering if Humphries would ever finish building that executive washroom, and knowing with absolute certainty that he wouldn’t.
Humphries stood in George’sdoorway, gripping the frame with both hands while the world tilted at approximately fif teen degrees to the left. George was saying something about two-by-fours and loadbearing walls, his voice coming from somewhere far away, like ara dio station losing signal. Humphries nodded—or thought he nod ded—and mumbled something that might have been “thank you” or might have been “bathroom” or might have been nothing at all. His body felt wrong. Not drunk-wrong, which he knew intimate ly. This was different. His muscles had turned to water. His bones had forgotten their purpose. The epileptic seizure—though he didn’tknow that’swhat it had been—had left him hollowed out, apuppet with cut strings. “You okay there, buddy?” George called after him. Humphries waved without turning around. He needed air. He needed to get away from the television screens and George’srelent less enthusiasm and the feeling that his skull was slowly separating from his spine. George turned and went back into his office, his tele vision sets, his oblivion. The parking lot stretched before Humphries like an ocean. Humphries walked—stumbled, really—across the asphalt, each step requiring conscious negotiation with his legs. Left foot. Right foot. Don’tfall. Left foot again. The sun was too bright. The air was too thick. His vision swam with afterimages of George’ssix televi sion screens, all playing different programs, all demanding attention simultaneously. He made it approximately forty feet before his body staged acomplete rebellion. His knees buckled. His hands reached for something that wasn’tthere. The pavement rushed up to meet him with the inevitability of gravity and the surprise of betrayal. The impact was concrete and immediate—literally. His palms
scraped asphalt. His shoulder hit hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs. His cheek pressed against the warm parking lot sur face, and he lay there, unable to move, staring at adiscarded cigarette butt three inches from his nose. This is how it ends, he thought distantly. Not in glory. Not in re demption. In aparking lot, face-down, defeated by his own nervous system, staring at adiscarded cigarette butt. Sheila Kowalski had been in her apartment looking out the win dow when she saw the man collapse. She dropped everything and ran. “Sir? Sir, can you hear me?” She knelt beside him, her hand on his shoulder, her mind already running through the checklist: breath ing, pulse, color, responsiveness. Years of caring for her mother had taught her to assess medical emergencies with practiced efficiency. The man was breathing. His pulse was rapid but steady. His color was pale but not blue. He was conscious—his eyes were open, blink ing slowly at the cigarette butt. “Sir, I’mgoing to help you up. Can you stand?” Humphries made asound that might have been yes. Sheila got her shoulder under his arm and lifted. He was heavi er than he looked, dead weight and confusion, but she’dlifted her mother countless times. She knew how to leverage her body, how to support someone who couldn’tsupport themselves. “My apartment’sright here,” she said, guiding him toward the building. “We’ll get you sitting down. Get you some water.” Humphries nodded. Or his head bobbed. It was hard to tell the difference. Here is how fate works: through small kindnesses and mistaken assumptions. Through one person’scollapse becoming another’sop portunity for charity. Through the machinery of random chance that determines everything while pretending to determine nothing. Aman falls. Awoman helps. The universe continues its indiffer ent rotation. We call this coincidence. We call this luck. We call this the way things happen. What we don’tcall it is inevitable. Sheila’sapartment was small and clean and smelled faintly of chicken soup. She guided Humphries to the couch—the same couch where her mother spent most days watching game shows—and eased him down. “Just sit. Breathe. I’mgoing to get you some water.” Humphries sat. He breathed. He stared at the wall where aframed photograph showed ayounger woman in asequined costume, smil ing with dimples that could stop traffic. “Here.” Sheila pressed aglass of water into his hands. “Drink this slowly.” He drank. The water was cold and real and helped anchor him to the present moment. “What happened?” Sheila asked gently. “Did you feel chest pain? Tightness in your arm?” Humphries shook his head. “Idon’t... Iwas watching television. Too many screens. Ifelt dizzy.” “You might have had acardiac event. Or astroke. We should call an ambulance.” “No.” The word came out more forcefully than he intended. “No ambulance. I’mfine. Just need to rest.” Sheila frowned. She’dheard this before—her mother’sstubborn refusal to seek help, the pride that insisted on suffering in silence. “At least let me get you some aspirin. For your heart.” She disappeared into the bathroom before he could protest. The medicine cabinet contained the usual debris of daily life: toothpaste, dental floss, expired cold medicine, Band-Aids. And in the back, in asmall plastic container that Sheila didn’tquite remem ber acquiring, two white pills. Two very small, white pills. Aspirin, she assumed. Left over from some previous tenant or forgotten by avisiting friend. She’dbeen meaning to clean out the cabinet for months. She brought them to Humphries with fresh water. “Take these. They’ll help with the blood flow.” Humphries looked at the pills. They looked like aspirin. Sort of.
They were white and round and pharmaceutical. But they were kind of small. He realized for some strange reason he trusted this woman who had helped him, who had brought him inside, who was treating him with more kindness than he’dexperienced in recent memory. He swallowed both pills without question. “Good,” Sheila said, sitting beside him. “Just rest now. The medi cation will help.” Humphries sat very still, waiting for the aspirin to work. After afew minutes, more than afew, actually, he felt something begin to happen. Not relief, exactly. Not improvement. Something else. Asubtle shift in the quality of the light. Agentle loosening of the boundaries between himself and the couch. The photograph on the wall—the woman with the dimples— seemed to shimmer slightly. “Feeling better?” Sheila asked. “Yes,” Humphries said, though he wasn’tsure that was the right word. “Better.” Sheila smiled, relieved. The man’scolor was returning. His breathing had steadied. Whatever had happened in the parking lot seemed to be passing. Humphries stared at the photograph and felt the edges of reality begin to soften in ways he couldn’tquite name. He saw he was scratched up abit from hitting the pavement, but nothing felt broken and he was not bleeding. Much. He realized he was alive and was feeling more alive by the minute. And it felt...won derful.
Marcus had been thinking about Thursday while he was driving. Not this Thursday—next Thursday. The one where Florence Feelgood might or might not return for another massage appointment. The one where he might or might not have the courage to ask if she wanted to get coffee afterward. The one that existed only in potential, shimmering like amirage in his calendar. He was thinking about this so intently that he almost didn’tsee her. Florence. Walking along the shoulder of the road near The Flatu lent Goose, her posture rigid with determination, her sensible shoes clicking against gravel with each step. Marcus hit the brakes harder than necessary. His Honda Civic lurched to astop twenty feet past her. He threw it in reverse, heart hammering with the kind of panic that accompanies unexpected op portunity. It is exactly in this way the universe arranges its accidents— through timing and geography, through broken-down Volvos and massage therapists driving home early; through the collision of sepa rate narratives that have no business intersecting. We call this coincidence. We call this fate. We call this Thursday coming early. “Mrs. Feelgood?” Florence turned, startled. The massage therapist—Marcus, she remembered—was leaning out of his car window, his expression somewhere between concern and confusion. “Oh,” Florence said, feeling heat rise to her cheeks. “Hello.” “Are you... walking somewhere?” Marcus gestured at the empty road stretching in both directions, the obvious absence of destina tion coming into focus. “My car broke down.” Florence pointed vaguely behind her, to ward where the Volvo sat abandoned like abeached whale. “Iwas
trying to find aphone. Or help. Or—” She stopped, realizing she didn’tactually know what she’dbeen trying to find. Marcus pulled onto the shoulder and got out. He was wearing jeans and afaded t-shirt that read “MASSAGE THERAPY: WE’LL WORK OUT YOUR ISSUES.” Florence found herself staring at it, wondering if the double meaning was intentional. “Ican give you aride,” Marcus said. “Or we can look at your car. I’mnot much of amechanic, but Iknow how to check basic things.” “Idon’twant to impose—” “You’re not imposing. I’moffering.” There was amoment of silence where they both stood on the shoulder of the road, two people who barely knew each other, nego tiating the social mathematics of assistance and obligation. Florence was about to accept his offer when she heard the dis tinctive growl of ahigh-performance engine. Lawrence’sred Porsche appeared around the bend like ame chanical sunset, all gleaming paint and gold wheels catching the af ternoon light. It slowed, pulled behind Marcus’s Honda, and stopped with the precision of someone who’dparallel parked in Monaco. The driver’sdoor opened. Lawrence stepped out, immaculate in black, his cobalt eyes scanning the scene with aristocratic concern. The passenger door opened. Eileen emerged, her athletic frame unfolding from the low seat, her expression shifting from confusion to recognition to something approaching horror. “Florence?” Eileen said. “Eileen?” Florence said. Marcus looked between them. “You know each other?” The absurdity of the moment arranged itself like astage play: three would-be rescuers, one stranded woman, and the weight of un spoken complications pressing down on all of them like atmospheric pressure before astorm. Lawrence, who had just spent an hour experiencing sexual at traction to awoman for the first time in his life, now faced that wom an’sbest friend on the side of aroad. Eileen, who had just abandoned over twenty-five years of lesbian certainty for lunch with aman, now stood before the friend she’dbeen lecturing about male worthlessness for nearly two decades. Marcus, who knew none of this context, simply saw three people who seemed to know each other and wondered why everyone looked like they’dbeen caught stealing. Florence, caffeinated and clarity-seeking and utterly unprepared for this convergence, felt the universe collapse into asingle point of excruciating social geometry. “Your car is still broken down,” Lawrence stated, his voice smooth and genuinely concerned. “Yes,” Florence managed. “We can help,” Eileen said quickly. Too quickly. “Lawrence has— he knows about cars. European cars. Volvos are European.” “Swedish,” Marcus corrected automatically, then looked embar rassed for correcting. “Right. Swedish.” Eileen shot him alook that could have curdled milk. Lawrence walked toward Florence with the easy grace of some one accustomed to solving problems with money and charm. “Let’sgo back to the vehicle. I’ll take alook.” Lawrence started walking, then paused and turned back to Eileen. “Coming?” Eileen hesitated. She looked at Florence. Florence looked at her. Over twenty-five years of friendship compressed into asingle glance that said: We need to talk about this. We need to talk about all of this. We need to talk about why you’re with aman and I’mwalking down aroad and everything is falling apart. “I’ll stay with Florence,” Eileen said. Lawrence nodded and continued toward the Volvo, leaving the three of them standing in awkward formation on the shoulder. Marcus cleared his throat. “So. You two are friends?” “Yes,” Florence said. “Best friends,” Eileen added, with an edge that suggested the def inition was currently under review. “That’snice.” Marcus shifted his weight. “Iwas just offering Mrs. Feelgood aride when you pulled up.”
“Mrs. Feelgood?” Eileen’seyebrows rose. “You know Florence?” “She’s aclient. At the spa. I’m amassage therapist.” Eileen’sexpression shifted through several emotions in rapid succession: surprise, suspicion, calculation, and finally something that looked like vindication. “Florence gets massages?” “Just started,” Florence said defensively. “You’re the one who sug gested Ido something for myself.” “Isuggested you leave your husband, not get rubbed down by—” Eileen stopped herself, glancing at Marcus. “Sorry. No offense.” “None taken,” Marcus said, though his tone suggested some was definitely taken. Florence felt something shift inside her, again. The caffeine. The broken car. The discovery of Eileen with Lawrence. The massage therapist appearing like aguardian angel. The sheer accumulated ab surdity of the day. “You’re with aman,” she said to Eileen. The words hung in the air like an accusation. Eileen’sface went through acomplicated series of expressions. “It’snot—this isn’t—” “You have spent over twenty-five years telling me men were worthless. That Humphries was worthless. That Ishould leave him and discover myself and stop living in chains.” Florence’svoice was rising. “ And now you’re with aman. Aman in a Porsche. Aman who looks like he stepped out of acologne advertisement.” “It’scomplicated,” Eileen said weakly. “Is it?” Florence turned to Marcus. “Is it complicated when some one spends years giving advice they don’tfollow themselves?” Marcus held up his hands. “Ireally don’tthink Ishould be part of this conversation.” “No,” Florence agreed. “You shouldn’t. None of us should be hav ing this conversation on the side of aroad while astranger looks at my car.” Lawrence returned, wiping his hands on ahandkerchief that probably cost more than Marcus’scar payment. “The alternator’sdead,” he announced. “You’ll need atow.” “I’ll call someone,” Florence said. “Ihave AAA,” Marcus offered. “Ican arrange atow,” Lawrence said. “And aloaner vehicle. My family has an account with—” “Idon’tneed your family’saccount,” Florence interrupted. “Idon’tneed any of this. Ijust need—” She stopped, realizing she didn’tknow how to finish the sentence. What did she need? Aworking car? Acoherent best friend? Ahusband who wasn’t Humphries? Amassage therapist who didn’tlook at her with such earnest concern? Aworld that made sense? The four of them stood in arough circle on the shoulder of the road, bound together by circumstance and broken machinery and the terrible weight of things left unsaid. “I’ll take the AAA option,” Florence said finally. “Thank you, Marcus.” Eileen opened her mouth to protest, then closed it. Lawrence nodded, accepting the decision with aristocratic grace. Marcus pulled out his phone, grateful for something practical to do. And Florence stood very still, wondering how asimple deci sion to drink black coffee had led to this moment—stranded on aroadside, surrounded by people who wanted to help her, and feeling more lost than she’dever felt in her life.
Lawrence’s Porsche pulled away from the shoulder with the kind of mechanical precision that suggested its driver was desperately grateful for something to control. Eileen sat in the passenger seat, her athletic frame rigid against the leather, watching the landscape blur past. Neither of them had spoken since leaving Florence and Marcus standing on the side of the road beside the dead Volvo. “Your car’sat the business condos,” Lawrence said finally. “Where my cousin George works.” “Iknow.” Eileen’svoice was tight. “Ileft it running.” Lawrence glanced at her, one eyebrow raised. “Running?” “Iwas... distracted.” Again, here is how we perform as ourselves every day: through careful curation of gesture and speech, through the maintenance of consistent narrative, through the daily repetition of who we claim to be. We are lesbians. We are gay men. We are married women. We are massage therapists. We are wealthy heirs. We say these things so often that we forget they are performances—until the day someone walks onto our stage and we discover we’ve been reading from the wrong script entirely. This is called identity crisis. This is called being human. This is called Thursday afternoon in ared Porsche. “I’ve never been attracted to awoman before,” Lawrence said quietly. The words hung in the air between them like aconfession at afuneral. Eileen turned to look at him. His profile was perfect—aristocrat ic nose, strong jaw, those impossible cobalt eyes focused on the road ahead. “I’ve never been attracted to aman before.” “Never?” “Not once. Not ever. Not until—” She stopped. “Until lunch,” Lawrence finished. They drove on in silence. The Porsche’sengine purred with ex pensive contentment, oblivious to the existential chaos occurring within its cabin. “Idon’tknow what I’mdoing,” Eileen said. “Neither do I.” “Ispent over twenty-five years telling Florence that men were worthless.” “Are we?” Lawrence asked. “Worthless?” Eileen considered this. “Idon’tknow anymore. You’re certainly not helping my argument.” Lawrence laughed—agenuine, surprised sound that seemed to startle him as much as it did her. “I’ve spent my entire adult life being ‘Bunny’ to asuccession of lovers who all looked remarkably similar. Tall. Athletic. Male.” “ And now?” “And now I’mdriving awoman to retrieve her car and wonder ing if I’ve been lying to myself for all of those years.” The business condos appeared ahead, their bland architecture amonument to commercial pragmatism. Lawrence pulled into the parking lot and immediately spotted Eileen’scar—still parked where she’dleft it, no longer running. George emerged from his office as they pulled up, holding aset of keys and wearing an expression of mild confusion that seemed to be his default setting. He called out, “Your car’sbeen here all afternoon. Iturned it off. Thought maybe you’dbeen raptured or something.” Lawrence and Eileen exchanged aglance that contained seven teen layers of meaning, none of which George would ever compre hend. “Thanks,” Eileen said, climbing out of the Porsche with as much dignity as she could muster. “Iwas... having lunch.” “For four hours?” George looked between Eileen and Lawrence,
his expression shifting from confusion to something approaching understanding. “Oh. Lunch lunch.” “It’snot—” Eileen started. “We were just—” Lawrence tried. George held up his hands. “Hey, none of my business. Though Igotta say, cuz, didn’tknow you were into the athletic type.” He winked at Eileen. “No offense.” “None taken,” Eileen said, though her tone suggested consider able offense had been taken. Lawrence stood beside his Porsche, watching this exchange with the expression of aman who’dwandered into someone else’splay and couldn’tfind the exit. His cousin George—large, jovial, completely oblivious to subtext—was treating this like anormal romantic en counter. Which, Lawrence supposed, it was. Except it wasn’t. Except maybe it was. George tossed Eileen her keys. “ Anyway, car should be fine. You didn’tleave it running long enough to flood anything.” “Thanks,” Eileen said again. George nodded and started back toward his office, then paused. “Oh, hey, Lawrence—there was aguy here earlier. Ithink he passed out in the parking lot. Or, Ithink he might have. Some woman dragged him into her apartment. Thought maybe you’dknow some thing about it, what with all the weird stuff happening today.” Lawrence shook his head. “No idea.” “Huh. Well, anyway. You kids have fun.” George disappeared back into his office, leaving Lawrence and Eileen standing in the parking lot, separated by ten feet of asphalt and the weight of everything they didn’tknow how to say. “Ishould go,” Eileen said. “Yes.” “Florence is probably—” “Yes.” Neither of them moved. “Will Isee you again?” Lawrence asked. Eileen looked at him—really looked at him—and felt something shift that she didn’thave words for. “Idon’tknow.” “That’shonest.” “It’sall Ihave right now.” Lawrence nodded. He wanted to say something profound, some thing that would make sense of this impossible afternoon, but all he could manage was, “Thank you for lunch.” “Thank you for the wine.” They stood there another moment, two people who had no busi ness being attracted to each other, who had violated every principle of their carefully constructed identities, who had discovered that de sire doesn’tcare about your sexual orientation or your over twentyfive years of consistent messaging. It simply doesn’tcare. Then Eileen got in her car and drove away, and Lawrence stood in the parking lot wondering who the hell he was. * * * * * * Marcus ended the call with AAA and turned to Florence. “Fortyfive minutes.” “Thank you.” Florence sat on the guardrail, her sensible shoes planted firmly on the gravel shoulder. “I’msorry you got dragged into all this.” “I’mnot.” Marcus sat beside her, maintaining arespectful dis tance. “Though Ihave to admit, I’mcurious about the context.” Florence laughed—asharp, bitter sound. “The context is that my best friend spent years telling me to leave my husband, that men are evil, and Ijust discovered her having lunch with aman.” “Ah.” “She’s alesbian. Or was. Or—Idon’tknow what she is anymore.” Marcus was quiet for amoment. “People are complicated.” “That’s agenerous interpretation.” “Maybe. Or maybe people don’tknow themselves as well as they think they do.” He paused. “Ispent ten years in amarriage that looked perfect from the outside. House in the suburbs. Two cars. Dinner parties. The whole performance.”
Florence turned to look at him. “What happened?” “Iwoke up one day and realized Iwas merely performing. That I’dbeen performing for so long I’dforgotten what it felt like to be real.” He shrugged. “So Istopped.” “Just like that?” “No. Not just like that. It took another couple of years of therapy and crying and figuring out who Iactually was underneath all the expectations.” Marcus looked at her. “But eventually, yes. Istopped performing.” There is aparticular brand of loneliness that comes from being seen. Not looked at—seen. When someone perceives not just your performance but the ter rified actor beneath it, when they recognize the gap between who you claim to be and who you actually are, when they witness your contradictions and don’timmediately flee. This is intimacy. This is vulnerability. This is what Florence felt sitting on aguardrail beside amassage therapist who had no reason to care about her existential crisis. “Idrank black coffee today,” Florence said. “For the first time in my life. No cream, or milk, or sugar.” Marcus smiled. “How was it?” “Terrible. Bitter. Harsh.” She paused. “Clarifying.” “ And what did it clarify?” “That I’ve been living someone else’slife. That my marriage is aperformance Inever auditioned for. That Idon’tknow who Iam without Humphries, but Iknow Ican’tkeep being who I’ve been.” The words hung in the air between them, honest and raw and terrifying. “So what happens next?” Marcus asked gently. “Ihave no idea.” Florence looked at him. “Is that okay? To not know?” “It’sthe only honest place to start.” They sat in silence, watching the occasional car pass. The after noon sun slanted across the road, turning everything golden and temporary. The AAA truck appeared around the bend, its yellow lights flash ing with mechanical efficiency. Marcus stood and helped Florence to her feet. Their hands touched briefly—amoment of contact that felt both accidental and inevitable. “Iwork Thursdays,” Marcus said as the truck pulled onto the shoulder. “If you want to keep your appointment.” Florence looked at him—this kind man who had appeared exact ly when she needed someone to see her—and felt something inside her come alive. “I’dlike that,” she said. And for the first time in her life, Florence Feelgood meant ex actly what she said.
The walls were breathing. Not metaphorically. Not in the way people say “the room felt alive.” No, the walls of Sheila’sapartment were actually breathing—expanding and contracting with arhythm that matched something deep inside Humphries’ chest, something he’dnever no ticed before but now seemed impossibly obvious to him. He sat on the couch where Sheila had left him, watching the plas ter inhale and exhale. An hour had passed since he’dswallowed what Sheila called as pirin. Or maybe it had been forty minutes. Or four hours. Time had become asubstance rather than asequence—thick and golden like honey, pooling in the corners of the room. The photograph on the wall—Wanda’sphotograph—was no lon ger just aphotograph. It was alive. Not moving, exactly. But present. Hyper-present. Every detail magnified to impossible clarity: the texture of her skin, the exact curve of her smile, the way light caught in her hair. Humphries could see individual strands. He could see the molecules of silver halide suspended in the photographic emulsion. He could see through the paper to the wall behind it, and through the wall to the apartment next door, and through that apartment to the parking lot where his Dodge Dart sat baking in the late afternoon sun. “Dimples,” he whispered. His voice sounded strange—like it was coming from somewhere outside his body, echoing back to him through layers of atmosphere. Sheila appeared in his peripheral vision, her face creased with concern. “Mister? Are you okay?” “The walls,” Humphries said, gesturing vaguely. “They’re breath ing.” “What?” “Can’tyou see them? They’re breathing. Everything’sbreathing. You’re breathing. I’mbreathing. The couch is breathing.” He looked down at his hands. They seemed very far away, attached to his arms by threads of light. “Are these my hands? They’re breathing, too.” Sheila knelt in front of him, peering into his face. Her pupils were normal-sized, dark and worried. His pupils, he somehow knew without seeing them, were enormous black pools that had swallowed his irises entirely. “Your eyes,” Sheila said. “Jesus, your eyes are—” “Dilated,” Humphries finished. The word felt important. Clinical. Aword from the world of normal reality, which now seemed impos sibly distant. “Ithink something’swrong with the aspirin.” “What do you mean something’swrong with the—” Sheila stopped. Her face went pale. “Oh, God. Oh, God. Those weren’tas pirin!” “What were they?” “Idon’tknow—Ifound them in the medicine cabinet when Imoved in. Ithought they were—” She stood abruptly, rushing to the bathroom. Humphries heard her rummaging through the cabinet, heard her say “fuck” three times in rapid succession. She returned holding an empty pill bottle, her hands shaking. “These weren’taspirin,” she said. “These were—Ithink these were—” “LSD,” Humphries said calmly. The word arrived in his con sciousness fully formed, certain. “I’mon LSD.” Sheila stared at him. “How do you know that?” suddenly realiz ing the previous tenant had been aparoled chemist and pharmacist. “Because everything makes sense now. Iknow everything that needs to be known.” Humphries looked at Wanda’sphotograph again. She was smiling at him. Not the frozen smile of aphotograph—areal smile, warm and knowing. “I’ve been performing my whole life. Did you know that? Performing being Humphries. But here’sthe catch, Idon’tknow who Humphries is. Inever did.” Amoment like this is what happens when the carefully con structed self encounters asubstance that dissolves boundaries: The
ego—that persistent narrator who insists “Iam this, Iam that, Ihave always been thus”—begins to fragment. The stories we tell ourselves about who we are reveal themselves as stories, nothing more. They are nothing more than masks we wear fused to our faces until we forget we’re wearing them. Until we take two tablets of LSD thinking they’re aspirin. Small aspirin, in hindsight. Then the masks begin to melt. The boundaries between self and other, between past and present, between memory and hallucina tion—all of it becomes fluid. Permeable. This is terrifying. This is also, occasionally, clarifying. This is what Humphries Feelgood was experiencing on Sheila’scouch while his wife sat on aroadside with amassage therapist and his Dodge Dart baked in the parking lot outside. “Ineed to call someone,” Sheila said, her voice tight with panic. “An ambulance. Or—” “No.” Humphries held up ahand. It left trails of light in the air. “No ambulances. No hospitals. I’mfine.” “You’re not fine. You’re—” “I’mseeing clearly for the first time in my life.” Humphries stood, surprised to find his legs still worked. The floor rippled beneath his feet like water. “Imarried Florence because my father told me to. Iwork at First American because I’msup posed to. Idrink because Ican’tstand being Humphries. But who is Humphries? Who am Iwithout the performance?” Sheila backed toward the door. “You need to sit down. You need to—” “Ineed to find Wanda,” Humphries said. The name hung in the air between them, shimmering with sig nificance. “Who?” Sheila asked. Humphries pointed at the photograph. “Her. The woman with the dimples. The only real thing that ever happened to me.” Sheila followed his gaze to the photograph on the wall—the pho tograph of her mother, young and beautiful, before life left her dis abled and dependent. “That’smy mother,” Sheila said quietly. Humphries turned to look at her. The room spun gently, colors bleeding into each other like watercolors. “Your mother?” “She lives with me. Itake care of her.” The information processed slowly through Humphries’ altered consciousness. Wanda. Here. Separated by nothing but awall and the distance of his own paralyzed obsession. “She’shere?” he whispered. “She’sdisabled. She can’t—you can’tjust—” Sheila moved to block the door. “You need to stay here. You need to let this wear off.” But Humphries was already moving toward the door, drawn by agravity he couldn’tname. Twenty-five years of obsession, of com paring every woman to amemory, of defining his entire emotional life around asingle encounter—and she was in the same building, separated only by walls and his own cowardice. “Ineed to see her,” he said. “No,” Sheila said firmly. “You’re hallucinating. You’re not in your right mind. You need to—” Humphries stopped, swaying slightly. The walls pulsed. The floor undulated. Wanda’sphotograph smiled at him from across the room. “I’ve never been in my right mind,” he said. “That’sthe problem.” * * * * * * Eileen drove away from the business condos with her hands grip ping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles had gone white. What the hell had just happened? She’dspent years telling Florence that men were worthless. Years preaching the gospel of female independence and lesbian identity. Years being absolutely certain about who she was and what she want ed. And then Lawrence Mathews III had smiled at her from ared Porsche and her entire identity had shattered like glass. She could still feel the ghost of his presence—the way he’dlooked at her across the table at The Flatulent Goose, the impossible bulge
in his pants that she’dnoticed and couldn’tstop thinking about, the gentle confusion in his voice when he’dsaid “I’ve never been attract ed to awoman before.” Neither had she been attracted to aman. Until today. Until lunch. Until— Eileen’sthoughts stopped abruptly as she passed the business condos parking lot and saw it: Humphries’ distinctive Dodge Dart. She slowed, staring at the car. It had been there the whole time. Through lunch. Through the wine. Through the moment when Lawrence had nearly spit Char donnay across the table. Through her discovery by Florence. Through everything. Why was Humphries’ car here? Eileen pulled over, her mind racing. She’ dbeen so consumed by her own crisis—by Lawrence, by her shattered identity, by Florence’sac cusation of hypocrisy—that she hadn’tthought about Humphries at all. But now, looking at his car baking in the late afternoon sun, something nagged at her. Concern. Actual, genuine concern for aman she’dspent over twenty-five years telling Florence to leave. This is the contradiction at the heart of human relationships: we perform hatred for people we secretly care about. We preach aban donment while harboring concern. We spend years criticizing some one’shusband while simultaneously worrying when his car sits in astrange parking lot. This is called cognitive dissonance. This is called being human. This is called discovering that your stated values and your actual feelings exist in different universes entirely. Eileen turned the car around. She pulled back into the business condos parking lot and parked beside Humphries’ Dodge. The car was locked, empty. No sign of him. She walked to George’soffice and knocked. George appeared, holding aremote control and looking mildly annoyed at the inter ruption. “Forget something?” “Humphries,” she said. “The guy who was here earlier. The one who collapsed on your couch. Where did he go?” George shrugged. “No idea. He was pretty out of it. Sweating, mumbling about dimples and television. Ileft him on the couch to rest and when Icame back he was gone.” “Gone where?” “Didn’tsee. Figured he went home.” George, in his absentmind ed state, gestured at the Dodge. “But Iguess not, since his car’sstill here.” Eileen looked around the parking lot. George’soffice. The apart ment building adjacent to it. The business condos stretching in abland row. “The apartments,” she said. “Could he have gone to one of the apartments?” “Maybe? There’sonly afew units occupied. Sheila lives in 2-Cwith her mom, where the mad chemist used to live. Man, that guy sure could make some powerful and fast acting chemicals. LSD, MDMA, DMT, you name it, he could make it. Moved out west is what Iwas told. Oh, and some guy in 3-Awho Inever see. That’sabout it.” Eileen walked toward the apartment building entrance, her heart beating faster than it should. She stood at the door, hand on the han dle, and realized she had achoice to make. She could leave. Just drive away. Let Humphries deal with whatever crisis he was having. After all, she’dspent years telling Florence he was worthless. Why should she care if he was collapsed in some stranger’sapartment? But she did care. Despite everything. Despite her principles. De spite her performance. She cared. Eileen went toward 2-C, wondering what the hell she was doing and knowing with absolute certainty that she wouldn’tstop.
Lawrence drove the red Porsche through the gates of the fam ily estate with none of his usual precision. He’dscraped the left fender against the stone pillar—something he hadn’tdone since he was fifteen and learning to drive. The house loomed ahead, all Georgian columns and inherited wealth, looking exactly as it had every day of his life. But Lawrence felt like he was seeing it through someone else’seyes. Everything fa miliar had become strange. He found Amelia in her parlor, still holding the teacup Pierce had drunk from hours earlier. “Bunny,” she said, using the nickname only she was permitted to use, outside of his gay lovers. “You look terrible.” Lawrence collapsed into the chair across from her, his usual el egance abandoned. “Ithink I’mhaving anervous breakdown.” “What happened?” “Imet someone.” The words came out strangled. “At astoplight. She was in the car next to me and I—Amelia, Iinvited her to lunch.” “That’slovely,” Amelia said carefully. “Why is that abreakdown?” “Because she’s awoman.” Amelia set down her teacup. “Isee.” “She was glowing, Amelia. Like she was on fire but not burning. Icouldn’tstop looking at her. Imissed three gear shifts driving her to the restaurant. Three. I’ve been driving since Iwas fifteen and I’ve never missed agear shift in my life.” Lawrence stood and paced to the window, staring out at the manicured grounds without seeing them. “I’mgay,” he said to the glass. “I’ve always been gay. I’ve never been attracted to awoman. Not once. Not ever. And then this—this Eileen appears and suddenly Idon’tknow who Iam anymore.” “Eileen,” Amelia repeated softly. “She’s alesbian. She told me. She’snever been attracted to men. We sat across from each other at The Flatulent Goose and it was like—” He turned back to face his sister. “It was like everything Ithought Iknew about myself was just astory I’dbeen telling. For years and years. And then the story stopped making sense.” Amelia watched her brother with an expression Lawrence couldn’tquite read. Sympathy, certainly. But something else. Recog nition, perhaps. “Iunderstand,” she said. “Do you?” Lawrence’svoice cracked slightly. “Because Idon’t. Idon’tunderstand anything anymore.” Here is what happens when identity reveals itself as perfor mance. What we have been talking of all along. We spend our lives constructing narratives about who we are: Iam this. Iam not that. Ihave always been thus. These stories become so familiar we mistake them for truth. Until someone appears who doesn’tfit the narrative. Until we feel something we’re not supposed to feel. Until the story we’ve been telling collapses under the weight of actual experience. This is cognitive dissonance. This is being human. This is discov ering that the self is more fluid than we ever imagined possible. “Ido understand,” Amelia said quietly. “Because I, too, am in love.” Lawrence stopped pacing. “What?” “With Pierce. The investigator who came this morning.” Amelia’sface softened in away Lawrence had never seen before. “He kissed my hand when he left. It was the most chaste, gentlemanly gesture imaginable. And Ifelt it everywhere.” “Pierce Williams? The man investigating us?” “Yes.” Amelia stood and walked to where her brother stood fro zen. “I’ve lived my entire life in this house, Lawrence. Managing your affairs. Serving as your front. Playing the role of the respectable older sister while you built your fortune through trades Ipretended to make. You know, I’ve never had anything of my own. Not really.” She touched Lawrence’sarm gently. “And then this man appeared. This kind, careful man who looked at me like Iwas real. Not afront. Not aperformance. Just real.” Her
voice caught. “He said everything appeared to be on the up and up. He’sclosing the investigation. He’sprotecting us.” Lawrence stared at his sister, seeing her truly for perhaps the first time in years. “We’re quite apair,” he said finally. “Yes,” Amelia agreed. “We are.” They stood together in the parlor, two people who had spent their lives performing roles they’dinherited, discovering that under neath the performance were actual human beings capable of actual human feeling. Neither of them knew that Pierce’sprotection had come at ater rible price. Neither of them knew that an innocent man was being framed to save them. They only knew that they were, for the first time in their carefully constructed lives, genuinely vulnerable. * * * * * * Pierce sat in abar called The Copper Still, three blocks from the Securities Fraud office, staring at the folder beside his whiskey glass. The folder contained fabricated evidence against Humphries Feelgood. The whiskey contained nothing but whiskey, which was some how worse. “ Another?” the bartender asked, atired-looking man in his fifties who’dseen enough damaged people to know when to ask and when to stay silent. “Yes,” Pierce said. The bartender poured. Pierce drank. The bar was nearly empty—just Pierce, an old man reading anewspaper at the far end, and acouple having aquiet argument in acorner booth. The kind of place where people came to avoid being seen. Pierce had chosen it deliberately. He looked at the folder again. Inside were bank statements, trans action records, email correspondence—all of it meticulously forged by Reginald’steam. All of it pointing to Humphries Feelgood as the architect of First American’scollapse. Humphries Feelgood, who Pierce had never met. Humphries Feelgood, who was innocent. Humphries Feelgood, whose life Pierce was going to destroy to protect awoman he’dknown for less than four hours. Iwas an orphan, Pierce thought, the whiskey making his internal monologue more honest than he wanted. Ihad nothing. No family. No connection. Fifty years of careful isolation to protect myself from being hurt again. And then Amelia looked at me with those eyes and Ifelt some thing I’dnever felt before. Ifelt seen. The rationalization was elegant. Almost convincing. Pierce had spent his entire life alone, protecting himself from vulnerability. Amelia had offered him the first genuine human connection he’dexperienced since Sir John Hapscomb died. How could he sacrifice that? How could he choose abstract justice over concrete love? But underneath the rationalization ran acurrent of self-loathing so strong it made the whiskey taste like poison. He thought about Humphries. Tried to imagine the man. Prob ably middle-aged. Probably ordinary. Probably had awife, maybe children. Probably woke up this morning with no idea that his entire life was about to be destroyed by asecurities investigator who’dfallen in love with the wrong woman. “You okay?” the bartender asked. “No,” Pierce said honestly. The bartender nodded and moved away, recognizing aman who needed to be left alone with his choices. Pierce drank his whiskey and stared at the folder and knew with absolute certainty that he would do it again. That’swhat made it un forgivable. Not the act itself, but the knowledge that given the same choice—Amelia or integrity—he would choose Amelia every time. Love, it turned out, was not noble. Love was not pure. Love was
the thing that made you betray everything you claimed to believe in and then drink whiskey in adim bar while pretending you had no choice. Pierce ordered another drink and wondered if Humphries Feel good drank whiskey, too. He hoped not. He hoped the man he was destroying at least had the dignity of sobriety. But he knew that was afoolish hope. * * * * * * Manfred Young stood at his office window, watching the park ing lot empty as employees fled for the weekend. Humphries’ Dodge Dart was not there. Manfred had tried calling him four times. No answer. He’dsent two emails. Nothing. The washroom project—his beautiful, secret washroom project—had vanished along with Humphries himself. His bladder ached. The familiar pressure that had become the defining sensation of his existence. Manfred walked to his executive bathroom—well, the public one, the one he shared with everyone else—and relieved himself while staring at the institutional tile and fluorescent lighting. Fifteen days, he thought. Fifteen days to find fifty million dollars or this company collapses entirely. He washed his hands and looked at himself in the mirror. Sixtythree years old. Chairman of the Board. Master of asinking ship. When he returned to his office, he paused at the photograph on his wall—the founding of First American Teleflorist and Life Insur ance Company, 1952. Young men in suits, full of optimism and postwar confidence, believing they were building something that would last forever. Flowers and life insurance. It had seemed like such anatural combination at the time. Manfred touched the frame gently, then gathered his briefcase and coat. His phone buzzed. Atext from Reginald Newhouse at Securities Fraud: Matter resolved. Details Monday. Company protected. Manfred stared at the message, not understanding but feeling asudden, unexpected relief. Protected. The company was protected. Manfred turned off his office light and walked to the elevator, his bladder already aching again, thinking that maybe—just maybe— that executive washroom Humphries had promised might actually get built after all. But not by Humphries. No. He was going to jail. To take the fall. To preserve the company. His executive washroom would be built by someone else. And it would be built with blood money. He knew that to be true and he knew that he was tired, and his prostate hurt, and he wanted to go home. The elevator doors closed and Manfred descended, leaving be hind an empty office and acompany saved by alie and the destruc tion of aloyal man.
The AAA tow truck arrived with the punctuality of institu tional competence—exactly twenty-three minutes after Marcus’scall, pulling onto the shoulder with amber lights rotating in the late afternoon sun. The driver was aman in his forties named Dale who had towed approximately eleven thousand vehicles in his career and had learned to assess situations with the efficiency of atrauma surgeon. He glanced at the Volvo, glanced at Florence standing beside Mar cus, and knew immediately this was astraightforward alternator fail ure requiring no drama. “1992 240?” Dale asked, already filling out paperwork on aclipboard. “Iguess,” Florence said. “ Alternator’sshot. Classic symptom—dies while driving, won’trestart. I’ll take her to Swedish Motors on Riverside. They’re good with Volvos. Should have her back to you Monday, Tuesday latest.” Florence nodded, watching as Dale efficiently hooked the Volvo to his truck with the practiced movements of someone who had per formed this exact sequence thousands of times. The car lifted, tilted, and became cargo rather than transportation. Marcus stood beside her, hands in his pockets, saying nothing. Within minutes the Volvo was secured and Dale was climbing back into his cab. “You need aride somewhere?” he asked Florence through the window. “I’ve got her,” Marcus said before Florence could answer. Dale nodded, shifted into gear, and pulled away with Florence’scar trailing behind like acaptured animal. They stood together on the shoulder watching the tow truck dis appear around the bend. “So,” Marcus said finally. “Where to?” When our infrastructure fails we realize we have built our lives on systems we never think about until they stop working. Cars. Elec tricity. Plumbing. Marriage. These systems create the illusion of permanence. We believe they will always function because they have always functioned. We forget that everything mechanical eventually breaks down. And when the breakdown comes, we are forced to accept help from strangers. We are forced to acknowledge our dependence. We are forced to recog nize that the self-sufficient life we imagined we lived was only amere mirage sustained by invisible labor and functional machinery. This is called humility. This is also called being human. This is also called the moment when Florence Feelgood got into Marcus’scar and allowed herself to be driven home by aman who was not her husband. Marcus’scar was aten-year-old Honda Accord, clean but livedin, with amassage therapy certification hanging from the rearview mirror and acollection of classical music CDs in the center console. Florence settled into the passenger seat. “Where do you live?” Marcus asked, pulling onto the road. Florence gave him the address—the suburban development she’dinhabited for twenty-two years, the house with the guest room and the carpet indentations and the marriage that had finally revealed itself as empty. Marcus nodded and drove. They were silent for the first few minutes, the kind of silence that wasn’tuncomfortable but wasn’tquite comfortable either. The silence of two people who had shared an unexpected intimacy and were now navigating what came after. “Thank you,” Florence said finally. “For stopping. For helping.” “Of course,” Marcus said. “Icouldn’tjust drive past.” “Most people would have.” “Most people aren’tpaying attention.” Florence looked at him—his profile calm and focused on the road, his hands relaxed on the steering wheel. There was something fundamentally decent about Marcus that had nothing to do with performance or social obligation. He had stopped because stopping was the right thing to do.
“Can Iask you something?” Florence said. “Sure.” “When you work with people—when you do massage thera py—do you ever feel like you’re seeing past their acting? Like you’re touching the actual person underneath all the roles they play?” Marcus was quiet for amoment, considering. “Yes,” he said finally. “ All the time. Bodies don’tlie the way words do. You can feel where someone holds their tension. Where they’ve been hurt. Where they’re protecting themselves.” “ And what did you feel when you worked with me?” Marcus glanced at her, then back at the road. “Ifelt someone who’sbeen holding herself very carefully for avery long time,” he said. “Someone who’safraid that if she lets go, everything will fall apart.” Florence felt something catch in her throat. “What if it does fall apart?” she asked quietly. “Then you build something new,” Marcus said. “Something that’sactually yours.” They drove through the suburban streets, past the identical houses and manicured lawns, past the infrastructure of middle-class American life that Florence had inhabited without question for over two decades. “Itold Humphries I’mleaving him,” Florence said suddenly. “This morning. Before Ileft the house.” Marcus didn’treact with surprise or judgment. He simply nodded. “How did that feel?” he asked. “Terrifying,” Florence admitted. “ And also—” she paused, search ing for the word. “Necessary. Like I’dbeen holding my breath for twenty-two years and Ifinally exhaled.” “That’sgood,” Marcus said. “That’sreally good.” They pulled into Florence’sneighborhood, the familiar streets that had always felt like safety and now felt like acage she was pre paring to leave. “Ihave an appointment with you Thursday,” Florence said as Mar cus turned onto her street. “ At least, Ithink Ido. Ididn’tcancel it.” “You do,” Marcus confirmed. “Two o’clock.” “I’dlike to keep it,” Florence said, and the way she said it made clear she wasn’tjust talking about massage therapy. Marcus pulled into her driveway and put the car in park. He turned to look at her fully. “Florence,” he said carefully. “Iwant you to know that whatever you decide—about your marriage, about your life—I’mnot trying to influence that. I’mnot trying to be anything other than someone who sees you.” “Iknow,” Florence said. “That’swhy Iwant to keep the appoint ment.” She opened the door and stepped out, then leaned back in. “Thank you, Marcus. For everything.” “See you Thursday,” he said. Florence closed the door and walked toward her house—the house she’dlived in for twenty-two years, the house she was prepar ing to leave, the house that suddenly felt less like home and more like amuseum of alife she’doutgrown. Behind her, Marcus’s Honda pulled away, carrying with it the possibility of something genuine in aworld built on acting. * * * * * * Wanda heard the commotion. At first she thought it was the tele vision—Sheila sometimes left it on when she went to work, tuned to one of those daytime talk shows where people screamed at each other about paternity tests and betrayal. But this wasn’ttelevision. This was real sound. Real disturbance. Someone was in Sheila’sapartment. Someone was moving around, bumping into furniture, making the kind of noises that suggested either crisis or intoxication or both. Wanda sat in her wheelchair by the window, the afternoon light slanting across her lap, and listened. Aman’svoice. Slurred. Con fused. Saying something about dimples and walls breathing and Wanda.
He was saying her name. Wanda. She felt arecognition so old it had calcified into scar tissue. “Sheila?” she called out, her voice still strong despite her body’sfailures. “Sheila, are you there?” No answer. Wanda wheeled herself to the door of her room and opened it. The hallway was empty, but she could hear more clearly now—defi nitely aman’svoice, definitely in Sheila’sapartment, definitely saying things that made no sense. She needed to get out there. She hadn’tattempted to leave her room in three months. But something in that voice—something in the way the man said her name—pulled at her with the gravity of unfinished business. Wanda wheeled herself to the hallway and called out again. “Sheila! Ineed help!” This time she heard movement. Adoor opening. Footsteps. Sheila appeared, looking at her with concern. “Mom? What’swrong?” “There’ssomeone in your apartment,” Wanda said. “Ican hear him. Who is it?” Sheila hesitated, and in that hesitation Wanda saw confirmation. “It’s—it’sjust someone who needed help,” Sheila said carefully. “He collapsed in the parking lot. Ibrought him inside.” “Who is he?” Another hesitation. “Idon’tknow his name,” Sheila said, which was technically true and completely false at the same time. “I’mcoming out,” Wanda said. “Mom, you don’tneed to—” “Iwant to come out,” Wanda repeated, and her tone made it clear this wasn’tnegotiable. Sheila watched her mother wheel herself out of her room, her face showing the conflict between protecting her mother and honor ing her autonomy. “Okay,” she said quietly. “But we’re going slow.” This is what happens when the body fails but the will remains: we are not our bodies, though we are trapped inside them. We are not our limitations, though we are defined by them. We are not our past, though we carry it with us like cargo we can never set down. Wanda had been beautiful once. Men had paid money to watch her dance, and more. She had moved with agrace that seemed to defy physics, her body an instrument of desire and power. Now she moved one painful inch at atime, supported by awheelchair. But her will—her fundamental insistence on agency— remained intact. This is called dignity. This is called refusing to be erased by cir cumstance. This is called amother who knows her daughter is hid ing something and demands to see the truth. “You don’thave to do this,” Sheila said softly as they reached the living room. “Yes,” Wanda said. “Ido.” They continued on. Wanda felt memories rising like water through cracks in adam. Ayoung man. Nervous. Sweet. Completely out of his depth. His friends had brought him to the club—some kind of bachelor party, some kind of last-night-of-freedom ritual. He’dbeen terrified and fascinated in equal measure. She’ddanced for him. Taken him to the back room. Done what she was paid to do. But there had been something else. Something genuine beneath the transaction. He’dlooked at her like she was real. Not afantasy. Not acommodity. Real. And afterward, when his friends had dragged him away, he’dturned back to look at her one more time with an expression that said I’ll remember you. Forever. Nine months later, Sheila was born. Wanda had never told him. Never tried to find him. He was get ting married—his friends had made that clear. He was entering alife that had no room for atopless dancer and an unplanned child. So Wanda had raised Sheila alone, working when she could, struggling when she couldn’t, building alife from the wreckage of circumstances.
Sheila had grown up knowing who her father was when she was old enough to understand—not knowing his name, but knowing he existed somewhere in the world, and knowing he had no idea she existed. But that’sall she knew. She didn’tknow where he lived. What his name was. Nothing more than the basic facts. Wanda stood in the living room now, breathing hard, standing, leaning heavily on Sheila. From deep inside the apartment came asound—aman’svoice, thick and confused, saying something about walls and time and Wanda’sdimples. Wanda’sbreath caught. She knew that voice. It was older. Rough er. Damaged by alcohol and disappointment. But she knew it. “Mom—” Sheila started. Aknock on the door interrupted her. Three sharp raps. Urgent. Concerned. Sheila and Wanda both turned toward the sound. Eileen had driven away from the business condos in astate of ex istential vertigo. Her entire identity had been destabilized by asingle afternoon with Lawrence. Everything she’dbelieved about herself— her sexuality, her certainty, her contempt for men—had revealed it self as negotiable. She’dnoticed Humphries’ Dodge Dart still parked at George’sof fice. Humphries’ car. Abandoned. Unchanged. Suddenly, beneath all her confusion about Lawrence, beneath all her crisis about identity, adifferent concern surfaced. Genuine worry. For Humphries. For the man she’dspent over years telling Florence to leave. Eileen had pulled a U-turn so sharp her tires squealed, driven back to the business condos, and parked beside the Dodge Dart. George had told her Humphries had collapsed on his couch, seemed ‘pretty out of it,’ and then disappeared. The apartments were adjacent to George’soffice. If Humphries had collapsed, if he’dneeded help, someone in the building would have taken him in. Eileen had checked the directory. Four units. She’dstarted knocking. Now she stood outside Unit 2-C, having got ten no answer from the first three apartments, raising her hand to knock again. The door opened. Ayoung woman stood there—mid to late twenties, dark hair, tired eyes that held something guarded and care ful. Behind her, Eileen could see into the apartment. Could see acouch. Could see aman lying there, muttering to himself, clearly in some kind of altered state. She could see Humphries. “Oh, thank God,” Eileen said. “I’ve been looking for him. Is he okay? What happened?” The young woman—Sheila—opened her mouth to answer. But before she could speak, another voice came from behind her. An older woman’svoice. Rough with age and cigarettes and hard living. Avoice that said: “Eileen?” Eileen looked past Sheila and saw the woman in the hallway. El derly. Standing next to awheelchair that Sheila had apparently just helped her out of. Staring at Eileen with an expression of shocked recognition. “How do you know my name?” Eileen asked. The old woman smiled—asad, knowing smile that contained de cades of secrets. “Because Humphries talked about you,” Wanda said. “Twentyfive years ago. The night we met. He talked about his fiancée’sbest friend. The lesbian who hated him. The woman named Eileen who thought he wasn’tgood enough for Florence.” Eileen felt the world tilt slightly. Because now the secret Eileen had been hiding all these many years came forth—once, along time ago, Eileen was an exotic dancer. She worked in the same club as Wanda. Because she was broke. She was unemployed. But she had amagnificent body and she knew men would pay to see it. It was why she hated men. Always pawing at her and trying to get in her pants. She hated them. With apassion that burned brighter than the flames of hell she lived in. She hated them. “You’re Wanda,” she said. “I’m Wanda.”
They stared at each other—two women connected by adrunk man who was currently lying on acouch experiencing apsychedelic crisis in the apartment between them. “He’sbeen looking for you,” Eileen said quietly. “For twenty-five years. You’re all he talks about when he’sdrunk enough to be honest.” “Iknow,” Wanda said. “Men like Humphries—they hold onto one moment of wildness and make it mean everything.” From the couch, Humphries muttered something about dimples and golden light and walls that breathed like lungs. Sheila stood between them, her face showing the strain of secrets about to break open. “Mom,” she said quietly. “Don’t.” But Wanda was looking at Eileen with an expression that said the time for secrets had passed. “You came here looking for him,” Wanda said. “You’ve found him.” “I—” Eileen started, then stopped. “His car was still here. Ithought something might be wrong.” “Something is wrong,” Wanda said. “But not what you think.” Back in the wheelchair she wheeled herself closer to the doorway, looking past Sheila to where Humphries lay muttering on the couch. “That man,” Wanda said, “is Sheila’sfather.” The words hung in the air like thick, acrid smoke. Eileen looked at Sheila. At Wanda. At Humphries on the couch. “What?” she said. “Twenty-five years ago, ” Wanda continued, her voice steady and clear, “Humphries came to the club where we worked. You were off that night. His friends brought him for his bachelor party. We spent one night together. One real night, not just atransaction. An entire night in the back room of astrip club. And nine months later, Sheila was born. ” Sheila closed her eyes, her face showing both the relief and terror of asecret finally spoken. “He doesn’tknow,” Wanda said. “He’snever known. Inever told him. He was getting married. He was entering into alife that had no room for us. So Iraised her alone.” Eileen stared at Sheila—this young woman who had Humphries’ eyes, Humphries’ nervous energy, Humphries’ fundamental decency buried under layers of circumstance. This was his daughter? “You’ve known?” Eileen asked Sheila. “Most of my life,” Sheila said quietly. “Mom told me when Iwas old enough to understand. She told me he was agood man who’dnever known any different and Ishouldn’thate him for it.” “And he has no idea?” Eileen said. “None,” Wanda confirmed. “Until about an hour ago, he didn’teven know Ilived in this building. Didn’tknow Sheila existed. Didn’tknow that the woman he’sbeen obsessing over for twenty-five years has been two rooms away as he sat with the daughter he never knew he had.” From the couch, Humphries laughed—astrange, disconnected sound that suggested he was experiencing something far beyond their conversation. “What’swrong with him?” Eileen asked. “He took LSD,” Sheila said. “By accident. We thought it was as pirin.” “Jesus Christ,” Eileen breathed. “He’sbeen saying your name,” Wanda told Eileen. “Yours and mine. And Florence’s. He’sbeen cycling through all the women in his life, trying to make sense of something that doesn’tmake sense.” Eileen looked at the three of them—Wanda, Sheila, and Humphries—afamily that had never been acknowledged, connect ed by one night twenty-five years ago and the accident of Sheila’scompassion bringing her father into her apartment without knowing who he was. “Does Florence know?” Eileen asked. “About Sheila?” “No,” Wanda said. “Nobody knows except the three of us.” The weight of the secret settled over Eileen like aphysical thing. She had come here looking for adrunk man. She had found ahidden daughter. She had found twenty-five years of unacknowl edged paternity. She had found the truth that Humphries had been searching for without knowing what he was searching for.
“What are you going to do?” Sheila asked quietly. Eileen looked at her—this young woman who had inherited Humphries’ fundamental decency and Wanda’sstrength, who had grown up knowing her father existed but remained unknown to him. “Idon’tknow,” Eileen said honestly. From the couch, Humphries muttered something about dimples and daughters and walls that contained universes. The four of them—Wanda, Sheila, Eileen, and the unconscious Humphries—connected by secrets and blood and the strange gravity of lives that intersect in ways we never plan. Outside, the afternoon was quickly fading into evening. Inside, the truth had finally been spoken. And somewhere in the space between, Humphries Feelgood lay on his daughter’scouch, tripping on LSD, completely unaware that he had just found the family he never knew he’dlost while the wom an who had hated him for so long finally realized he was not so bad after all.
Pierce had been sitting at The Copper Still for three hours and forty-seven minutes. He knew this because he’dbeen watching the clock above the bar with the obsessive focus of aman trying to avoid thinking about what was in the folder beside his whiskey glass. The folder was manila. Standard issue. The kind used in govern ment offices across America to contain forms and reports and the bureaucratic machinery of institutional righteousness. Inside this particular folder was the destruction of aman named Humphries Feelgood. Pierce had signed every page. He’dfabricated the evidence with Reginald’sguidance—altered transaction records, forged email correspondence, manufactured apaper trail that would convince any jury that Humphries had or chestrated the illegal trading scheme that bankrupted First Ameri can Teleflorist and Life Insurance Company. It was thorough. It was convincing. It was completely false. And Pierce had done it to protect the woman he loved. The whiskey was cheap—well bourbon that burned going down and left aresidue of self-loathing in its wake. Pierce had consumed four glasses over the course of the afternoon, nursing each one while the bartender pretended not to notice the folder or the way Pierce kept opening it, staring at the fabricated documents, then closing it again. The bar was nearly empty. An old man still read anewspaper in the corner. Acouple still argued quietly in abooth. The bartender wiped glasses with mechanical efficiency. Pierce sat alone with his conscience and discovered it was sur prisingly heavy for something invisible. He thought about Humphries Feelgood. He’dnever met the man. Didn’tknow what he looked like. Didn’tknow if he had afamily, or
children, or dreams, or any of the things that make aperson real rather than just aname on fraudulent documents. All Pierce knew was that Humphries was innocent, and that Pierce was going to destroy him anyway. The rationalization had seemed so clear in Reginald’soffice: I’man orphan. I’ve had nothing my entire life. Amelia is the first person who’sever made me feel human. Ican’tsacrifice that. Iwon’t. But sitting here in the dim light of The Copper Still, staring at the folder, Pierce discovered that rationalization and justification were not the same as peace. He kept seeing Amelia’sface—the way she’dblushed when he kissed her hand, the quiet certainty in her voice when she’dsaid she hoped they’dmeet again. She thought he was agood man. She thought he had integrity. She’dfallen in love with someone who didn’texist. Pierce finished his fourth whiskey and signaled for afifth. The bartender poured without comment, the amber liquid catching the light as it filled the glass. “You okay?” the bartender asked, his tone suggesting he’dseen this exact scene athousand times before. “No,” Pierce said honestly. The bartender nodded and moved away, again granting him the privacy of his private, moral collapse. Pierce stared at the whiskey, then at the folder, then back at the whiskey. He thought about what would happen when the evidence was presented. Humphries would be arrested and charged. His life would be dismantled piece by piece while lawyers and prosecutors built acase around the lies Pierce had created. Amelia would never know. She would believe Pierce had investi gated her and found her innocent. She would believe the real crimi nal had been caught. She would believe their love was built on truth. She would believe alie. Pierce picked up the glass and drank half of it in one swallow. The whiskey burned, but not as much as the knowledge of what he’ dbecome. Icould live with this, he thought. Icould carry this secret. Icould let Humphries be destroyed and build alife with Amelia and never tell her what Idid. Icould do that. The thought sat in his chest like astone. But Iwon’tbe able to look at her without seeing what Isacrificed to have her. Pierce finished the whiskey and stood. The bar tilted slightly—not enough to make him stumble, but enough to remind him he was drunk. He gathered the folder, left
cash on the bar, and walked toward the door. The bartender watched him go with the expression of someone who knew exactly where this was heading and had seen it end badly every time. He made no effort to stop him. Outside, the evening air was cool and sharp. Pierce stood on the sidewalk, folder in hand, and made adecision. He couldn’tlet Ame lia believe the lie. He couldn’tlet her love someone who didn’texist. He had to tell her what he’ddone. Even if it destroyed everything. The drive to Amelia’sestate took twenty-three minutes. Pierce knew this because he kept checking the clock on the dashboard, watching the minutes tick away like acountdown to his own execu tion. His hands gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled in tensity. The folder sat on the passenger seat beside him, aphysical manifestation of his betrayal. The whiskey made everything feel slightly unreal—the street lights too bright, the road too narrow, his thoughts fragmenting and reforming in patterns that didn’tquite make sense. He rehearsed what he was going to say. Amelia, Ineed to tell you something. I’ve done something terrible. Ifabricated evidence to protect you. An innocent man is going to be destroyed because Ifell in love with you. No. Too clinical. Amelia, I’mnot the man you think Iam. I’m acoward who chose love over integrity. Iframed someone to save your life and I’ddo it again.
No. Too defensive. Amelia, Ilove you. And because Ilove you, Idestroyed aman named Humphries Feelgood, who never did anything wrong except work for acompany your brother bankrupted. No. Too brutal. Pierce drove through the suburban streets, past the identical houses and manicured lawns, past the infrastructure of middle-class American life that Humphries Feelgood probably inhabited. He thought again about the man whose life he’ddestroyed. Was Humphries married? Did he have children? Did he drink too much or work too hard or dream about retirement? Pierce didn’tknow. He’dnever asked because he didn’twant to know. He’dsimply signed the documents that would send Humphries to prison and moved on. The guilt sat in his stomach like acid. I’m amonster, Pierce thought. I’mexactly what those people at Sir John’sestate accused me of being—someone who destroys lives to protect himself. The car ahead of him turned left. Pierce followed automatically, his mind elsewhere. But I’mnot protecting myself. I’mprotecting Amelia. Does that make it better or worse? He didn’tknow. The whiskey made it hard to think clearly, but it also made it pos sible to think of truth. Sober, Pierce would have rationalized himself into silence. Drunk, he could only see the truth. He’dsacrificed an innocent man for love, and he couldn’tlive with Amelia believing he was someone he wasn’t. The estate gates appeared ahead—tall, ornate, expensive. Pierce pulled up to the intercom and pressed the button. Amoment later, Affron’sdeep baritone rumbled through the speaker. “Yes?” “It’s Pierce Williams,” Pierce said, his voice rougher than he in tended. “Ineed to see Amelia. Now.” There was apause. “Sir, it’srather late—” “Now,” Pierce repeated. Then added, “Please.” Another pause, longer this time. Then the gates swung open. Pierce drove through, his heart hammering in his chest, the folder on the passenger seat feeling heavier with every second. The driveway curved through manicured gardens. The mansion loomed ahead, lit from within, elegant and imposing. Pierce parked and sat for amoment, staring at the building. Icould turn around, he thought. Icould drive away and never tell her. Icould let her believe the lie. But even as he thought it, he knew he wouldn’t. He grabbed the folder and got out of the car. Affron met him at the door with an expression of professional concern. “Mr. Williams,” he said carefully. “Are you quite all right?” “No,” Pierce said. “Ineed to see Amelia. Alone.” “She’sin the parlor with Mr. Lawrence—” “Alone,” Pierce repeated, his voice harder now. “Please.” Affron studied him for amoment, then nodded. “Wait here.” Pierce stood in the foyer, folder clutched in his hands, trying to steady his breathing. The whiskey made everything feel distant and immediate at the same time. He could smell the polish on the marble floors. Could hear voices from somewhere deeper in the house. He could feel his heart beating too fast. Footsteps approached. Amelia appeared in the doorway, her face showing concern and something else—hope, maybe, at the beginning of love. “Pierce?” she said. “What’swrong? Affron said you seemed—” “Ineed to talk to you,” Pierce interrupted. “Alone. Please.” Amelia glanced back toward the parlor, then nodded. “Of course. Come in.” She led him to the parlor—the same elegant room where they’d
first met, where she’dserved him tea and cakes, where he’dfallen in love with her poise and delicacy. The room looked exactly the same. The artwork. The sculptures. The antique furniture. Yet everything seemed changed. Different. Amelia closed the door and turned to face him. “Pierce, you’re frightening me. What’shappened?” Pierce stood in the center of the room, folder in hand, and felt the weight of what he was about to do settle over him like ashroud. “Ineed to tell you something,” he said. “And after Itell you, you’re going to hate me. But Ican’t—Ican’tlet you believe I’msomeone I’mnot.” Amelia’sface went pale. “What are you talking about?” Pierce opened the folder with shaking hands and held it out to her. “This, ” he said, “is fabricated evidence against aman named Humphries Feelgood. He’san employee at First American Teleflorist and Life Insurance Company. He’sinnocent. He had nothing to do with the illegal trading involving your brother that bankrupted the company. ” Amelia stared at the folder, not taking it. “Idon’tunderstand.” “Your brother, Lawrence,” Pierce continued, his voice rough with whiskey and desperation, “has been running an illegal insider-trad ing operation for years. You’ve been the front for it—conducting all the business on his behalf. The Securities Commission discovered this. Iwas assigned to investigate you.” “Iknow,” Amelia said quietly. “You told me—” “Ilied,” Pierce interrupted. “Ididn’tfind you innocent. Ifound you guilty. Both of you. The evidence was overwhelming.” Amelia took astep back, her hand going to her throat. “Then why—” “Because Ifell in love with you,” Pierce said, and his voice cracked. “Because for the first time in fifty years, someone looked at me like Iwas human. I’man orphan who’sbeen alone his entire life, and you made me feel like Imattered.” He thrust the folder toward her again. “My superior gave me an ultimatum. He said if Ididn’tfabricate evidence to frame someone else—someone innocent—he would de stroy my career. He would leak that I’dbeen accused of homosexual ity years ago at Sir John’sestate. He would make sure Iwould never work in government again.” Amelia’seyes were wide with horror. “So you—” “So Iagreed,” Pierce said. “Imanufactured evidence against Humphries Feelgood. Iforged documents. Icreated apaper trail that will send an innocent man to prison. Idid it to protect you. Idid it because Icouldn’tbear to lose you.” The folder hung between them, damning and undeniable. “Isigned every page,” Pierce continued. “Ilooked at the evidence of your guilt, and Iburied it. Ilooked at Humphries Feelgood’sin nocence, and Idestroyed it. Ibecame exactly the kind of person I’ve spent my entire career prosecuting.” Amelia took the folder with trembling hands and opened it. Pierce watched her face as she read—saw the moment she under stood what she was looking at, saw the horror and comprehension dawn in her eyes. “This man,” she said quietly, her voice barely audible. “Humphries Feelgood. He’sinnocent?” “Completely.” “And he’sgoing to be arrested? Charged?” “Yes.” “Because of you.” “Because of me.” Amelia closed the folder and looked up at Pierce with an expres sion that contained everything he’dfeared—betrayal, disgust, heart break. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked. “Because Ican’tlet you love someone who doesn’texist,” Pierce said. “Because you think I’m agood man. You think Ihave integrity. You think Iinvestigated you and found you innocent.”
“ And instead you found me guilty and framed someone else.” “Yes.” The word hung in the air between them, abrick of coal, floating. Amelia set the folder on the table and walked to the window, her back to Pierce. “Itold Lawrence Iwas in love with you,” she said quietly. “Just this afternoon. Itold him you were the first person who ever made me feel real.” Pierce felt something break inside him. “I’msorry,” he said. “ Are you?” Amelia turned to face him, and her eyes were bright with tears. “ Are you actually sorry? Or are you just sorry Ifound out?” Pierce opened his mouth to answer, then closed it. Because he didn’tknow. “Iwould do it again,” he said finally. “If Ihad to choose between your life and my integrity, Iwould choose you. Every time. I’mnot sorry Iprotected you. I’msorry Ihad to destroy someone else to do it.” “That’snot the same thing,” Amelia said. “Iknow.” They stood in the parlor—the same room where they’dfallen in love—and looked at each other across adistance that had nothing to do with physical space. “This man,” Amelia said. “Humphries Feelgood. Does he have afamily?” “Idon’tknow.” “You don’tknow?” “Inever asked,” Pierce admitted. “Ijust signed the documents.” Amelia’sface showed something Pierce had never seen before— contempt. “You destroyed aman’slife and you didn’teven bother to learn who he was.” “Icouldn’t,” Pierce said. “If Ihad known—if Ihad let him be real—Iwouldn’thave been able to do it.” “So you kept him abstract.” “Yes.” “That’smonstrous.” “Iknow.” Amelia walked back to the table and picked up the folder again, staring at it like it was asnake. “My brother and I,” she said quietly, “we’ve been breaking the law for years. We’ve made millions of dollars through illegal trading. We’ve destroyed companies and ruined lives and we’ve never faced consequences.” “Iknow.” “And now an innocent man is going to prison so we can continue to escape those consequences.” “Yes.” Amelia looked up at Pierce with tears streaming down her face. “Ican’t—” she started, then stopped. “Ican’tbe with someone who would do this. Even for me. Especially for me.” Pierce felt the words like aphysical blow. “Iunderstand,” he said. “Do you?” Amelia’svoice was sharp now. “Do you understand that you’ve made me complicit in this? That I’mnow part of the de struction of an innocent man? That Ihave to live with the knowledge that someone Iloved—someone Itrusted—sacrificed another hu man being for me?” “Ididn’twant you to carry that,” Pierce said. “That’swhy Icame here. That’swhy Itold you. So you wouldn’thave to live with the lie.” “But Ihave to live with the truth,” Amelia said. “And the truth is worse.” She set the folder down and walked to the door. “Ithink you should leave,” she said quietly. Pierce stood in the center of the parlor, drunk, broken and com pletely alone. “Amelia—” “Please,” she said, as her voice cracked, “just go.” Pierce walked toward the door, then stopped beside her.
“Ilove you,” he said. “That’sthe only true thing Ihave left.” Amelia looked at him with eyes full of tears and something that might have been love or might have been grief. “Iknow,” she said. “That’swhat makes this so terrible.” Pierce left the parlor, walked through the foyer, and stepped out into the night. Behind him, he heard Amelia close the door. The sound was fi nal. He sat in his car in Amelia’sdriveway and stared at the mansion. The whiskey was wearing off, leaving behind aclarity that was worse than drunkenness. He had told her the truth. He had confessed everything. And she had sent him away. Pierce started the engine and drove through the gates, watch ing the mansion disappear in his rearview mirror. He thought about Humphries Feelgood—the innocent man whose life he’ddestroyed. He thought about Amelia—the woman he’dloved enough to be tray everything he believed in. He thought about himself—the orphan who’dspent fifty years trying to be good and had failed at the moment it mattered most. The folder was still on the passenger seat. The evidence was still fabricated. Humphries Feelgood was still going to be arrested. And Pierce Williams was still the man who’dmade it happen. He drove through the suburban streets, past the houses and lawns and infrastructure of ordinary American life, and knew with absolute certainty that he would never be ordinary again. He’dcrossed aline. He’dsacrificed an innocent man for love. And even though Amelia had rejected him, even though she’dsent him away, even though everything was broken—he knew he’ddo it again. That was the truth he couldn’tescape. That was the monster he’dbecome. Pierce drove into the night, alone with his conscience, and dis covered that some betrayals can never be undone.
There is abeautiful quality to the moment when comfortable illusions shatter. It is not dramatic. There are no explosions, no sudden revelations accompanied by orchestral swells. In stead, it arrives with the quiet certainty of adiagnosis—the doctor’scareful tone, the manila folder opened on the desk, the words that rearrange your understanding of everything that came before. I’mafraid the tests show... Ineed to tell you something about your husband... We’ve fabricated evidence against an innocent man to protect you... The world does not end. The sun continues its trajectory. Traf fic lights change on schedule. But the architecture of meaning—the framework that held your life in recognizable shape—collapses so completely that you wonder how it ever seemed solid to begin with. This is what happened to three people on the same evening, in three different locations, as the consequences of choices made by others arrived to dismantle their carefully constructed realities. Eileen’scar pulled into Florence’sdriveway at 8:43 PM. She sat for amoment with the engine running, hands gripping the steering wheel, trying to organize the chaos of information she was about to deliver. Humphries collapsed. Sheila is his daughter. Wanda lives with Sheila. He took LSD by accident and he is tripping in an apartment with his biological daughter, and her mother, and doesn’tknow who either of them are. How did one begin such aconversation? Hello, Florence. Iknow I’ve spent over twenty-five years telling you to leave your husband, but it turns out he has asecret daugh ter from aone-night stand twenty-five years ago, and she’scurrently nursing him through apsychedelic crisis while his former lover—the woman he’sbeen obsessed with his entire marriage—sits beside him.
Also, Imight be in love with aman, which contradicts everything I’ve ever told you about my sexuality. How was your day? Eileen turned off the engine. Through the living room window, she could see Florence mov ing inside—ashadow crossing the curtains, the familiar shape of her friend in her familiar house doing familiar things. Except nothing was familiar anymore. Eileen got out of the car and walked toward the front door, her heart hammering with the particular anxiety of someone about to destroy another person’sunderstanding of their own life. She rang the doorbell. Footsteps approached. The door opened. Florence stood in the threshold, still wearing the clothes she’dworn when her Volvo broke down, her expression showing surprise and something else—wariness, maybe, or the residue of their road side confrontation. “Eileen,” Florence said carefully. “Iwasn’texpecting—” “Ineed to talk to you,” Eileen interrupted. “About Humphries.” Florence’sface shifted—concern replacing wariness. “What about Humphries? Is he—” “He’salive,” Eileen said quickly. “But he’s... Florence, can Icome in? This is going to take awhile.” Florence stepped aside, allowing Eileen into the living room where Humphries had awakened hungover on the floor what felt like alifetime ago but was actually just that morning. They stood facing each other in the space where their friendship had played out for over twenty-five years—bridge games and cof fee and endless conversations about Florence’smarriage and Eileen’scertainty that men were worthless. “What’shappened?” Florence asked. Eileen took abreath. “Iwent back to the business condos,” she said, “after Ileft you on the road. Isaw Humphries’ car still parked there and Igot worried—” “Worried?” Florence’stone contained surprise. “You’ve never been worried about Humphries in your life. What business condos?” “Iknow,” Eileen admitted, “this is complicated. But his car had been sitting there for hours and George said he’dcollapsed on the couch and then disappeared, and Ithought—Idon’tknow what Ithought. That maybe he’dhad aheart attack or something.” Florence sat down slowly on the couch, her face pale. “Is he in the hospital? Who’s George?” “No,” Eileen said. “He’sin an apartment at the business condos. With awoman named Sheila.” “Who?” “Sheila. She works at Riverside Market. She lives in the building where George has his office. She found Humphries collapsed in the parking lot and brought him inside.” Florence processed this information with visible effort. “So he’ssafe? He’sbeing cared for?” “Yes,” Eileen said. “But Florence, there’smore. Alot more.” She sat down beside her friend, trying to find words for the im possible. “Sheila isn’tjust some Good Samaritan who helped astranger,” Eileen continued. “She’s... Florence, she’s Humphries’ daughter.” The words hung in the air like afattened goose unable to fly. Florence stared at Eileen with an expression of complete incom prehension. “That’snot possible,” she said finally. “Humphries and Idon’thave children. We never...” “Not with you,” Eileen said gently. “With Wanda.” The name landed like aphysical blow. Florence’sface went white. “Wanda?” she repeated. “The topless dancer from his bachelor party?” “Yes.” “The woman he’sbeen obsessed with for twenty-five years?” “Yes.” Florence stood abruptly and walked to the window, her back to Eileen. “How do you know this?” she asked, her voice tight. “Because Wanda told me,” Eileen said. “She lives in the same apartment with Sheila. Right next to George’soffice. She’sdisabled
now—can’twalk without help. But she remembered Humphries. She remembered that night. And she told me that Sheila is his daughter.” Florence turned around, her face showing something Eileen had never seen before—not anger, not hurt, but akind of terrible clarity. “He has adaughter,” Florence said slowly. “Adaughter he’snever met. Adaughter who exists because of one night with awoman he can’tstop thinking about.” “Yes.” “ And this daughter—Sheila—she knows? She’salways known?” “When she was old enough to understand,” Eileen confirmed. “Wanda told her. But Humphries has no idea.” Florence walked back to the couch and sat down with mechani cal precision. “Where is he now?” she asked. “Still at Sheila’sapartment,” Eileen said. “But Florence, there’ssomething else. Something that makes this even more complicated.” “More complicated than discovering my husband has asecret daughter?” Eileen winced. “Sheila gave him what she thought was aspirin,” she said. “For the collapse. But it wasn’taspirin. It was LSD. Left over from aprevious tenant or something. Humphries is tripping. Right now. In an apart ment with his biological daughter and her mother, Wanda, and he doesn’tknow who either of them are.” Florence stared at her. “LSD?” she repeated. “Yes.” “Humphries is on LSD?” “Yes.” “The man who gets drunk on two beers is currently experiencing apsychedelic drug trip?” “Yes.” Florence started to laugh. It was not ahappy sound. It was the laugh of someone whose reality has become so absurd that laughter is the only possible response. “Of course he is,” she said. “Of course. Because why wouldn’tmy husband—my sheltered, pathetic, drunk husband—be tripping on LSD in an apartment with the woman he’sfantasized about for twen ty-five years and the daughter he never knew he had?” She stood again, pacing now, her movements sharp and agitated. “Do you know what Idid today, Eileen?” she asked. “Idrank black coffee. Three cups. At two in the afternoon. Isat in my kitchen and forced myself to drink bitter, terrible coffee because Ithought it would give me the strength to leave him.” “Florence—” “Iwas going to find you, ” Florence continued. “Iwas going to tell you that you were right. That Ineeded to cast off the chains of Humphries and discover who Ireally am. Iwas going to ask for your help. ” She turned to face Eileen, her eyes bright with tears. “And instead Ifound you with aman. After over twenty-five years of telling me that men are worthless and that Ishould leave mine, Ifind you having lunch with aman. And with stars in your eyes to boot.” “That’sdifferent,” Eileen said weakly. “Is it?” Florence’svoice was sharp. “Is it different? Or is it just another comfortable illusion shattering?” The question hung between them. Eileen had no answer. * * * * * * The walls were breathing in arhythm that matched Humphries’ heartbeat. In. Out. In. Out. Each breath of the walls sent ripples through the fabric of reality—small distortions that made the edges of objects shimmer and blur. Humphries sat on Sheila’scouch, his consciousness fragment ing and reforming in patterns he couldn’tname. Time had become viscous. Golden. Each second stretched into minutes, each minute contained eternities.
He was aware of two women in the room with him. One was young—dark hair, kind eyes, moving with careful efficiency as she checked his pulse and brought him water. The other was older—sit ting in awheelchair near the window, watching him with an expres sion he couldn’tquite read. Both of them felt important in away he couldn’tarticulate. “How are you feeling?” the younger woman asked. Sheila. Her name was Sheila. He remembered that much. “Strange,” Humphries said, and his voice sounded like it was coming from very far away. “Everything is...moving.” “That’sthe LSD,” Sheila said gently. “It’sgoing to feel strange for awhile. But you’re safe. You’re not in any danger.” LSD. The word meant something. Something about chemicals and consciousness and the sixties. Humphries tried to focus on Sheila’sface, but it kept shifting— her features rearranging themselves into patterns that were almost, but not quite, familiar. “Iknow you,” he said suddenly. Sheila’sexpression flickered—something passing across her face too quickly for him to identify. “We just met today,” she said. “You collapsed in the parking lot. Ibrought you inside.” “No,” Humphries insisted. “Iknow you. From before. From...” But the thought dissolved before he could complete it. The woman in the wheelchair spoke for the first time. “Hello, Humphries.” Her voice was rough, damaged by years of cigarettes and hard living, but underneath the roughness was something else—some thing that made Humphries’ heart accelerate. He turned to look at her fully. She was old. Disabled. Her body showing the wear of decades. But her eyes— Her eyes were the same. “Wanda?” he whispered. The woman smiled, and even through the damage of time, Humphries could see the ghost of the smile he’dcarried in his mem ory for twenty-five years. “Hello, baby,” Wanda said. The room tilted. Humphries gripped the couch cushions, trying to anchor him self to something solid as reality performed impossible gymnastics around him. “You’re here,” he said. “You’re right here and you’re real. Ithought—I’ve been thinking about you for so long and you’re here—” “I’ve always been here,” Wanda said. “All this time.” The implications of this statement were too large for Humphries’ fractured consciousness to process. Here. She’dbeen here. In the same building where he’dcollapsed. In the same building where— He looked at Sheila again. Really looked. And saw, with the ab solute clarity that LSD sometimes provides, the truth written in her features. The shape of her eyes. The curve of her jaw. The way she moved with careful efficiency. “Oh my God,” he said. Sheila met his gaze steadily. “Yes,” she said quietly. “You’re—” “Your daughter,” Sheila finished. “Yes.” The walls breathed in. Out. In. Out. Humphries felt something break open inside his mind—not painfully, but with the strange relief of awound finally being cleaned. “Ihave adaughter,” he said, testing the words. “You have adaughter,” Wanda confirmed from her wheelchair. “And you never told me.” “You were getting married,” Wanda said. “To Florence. Your fa ther had arranged it. What was Isupposed to do? Show up suddenly with ababy and ruin your life?” “My life was already ruined,” Humphries said, and the LSD made
the statement feel both profound and true. “I’ve been living in acage for twenty-five years. Acomfortable cage. But still, acage. Acage with amortgage, and awife, and ajob selling life insurance, and flo ral arrangements. All I’ve ever wanted is to find nirvana. We all want to find nirvana, right?” He looked at Sheila—his daughter, this stranger who shared his blood. “Did you know?” he asked. “ About me?” “When Iwas old enough to understand,” Sheila said. “ And you never—” “What was Isupposed to do?” Sheila’svoice was gentle but firm. “Track you down? Introduce myself? Destroy your marriage, your life? You had alife, Humphries. Iwasn’tgoing to ruin it.” “But Icould have known you,” Humphries said. Tears were run ning down his face now. Streaming. “Icould have been your father.” “You still can,” Sheila said. The statement hung in the air, impossible and true. Humphries looked between the two women—Wanda, the fan tasy he’dcarried for twenty-five years, now revealed as flesh, and blood, and wheelchair, and diabetes, and cigarette-damaged. Sheila, the daughter he’dnever known, now sitting beside him with infinite patience as he navigated the dissolution of his reality. “Idon’tunderstand,” he said. “Idon’tunderstand any of this.” “You don’thave to understand it right now,” Sheila said. “Right now you just have to breathe. The LSD will wear off. And then we can talk. Really talk.” But Humphries wasn’tlistening anymore. He was staring at Wanda, at the woman who had haunted his dreams and his marriage his entire adult life. She was real. She was here. And she was nothing like the fantasy he’dconstructed. “I’ve been in love with amemory,” he said slowly. “For twentyfive years. I’ve been in love with dimples and aphotograph and asingle night of feeling alive, believing it was nirvana.” “Iknow,” Wanda said. “But you’re not that memory.” “No,” Wanda agreed. “I’mnot.” Humphries felt something shift—not breaking, but rearrang ing. The architecture of his obsession collapsing to reveal the actual woman underneath. “I’msorry,” he said. “For what?” “For making you into something you weren’t. For carrying you around like atrophy. For never seeing you as areal person.” Wanda smiled—sad and knowing. “Baby,” she said, “that’swhat men do. They turn us into fantasies so they don’thave to deal with the reality. By the way, in your quest for finding nirvana, did you remember to put out the cat before you left?” The walls breathed. Time stretched. Humphries sat between his past and his future, trying to under stand how both could exist in the same room while simultaneously pondering putting out acat. Was the cat on fire, needing to be put out? Wouldn’tthe correct term be “put the cat out”? Was there something subliminal in what the wheelchair-bound woman who was/is Wanda was saying and Humphries simply didn’tunderstand? Why was he even thinking this to begin with? He’dnever thought so precisely be fore, so why now? And why, damn it, were the walls breathing? Was this nirvana? If so, where was the cat? And why, exactly, would there be acat in nirvana? * * * * * * Amelia sat across from her brother in the morning light and told him everything. She spoke with the careful precision of someone delivering adi agnosis—clinical, thorough, devastating. Lawrence listened without interrupting, his face growing paler with each revelation. When she finished, silence filled the parlor.
“ An innocent man,” Lawrence said finally. “Pierce fabricated evi dence against an innocent man.” “Yes.” “To protect us.” “Yes.” “ And this man—Humphries Feelgood—he’sgoing to be arrested. Charged. His life destroyed.” “Yes.” Lawrence stood and walked to the window, his movements un characteristically clumsy. “Ididn’tknow,” he said. “Ididn’tknow it would come to this.” “Didn’tyou?” Amelia’svoice was cold. “You’ve been running an illegal trading operation for years, Lawrence. You’ve bankrupted companies. Destroyed lives. Did you think there would never be consequences?” “Ithought—” Lawrence stopped, struggling to articulate some thing he’dnever had to examine before. “Ithought the money insu lated us. Ithought as long as we were careful, as long as you were our face, we’dbe safe.” “We are safe,” Amelia said. “That’sthe problem. We’re safe be cause an innocent man is being sacrificed in our place.” Lawrence turned to face her. “What do you want me to say?” he asked. “That I’msorry? That Ifeel guilty? Ido. But what difference does it make? The evidence is al ready fabricated. The frame is already in place. Humphries Feelgood is already destroyed.” “It makes adifference,” Amelia said, “because we have to decide what kind of people we are. Are we the kind of people who let an in nocent man go to prison to protect ourselves? Or are we the kind of people who confess?” “Confess?” Lawrence’svoice rose. “ Amelia, if we confess, we go to prison. Everything we’ve built—” “Everything we’ve built is alie,” Amelia interrupted. “It’sbuilt on fraud and manipulation and now it’sbuilt on the destruction of an innocent man’slife.” She stood and walked toward him, her face showing the same terrible clarity that Florence had shown when Eileen told her about Sheila. “Pierce told me something last night,” she said. “He told me that he would do it all over again. That if he had to choose between his integrity and protecting me, he would choose me every time.” “That’slove,” Lawrence said. “That’scorruption,” Amelia corrected. “That’swhat happens when we let our feelings override our principles. Pierce destroyed his entire moral framework because he fell in love with me. Over an afternoon tea! And Ilet him. Ilet him fall in love with me. Ilet him compromise everything he believed in.” “You didn’tknow—” “Iknew enough,” Amelia said. “Iknew he was investigating us. Iknew we were guilty. Iknew that if he found the truth, there would be consequences. And Ilet him fall in love with me anyway because it felt good to be seen as something other than your business front.” Lawrence flinched. “That’snot fair,” he said. “Isn’tit?” Amelia’svoice was sharp. “You’ve used me for years, Lawrence. You’ve hidden behind me while you made your fortune. You’ve let me conduct all the business, sign all the documents, take all the risk. And Ilet you because Ididn’tknow what else to do with my life.” She walked back to her chair and sat down with the same me chanical precision Florence had shown. “But now an innocent man is going to prison,” she continued. “And we’re the reason. Not directly—we didn’tfabricate the evi dence. But we created the situation that made the fabrication neces sary. We’re complicit.” “So what do you want to do?” Lawrence asked. “Turn ourselves in? Confess everything? Destroy our lives to save aman we’ve never met?” “Idon’tknow,” Amelia admitted. “Idon’tknow what the right thing to do is. But Iknow we can’tpretend this isn’thappening. We can’tjust accept Pierce’ssacrifice and move on like nothing’schanged.”
Lawrence sat down across from her, his face showing the strain of someone whose comfortable worldview was collapsing. “Ithought Iwas insulated,” he said quietly. “Ithought being gay, being wealthy, being careful—Ithought it meant Iwas somehow above consequences. That the rules didn’tapply to me the same way they applied to other people.” “Iknow,” Amelia said. “Ithought the same thing. Ithought by being the face of our operation it meant Iwas protected. That Icould conduct illegal business and never face the reality of what Iwas do ing.” “But we were wrong.” “Yes, we were wrong.” They sat in silence, two wealthy siblings in an elegant parlor, con fronting the truth of what they’dbecome. “What did Pierce say?” Lawrence asked finally, “when you sent him away?” “He said he loved me,” Amelia said. “He said that was the only true thing he had left.” “Do you believe him?” “Yes,” Amelia said. “That’swhat makes it so terrible. He really does love me. And he really did destroy an innocent man to protect me. And he really would do it again.” She looked at her brother with eyes that contained decades of unexamined complicity. “We did this,” she said. “Not Pierce. Us. We created the situation that forced him to choose. We’re the ones who should be facing con sequences. Not Humphries Feelgood!” “But we won’tbe facing consequences,” Lawrence said. “No,” Amelia agreed. “We won’t.” The morning light filled the parlor, illuminating the artwork and sculptures and antique furniture—all the beautiful things that mon ey can buy. Neither of them spoke. There was nothing left to say. * * * * * * Florence stood in her living room, staring at Eileen, trying to process the impossible. “He’stripping on LSD,” she said again, as if repetition would make it make sense. “Yes,” Eileen confirmed. “With his daughter.” “Yes.” “ And Wanda.” “Yes.” Florence walked to the kitchen and poured herself aglass of water with shaking hands. Through the window, she could see the indentations in the lawn where Humphries had driven the car two nights ago—the physical evidence of his latest drunken debauchery. But now that debauchery had acontext she’dnever imagined. He had adaughter. Adaughter he’dnever known about. Adaughter who existed because of one night of wildness before their arranged marriage. Florence drank the water and set the glass down carefully. “Ineed to see him,” she said. “Florence, Idon’tthink—” “Ineed to see him,” Florence repeated, her voice firm. “He’smy husband. He’shaving acrisis. Ineed to be there.” “He’snot really having acrisis,” Eileen said. “To be exact, he’shaving apsychedelic experience with his biological family. Idon’tthink you being there would help.” “Idon’tcare if it helps, or if it does not,” Florence said. “Ineed to see it. Ineed to see him with them. Ineed to understand what I’ve been living with for these past twenty-some-odd years. Ineed to see...the ghost.” She grabbed her purse and walked toward the door. “Florence, wait—” “Are you coming, or not?” Florence asked. Eileen stared at her friend—this woman she’dknown for over
twenty-five years, who had always been so controlled, so careful, so determined to maintain the appearance of suburban normalcy. That control was cracking, and in aspectacular way. “I’mcoming,” Eileen said. They walked to Eileen’scar together, two women bound by friendship and fracture, heading toward arevelation neither of them was prepared for. * * * * * * Humphries sat on the couch, watching the walls breathe, and felt afundamental shift inside him. The LSD was still working—reality still fragmenting and reforming in impossible patterns—but under neath the chemical distortion was something else: clarity. Not the false clarity of drunkenness or the comfortable clarity of routine, but the terrible clarity of truth. He had adaughter. He had spent twenty-five years obsessed with afantasy, living in acage of his own construction. And now, in this moment of chemical dissolution, he could see all of it so clearly. “I’ve wasted my life,” he said. Sheila and Wanda exchanged glances. “You haven’twasted anything,” Sheila said gently. “You’ve lived it the only way you knew how.” “But Icould have known you,” Humphries said, looking at her. “Icould have been your father. Icould have been part of your life.” “You still can.” “How?” Humphries asked. “How do Ibecome afather to agrown woman? How do Imake up for twenty-five years of absence?” “You begin,” Sheila said simply. “You start now. Right this mo ment. You stop living in the past and you start living in the present.” The walls breathed. Time stretched. And Humphries sat between his past and his future, between reality and delusion, trying to un derstand how to bridge the gap. * * * * * * Amelia sat in her parlor, alone now, staring at the teacup Pierce had used yesterday. The cup was still there, unwashed, aphysical reminder of the moment before everything shattered. She thought about Pierce’sconfession. She thought about Humphries Feelgood. She thought about the choices that had led them all to this moment. She realized, with the same terrible clarity that Humphries was expe riencing, that there was no way forward that didn’tinvolve sacrifice. Either Humphries would be sacrificed to protect them, or they would sacrifice themselves to protect him. Or, perhaps, they would all live with the knowledge of what they had done and become the kind of people who could accept such compromises. That seemed unlikely. Amelia picked up the teacup and carried it to the kitchen. She washed it carefully, watching the water run clear. There were some stains, she knew, that could never be washed away.
There are moments when the architecture of coincidence be comes so elaborate, so impossibly intricate, that one must either accept the existence of fate or descend into madness trying to calculate the odds. Awoman buys coffee from aclerk. The caffeine catalyzes an epiphany. The epiphany leads to aconfrontation. The confrontation leads to aroadside breakdown. The breakdown leads to arevelation. And the clerk who sold the coffee turns out to be the biological daughter of the woman’shusband—adaughter neither the woman nor the husband knew existed. What are the odds? The mathematician would say, “calculable but astronomical.” The theologian would say, “providence.” The nov elist would say, “necessary.” But Florence Feelgood, standing in the hallway of abusiness condo’sapartment building at 11:47 PM on what had already been the longest day of her life, would say only this: Oh my God. * * * * * * Eileen knocked on the door of apartment 2-Cwith the kind of au thoritative rap that suggested she was prepared to break it down if nec essary. Florence stood slightly behind her, still processing the informa tion Eileen had delivered in the car: Humphries collapsed. Sheila is his daughter. Wanda lives with Sheila. Humphries took LSD by accident. The door opened. Ayoung woman stood in the threshold—dark hair pulled back, kind eyes showing the strain of along evening, wearing the practical clothes of someone who worked retail and had just come home to crisis. “Can Ihelp you?” she asked. “I’mlooking for Humphries Feelgood,” Eileen said. “I’mhis wife’sfriend. This is Florence, his—” Florence stopped hearing words. She was staring at the woman in the doorway with an expression of complete recognition. “Iknow you,” she said. “You’re the woman from the market. The clerk who sold me coffee. The woman who had asked if Iwas sure Iwanted it strong, who looked at me with something like concern when Iinsisted that was exactly what Iwanted. You rang up that coffee with the efficiency of someone who has seen small domestic dramas play out across acheckout counter day in and day out. You sold me coffee and now Ifind out you’re my husband’sillegitimate daughter!” The thought was so absurd, so impossibly specific, that Florence began to laugh. This woman—this clerk from Riverside Market who had facilitated Florence’scaffeine-fueled transformation—she was Humphries’ daughter. The daughter he’dnever known about. The daughter who existed because of one wild night twenty-five years ago with atopless dancer named Wanda. The daughter who had, through the simple act of selling coffee, inadvertently catalyzed the chain of events that led Florence to this exact moment in time. How? Why? “You,” Florence said again, her voice barely above awhisper. Sheila’sexpression shifted—recognition dawning. “Iremember the coffee,” Sheila said. “You wanted the darkest roast we had.” “Yes.” They stared at each other across the threshold. Eileen looked between them, confused. “You two know each other?” “She sold me coffee,” Florence said, still staring at Sheila. “At Riv erside Market. Iwas—Iwas trying to be brave. Iwas trying to drink something bitter so Icould face leaving Humphries. Just like you told me to do.” Sheila’sface showed something Florence couldn’tquite iden tify—compassion, maybe, or the sad recognition of someone who understood the weight of small moments. “Iremember,” Sheila said quietly. “You seemed determined.” “Iwas,” Florence said. “Idrank three large cups, mugs actually. Isat in my kitchen and forced myself to swallow bitter coffee because
Ithought it would give me the strength to cast off the chains of my marriage.” She laughed—asound without humor. “ And now I’mhere. Standing at your door. And you’re his daugh ter. The daughter he never knew he had. And you sold me the coffee that made me brave enough to confront the fact that my entire life has been acomfortable lie.” The words hung in the air between them. Eileen put ahand on Florence’sshoulder. “Florence—” “What are the odds?” Florence interrupted, looking at Sheila with something approaching wonder. “What are the odds that the woman who sold me coffee would turn out to be connected to Humphries? That she would be his daughter. That she would be the one who helped him when he collapsed? That everything—all of it— everything—would converge on this day?” Sheila opened the door wider. “Idon’tknow,” she said. “But may be you should come inside.” * * * * * * There is aunique species of courage that manifests itself only in the morning after. The courage of the drunk who wakes sober and must face what he said, or did. The courage of the adulterer who must look his wife in the eye. The courage of the man who has com promised everything and must now choose whether to continue the lie or to burn it all down. The courage to continue on. * * * * * * Pierce Williams had spent the night in his apartment—amodest one-bedroom in abuilding that housed other government employ ees and divorced men—staring at the ceiling and calculating the cost of integrity. His career: destroyed. His reputation: ruined. His pension: for feited. His future: uncertain. Against this, he weighed one thing: the life of Humphries Feel good. Aman he’dnever met. Aman who sold life insurance and floral arrangements. Aman who was probably drunk right now, oblivious to the fact that his entire existence had been offered up as sacrifice to protect the guilty. The scales were not balanced. No. They had never been balanced. Pierce had known this when he signed the fabricated evidence. He had known it when he sat in The Copper Still drinking whiskey and rationalizing his moral collapse. He had known it when he con fessed to Amelia and saw her face transform from love to horror. But knowing and acting are different species of truth. At 7:30 AM, Pierce Williams put on his best suit—the charcoal gray one he wore to congressional hearings—and drove to the Secu rities Fraud office for what he knew would be the last time. * * * * * * Reginald Newhouse was drinking coffee at his desk when Pierce walked in without knocking. “Pierce,” Reginald said, looking up with surprise. “Iwasn’tex pecting you until—” “I’mresigning,” Pierce said. The words were simple. Final. Reginald set down his coffee cup with careful precision. “Excuse me?” “I’mresigning from the Securities Commission,” Pierce repeat ed. “Effective immediately. Iwill not falsify records. Iwill not frame an innocent man. Iwill not participate in this corruption.” He pulled the folder of fabricated evidence from his briefcase and placed it on Reginald’sdesk. “This is everything you gave me,” Pierce said. “The false documents. The manufactured timeline. The evidence designed to destroy Humphries Feelgood while protecting Lawrence and Amelia Mathews.” Reginald stared at the folder as if it were alive grenade. “Pierce,” he said carefully, “Ithink you need to sit down and think about what you’re doing.”
“I’ve thought about nothing else for the past twelve hours,” Pierce said. “I’mdone thinking. I’macting.” “You’re throwing away your career.” “Yes.” “Your reputation.” “Yes.” “Your pension. Your security. Everything you’ve built over thirty years.” “Yes.” Reginald stood, his face reddening. “For what?” he demanded. “For some drunk insurance salesman you’ve never met? For aman who probably doesn’teven know his own company is bankrupt? For someone who will never know you sacrificed everything to protect him?” “Yes,” Pierce said again. “That’sinsane.” “Perhaps,” Pierce agreed. “But it’sthe only sane thing Iknow to do.” He turned toward the door. “Wait,” Reginald said. “Pierce, wait. You can’tjust—if you walk out that door, Iwill destroy you. Iwill make sure you never work in government again. Iwill make sure every agency knows you’re unreliable. Iwill—” “Iknow,” Pierce said, turning back. “Iknow exactly what you’ll do. You’ll tell everyone Ihad abreakdown. That Ibecame emotion ally compromised during an investigation. That Ifell in love with asuspect and lost my objectivity.” He smiled—sad and knowing. “ And you’ll be right. Idid become compromised. Idid fall in love. Idid lose my objectivity. But the dif ference between us, Reginald, is that I’mwilling to admit it. I’mwill ing to face the consequences of my choices instead of manufacturing evidence to hide them.” Reginald’sface had gone from red to pale. “You’re making agrave mistake,” he said. “I’ve already made the mistake,” Pierce said. “This is me trying to unmake it.” He walked out of the office, past the cubicles of junior investi gators who looked up with curiosity, past the motivational posters about integrity that had become grimly ironic, past the security desk where he surrendered his badge, and his gun, and his access card. At 8:15 AM, Pierce Williams walked out of the Securities Fraud office and into unemployment. Well, after he used the restroom, no ticing it was avery perfunctory restroom. Bland tiles. Antiseptic. He felt lighter than he had in years. * * * * * * There is an exacting kind of power that comes from secrets. Not the power of blackmail or manipulation—though those exist—but the power of secrets that contain independent resources. The power of having something no one else knows about. The power of agency hidden beneath the performance of dependence. Amelia Mathews had been performing dependence for decades. She was Lawrence’solder sister. His business front. The plain rich woman who conducted all the transactions while her charming gay brother made the real decisions. Everyone believed this. Lawrence believed this. Even Amelia half-believed it. But underneath the performance was atruth she had never shared with anyone; she had been skimming all along. Not steal ing—the money was legally hers, earned through the business she fronted—but quietly diverting apercentage of every transaction into accounts Lawrence didn’tknow about. Building areserve. Creating independence. Over thirty years, that reserve had grown to over one hundred million dollars. And now, sitting across from her brother in the morning light of their parlor, Amelia was about to reveal it. “Ihave something to tell you,” Amelia said. Lawrence looked up from his coffee, his face still showing the strain of yesterday’srevelations about Eileen. “More confessions?” he asked with attempted lightness. “I’mnot sure Ican handle any more emotional upheaval.”
“This isn’temotional upheaval,” Amelia said. “This is financial upheaval.” She set down her teacup with the same careful precision Regi nald had used with his coffee. “Ihave aslush fund,” she said. “Over ahundred million dollars. In accounts you don’tknow about. Money I’ve been accumulating for over thirty years.” Lawrence stared at her. “What?” “Over ahundred million dollars,” Amelia repeated. “Separate from our joint holdings. Separate from the business accounts. Mon ey that is entirely mine.” “How—” Lawrence stopped, struggling to process. “How is that possible? Ireview all the accounts. Iknow every transaction—” “You know every transaction Ishow you,” Amelia corrected gen tly. “But I’ve been the one conducting the business, Lawrence. I’ve been the one signing the documents, managing the transfers, filing the reports. You trusted me to handle the details while you made the strategic decisions.” “So you’ve been stealing from me?” “No,” Amelia said firmly. “I’ve been compensating myself for serving as your front. For being the exacting and benevolent face of our sordid enterprise. For taking all the legal risk while you re mained insulated. For spending thirty years as the face of an illegal operation while you enjoyed the profits.” Lawrence set his coffee cup down, his hand trembling slightly. “Why are you telling me this now?” “Because I’mgoing to use it,” Amelia said. “I’mgoing to give fifty million dollars in order to make restitution.” “Restitution for what?” “For everything,” Amelia said. “For the illegal trading. For the companies we bankrupted. For the lives we destroyed. And specifi cally, for Humphries Feelgood.” Lawrence’sface went pale. “ Amelia, you can’t—” “Ican,” Amelia interrupted. “ And Iwill. Fifty million dollars will be enough to restore First American Teleflorist and Life Insurance Company. It will be enough to undo the frame Pierce was coerced into creating. It will be enough to make Humphries Feelgood whole and then some. And if need be, Iwill give more to make whole all of those we have corrupted along the way.” “But that will expose us,” Lawrence said. “If you donate that kind of money to First American, people will ask questions. They’ll inves tigate. They’ll discover—” “Everything,” Amelia finished. “Yes. They’ll discover everything. The illegal trading. The insider information. The years of fraud. All of it.” She looked at her brother with the same terrible clarity Florence had shown when confronting Eileen. “We’re going to confess, Lawrence. We’re going to turn ourselves in. We’re going to face the consequences of what we’ve done instead of letting an innocent man be destroyed in our place.” Lawrence stood abruptly and walked to the window, his back to her. “You’re insane,” he said. “We’ll go to prison. We’ll lose everything. The house, the money, our reputation—” “We’ll lose our freedom,” Amelia agreed. “But we’ll keep our souls. Or at least what’sleft of them.” She stood and walked to stand beside him at the window. “Pierce resigned this morning,” she said quietly. “He walked into Reginald Newhouse’soffice and quit rather than participate in fram ing Humphries. He sacrificed his career, his pension, his entire fu ture—for aman he’snever met. Because it was the right thing to do.” Lawrence said nothing. “If Pierce can sacrifice everything for integrity,” Amelia contin ued, “then surely we can sacrifice our comfort for restitution. We’re the ones who created this situation. We’re the ones who should face the consequences.” “And the fifty million?” Lawrence asked. “That’syour decision alone?” “It’smy money,” Amelia said. “Money Iearned by being your
business face for thirty years. Money you didn’teven know existed. Yes, it’smy decision. It’smine alone.” She turned to face him fully. “But I’mhoping you’ll support it. I’mhoping you’ll stand with me when we confess. I’mhoping that somewhere underneath the charm and the wealth and the carefully constructed identity, there is still aperson who knows the difference between right and wrong. Aperson who knows the right thing to do.” Lawrence stared out the window at the manicured grounds of their estate—the gardens, the sculptures, the physical manifestation of decades of illegal profit and greed. “I’ve never been to prison,” he said finally. “Neither have I,” Amelia said. “I’ve never been poor.” “Neither have I.” “In fact, I’ve never faced consequences for anything I’ve ever done.” “Neither have I,” Amelia said. “Until now.” They stood together in silence, two wealthy siblings contemplat ing the destruction of everything they’dbuilt. “When?” Lawrence asked. “Today,” Amelia said. “I’ll call our attorneys this morning. We’ll arrange to meet with the Securities Commission this afternoon. We’ll confess everything and offer the fifty million as restitution, more if need be. And you will agree to pay as well.” “ And then?” “ And then we face whatever comes,” Amelia said. “Prison, prob ably. Public disgrace, certainly. The loss of everything we own.” She smiled—sad but genuine. “But we’ll face it with our integrity intact. Or at least with the possibility of rebuilding it.” Lawrence turned to look at her, his cobalt eyes showing some thing she’dnever seen before—not fear, exactly, but the recognition of genuine consequence. “Imet awoman yesterday,” he said. “ Alesbian aerobics instructor who made me question everything Ithought Iknew about myself, about my sexuality. Ispent the entire evening in existential crisis, wondering how Icould be attracted to someone who contradicted my entire identity.” “Iknow,” Amelia said. “You told me.” “But now,” Lawrence continued, “Irealize that crisis was nothing compared to this. Questioning my sexuality was easy compared to questioning my entire moral framework. Wondering if I’mgay or bisexual or something else entirely is simple compared to wondering if I’m agood person, or acriminal, or whatever Iam, who’snever faced justice.” He walked back to the couch and sat down heavily. “Idon’tknow if I’mbrave enough for this,” he said. “Neither do I,” Amelia admitted. “But Iknow Icannot live with the alternative. Icannot let Humphries Feelgood go to prison for crimes we committed. Icannot let Pierce’ssacrifice be meaningless. Icannot keep pretending that wealth insulates us from morality.” She sat beside him, taking his hand. “We’ve been living in abeautiful cage, Lawrence. Acage made of money and privilege and the belief that consequences are for other people, not us. But Pierce broke out of his cage this morning. He chose integrity over security. And if he can do it, so can we.” Lawrence squeezed her hand. “Fifty million dollars,” he said. “Fifty million dollars,” Amelia confirmed, “and probably more.” “ And prison.” “Probably.” “And the loss of everything.” “Yes.” Lawrence was quiet for along moment. Avery long moment. Before he said, “Okay.” “Okay?” “Okay,” he repeated. “Call the attorneys. Arrange the meeting. We’ll confess together.” Amelia felt something break open in her chest—it was the strange relief of awound being cleansed and starting to heal. “Thank you,” she said.
“Don’tthank me yet,” Lawrence said. “Wait until we’re actually in prison. Then we’ll see if this was the right decision.” But they both knew—with the terrible clarity that comes from finally choosing truth over comfort—that it was the only decision they could live with. * * * * * * It was now early morning. The sun had not yet risen. Florence sat on Sheila’scouch, watching Humphries experience the tail end of his acid trip. He was calmer now—the walls had stopped breathing, time had resumed an almost normal flow—but his eyes still showed the resi due of cosmic revelation. Wanda sat in her wheelchair near the window, watching the man she’dknown for one night twenty-five years ago confront the daugh ter he’dnever known he had. Eileen stood near the door, her arms crossed, her face show ing the complicated mixture of contempt and concern she felt for Humphries. And Florence—Florence sat very still, trying to process the im possible web of connections that had brought them all to this mo ment. The coffee she’dbought from Sheila. The caffeine that had giv en her courage. The car that had broken down near The Flatulent Goose. The confrontation with Eileen about hypocrisy. The drive to this building. The discovery of Humphries with his biological daugh ter. Every small choice, every random encounter, every moment of synchronicity had led here. To this apartment. To this revelation. To this moment of terrible, beautiful clarity. “Isold you coffee,” Sheila said quietly, sitting down beside Flor ence. “Yes,” Florence said. “ And you used it to be brave.” “Yes.” “And now you’re here.” “Yes.” Sheila smiled—sad and knowing. “I’mglad,” she said. “I’mglad the coffee helped. I’mglad you found the courage. I’mglad you’re here to see him like this—not drunk, not oblivious, but actually present. Actually real.” Florence looked at Humphries, who was staring at Wanda with an expression of wonder and grief. “He’sbeen in love with afantasy,” Florence said. “Yes, he has,” Sheila agreed. “For our entire marriage.” “Yes.” “And I’ve been living with aman who was never really there.” “Yes.” Florence felt tears running down her face—not from sadness, ex actly, but from the overwhelming weight of recognition finally being lifted. “What do Ido now?” she asked. Sheila took her hand. “You start,” she said. “You stop living in the past and you start living in the present.” The same words she’dsaid to Humphries. The same truth that applied to everyone in this room. Florence squeezed Sheila’shand and nodded. Outside, the sun was rising over the business condos, casting fi ery, pale light across the parking lot where Humphries’ Dodge Dart sat beside Eileen’scar and George’soffice and all the small, ordinary places where extraordinary transformations had occurred. The sun was rising on apartments and offices and parlors across the city, where people were making choices. Ordinary choices. Just like every other day. They made choices, yet few understanding the depth of their choices. They were waiting, hoping, for something spectacular to occur. But very few, aslim, marginal few, would ever come to believe they were, in fact, in control of their choices. On this particular day, Pierce was walking away from his career. Amelia was calling her attorneys. Lawrence was contemplating pris
on. Manfred was receiving atext about salvation he didn’tunder stand. And Florence—Florence was sitting beside the daughter her husband never knew he had, holding the hand of awoman who had sold her coffee, realizing that every small moment had been lead ing to this. To the possibility of redemption. To the choice between comfort and truth. To the recognition that some stains could never be washed away—but some could be faced, acknowledged, and per haps, eventually, forgiven. “The walls have stopped breathing,” Humphries suddenly an nounced. And the world, Florence realized, was still very much alive.
There is an artistic quality to the moment when altered con sciousness returns to baseline—not the dramatic crash of so briety after drunkenness, but the slow, almost reluctant reas sembly of consensus reality after it has been thoroughly dismantled. The walls stop breathing. Time, which had been viscous and golden, becomes linear again. The photograph on the wall—which had been alive, animate, speaking in colors that don’texist—be comes merely ink and paper. And the person sitting across from you, who had been acosmic archetype, asymbol of all desire and all loss, becomes simply human again. Fallible. Aging. Real. This is both relief and enlightenment. * * * * * * Humphries sat on Sheila’scouch and watched reality reassert it self with the slow inevitability of dawn. The LSD was wearing off. He could feel it happening—not all at once, but in stages. First the walls stopped their rhythmic expansion and contraction. Then the colors dimmed from their impossible saturation back to ordi nary paint and plaster. Then time, which had been stretching and compressing like taffy, resumed its normal forward march. And finally—most devastatingly—Wanda stopped being the fan tasy he’dcarried for twenty-five years and became the woman sitting in the wheelchair near the window. Disabled. Aging. Real. She was watching him with an expression he couldn’tquite read— not the seductive confidence of the topless dancer from his memory, but something sadder and more knowing. The dimples were still there, visible when she smiled slightly at something Sheila said, but they were set in aface that had lived decades since that one wild night. She was not the woman he’dbeen in love with. She had never been that woman.
The woman he’dbeen in love with was aconstruction—afantasy built from one night of transgression and twenty-five years of mari tal disappointment. He had taken areal person and turned her into asymbol, arepository for everything he’dnever had and everything he’dnever been. And now, sitting in this apartment with his biological daugh ter and the actual human being Wanda was, Humphries understood with terrible brilliance what he had done. The dimples, he realized, were never on her ass at all—they were on her face when she smiled. He had loved aghost. He had been faithful to amemory. He had built his entire emotional life around awoman who didn’texist. “How are you feeling?” Sheila asked, sitting down beside him with aglass of water. Humphries took the water with trembling hands. “Like I’ve been turned inside out,” he said. “That’sthe acid,” Sheila said gently. “It’ll pass. You’ll be okay.” “Will I?” Humphries looked at her—this young woman who was his daughter, who had helped him through apsychedelic crisis without knowing who he was or what he was, who had sold Florence coffee and inadvertently catalyzed the chain of events that led to this moment. “Idon’tknow if I’ll ever be okay again,” he said. Wanda wheeled her chair slightly closer. “You will,” she said. Her voice was different from his memory— rougher, worn by years of cigarettes and disappointment. “You’ll be okay because you don’thave achoice. That’show life works. You sur vive because the alternative is worse.” Humphries stared at her. “I’ve been in love with you for twenty-five years,” he said. “No,” Wanda corrected gently. “You’ve been in love with amem ory. With afantasy. With the idea of wildness and freedom that Irepresented for one night before you got married. Anight long ago.” She gestured to herself—the wheelchair, the worn face, the body that had betrayed her. “This is who Iactually am,” she said. “Not the woman in your memory. Not the fantasy you’ve been carrying around. Just adisabled woman who used to dance topless, once in awhile turned tricks, and now lives in her daughter’sapartment.” “Iknow,” Humphries said. And he did know. The LSD had stripped away his defenses, his rationalizations, his carefully constructed delusions. It had forced him to see real ity without the comfortable filter that fantasy, alcohol, and delusions bring. Wanda was real. Sheila was real. Florence was real. And he— Humphries Feelgood, aperpetually drunk insurance salesman, de voted husband to awoman he’dnever truly loved, father to adaugh ter he’dnever known existed—he was real too. He was not the hero of his own story. Not the tragic romantic pining for lost love. Just aman who had wasted twenty-five years on acomfortable, delusional lie. “Ihave adaughter,” he said, looking at Sheila. “Yes,” Sheila said. “And awife.” “Yes.” “And I’ve spent my entire marriage in love with someone who doesn’texist,” he said, turning his gaze to Wanda. “Yes,” Wanda said. “But now you know. And knowing is the first step toward actually living instead of just surviving.” Humphries set down the water glass and put his head in his hands. The walls were solid now. Time was moving forward. And he was sober—not from alcohol, but from fantasy. From delusion. It was the most painful sobriety he’dever experienced. * * * * * * There are moments when the machinery of justice begins to move—not with the dramatic thunder of revolution, but with the quiet clicking of gears engaging, of systems activating, of conse quences finally arriving after years of delay. Aphone call is made. Aconfession is recorded. Awire transmits information to waiting authorities. And suddenly, the careful archi tecture of wealth and privilege begins to collapse.
* * * * * * Amelia sat in the parlor with Lawrence, the morning light streaming through the windows with the kind of cruel transparency that makes everything visible. On the table between them: atelephone. Beside the telephone: alist of attorneys’ names and numbers. And in Amelia’shead: the knowl edge that the next phone call would destroy everything they’dbuilt. “ Are you ready?” she asked Lawrence. Lawrence, who had spent the night wrestling with his attraction to Eileen, with his own reality unraveling, looked pale but resolute. “No,” he said. “But Idon’tthink I’ll ever be ready. So we might as well do it now.” Amelia picked up the phone. The phone rang twice before acrisp, professional voice answered: “Whitmore, Hastings, and Brewer. How may Idirect your call?” “This is Amelia Mathews,” Amelia said. “Ineed to speak with Richard Whitmore immediately. It’surgent.” There was abrief pause—the kind of pause that suggested the receptionist recognized the name and understood that when Amelia Mathews called with something urgent, it was. “One moment, please.” Classical music filled the line. Lawrence watched his sister with something approaching awe. She sat perfectly straight and poised, her face composed, her voice steady. She looked serene, yet she also looked like someone prepar ing to walk into battle, not someone about to confess to decades of financial fraud. The music cut off. “ Amelia,” Richard Whitmore’svoice was warm but cautious. “What’shappened?” “Richard,” Amelia said, “Ineed you to listen very carefully. Iam about to tell you something that will require immediate legal action, and Ineed you to understand that Iam calling you not to avoid con sequences but to ensure they’re handled properly.” There was along silence on the other end of the line. “I’mlistening,” Richard said carefully. Amelia took abreath. “For the past thirty years,” she said, “Law rence and Ihave been running an illegal insider trading operation. We’ve used my position as his business front to conduct transac tions based on privileged information he obtained through, shall we say, unscrupulous means. We have accumulated significant wealth through these activities, and we’ve also recently become aware that our actions have bankrupted the First American Teleflorist and Life Insurance Company.” Another silence—longer this time. “Amelia—” “I’mnot finished,” Amelia interrupted. “Ihave maintained asep arate slush fund of over ahundred million dollars that Lawrence was unaware of. Nor you. Iintend to donate fifty million of that fund to restore First American and provide full restitution to all affected par ties, including aman named Humphries Feelgood, who was falsely implicated in our crimes.” “Amelia, stop talking,” Richard said urgently. “Don’tsay another word until I—” “I’mcalling to arrange our surrender to federal authorities,” Amelia continued. “Lawrence and Iwill confess to all charges and will cooperate fully with the investigation. We will also accept what ever consequences are deemed appropriate.” “Amelia, for God’ssake—” “Can you arrange ameeting with the Securities Commission and the FBI?” Amelia asked. “Today, if possible. We’dlike to make our confession official as soon as possible.” Lawrence watched his sister with growing admiration. She wasn’tasking for help avoiding consequences. She wasn’tlooking for loop holes or strategies. She was simply arranging the logistics of her, their, own destruction. “Amelia,” Richard said, his voice strained, “Ineed you to under stand what you’re doing. If you confess to these crimes, you will go to prison. Both of you. For years. Possibly decades. Your assets will
be seized. Your reputation will be destroyed. Everything you’ve built will be gone.” “We know,” Amelia said calmly. “Then why—” “Because an innocent man was going to be destroyed in our place,” Amelia said. “Because aman Ilove compromised his integrity to protect me. Because Ihave spent thirty years living in abeautiful cage of wealth and privilege, and I’ve finally realized that the cage was of my own construction.” She looked at Lawrence, who nodded. “We’re ready to face the consequences,” Amelia said. “Can you help us do it properly?” Richard was quiet for along moment. Then he said, “I’ll make the calls. But Amelia—Iwant you to know that this is the most professionally suicidal decision I’ve ever witnessed aclient make.” “Iknow,” Amelia said. “Thank you, Richard.” She hung up the phone. Lawrence reached across the table and took her hand. “That was terrifying,” he said. “Yes,” Amelia agreed. “ And there’sno going back now.” “No.” They sat together in the morning light, two wealthy siblings who had just set in motion the machinery of their own destruction. And from somewhere in the house—from the kitchen, perhaps, or the hallway—came asound so faint they almost didn’thear it. Aclick. It was the sound of arecording device being turned off. Affron appeared in the doorway of the parlor with his character istic silent efficiency. But something was different. He wasn’tcarrying atea service. He wasn’tasking about their needs. He was simply standing there, watching them with an expression that was both apologetic and res olute. “ Affron?” Amelia said. “I’msorry, Miss Amelia,” Affron said in his deep baritone. “But Ineed to tell you something.” Lawrence and Amelia exchanged glances. “What is it?” Amelia asked. Affron reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out asmall de vice—no larger than apack of cigarettes, with atiny red light that was glowing. “I’ve been recording your conversations,” he said. “For the past six months. Everything you’ve said in this house—every confession, every discussion of illegal activity, including mention of the slush fund just now—all of it has been transmitted to the FBI.” The words hung in the air like adetonation. Amelia stared at the device, then at Affron, then back at the de vice. “You’re—” she couldn’tfinish the sentence. “An informant,” Affron confirmed. “Iwas approached by federal investigators eight months ago. They’ve known about the insider trading for years. They had evidence but needed confirmation. They asked me to help.” Lawrence stood abruptly, his face flushing with anger. “You’ve been spying on us?” he demanded. “You’ve been in our family for over twenty years and you’ve been—” “Serving justice,” Affron interrupted quietly. “Yes.” “We trusted you,” Lawrence said. “Iknow,” Affron said. “And I’msorry for that betrayal. But I’mnot sorry for what Ihave done.” He set the recording device on the table between them. “You’ve been breaking the law for years,” he said. “You’ve de stroyed companies. You’ve ruined lives. You’ve accumulated wealth through fraud and manipulation. And you’ve done it all while be lieving that your money and your privilege would protect you from consequences. It is appalling.” Amelia felt something—not anger, but astrange kind of relief. “How much did you record?” she asked. “Everything,” Affron said. “Including the conversation you just
had with your attorney. Including your confession. Including the revelation about the slush fund and your intention to provide res titution.” “So the FBI knows,” Amelia said. “Yes.” “They know we’re planning to confess.” “Yes.” “They know about the fifty million.” “They do now. Yes.” Amelia looked at Lawrence, who had sat back down and was staring at Affron with an expression of complete bewilderment. “Then Isuppose,” Amelia said slowly, “that we don’tneed to wait for Richard to arrange ameeting. The authorities will be coming to us.” “They’re already on their way,” Affron confirmed. “Iam certain they will be here momentarily.” He looked at both of them with something that might have been seen as compassion. “For what it is worth,” he said, “Iheard your confession just now. Iheard you choose restitution over escape. Iheard you accept re sponsibility instead of manufacturing excuses. That will matter. Not enough to keep you out of prison, Isuppose, but enough to matter.” Lawrence laughed—asound without humor. “Over twenty years,” he said. “Over twenty years you’ve been serving us tea and managing the household and all the while you’ve been—” “Doing my job,” Affron said. “But in the last few months Ihave been doing my real job. Ajob that is comprised of truth and decency. Ajob that serves justice instead of wealth.” He turned to leave, then paused in the doorway. “Iam sorry,” he said. “For the betrayal of trust. But Iam not sor ry for the betrayal of complicity. Some loyalties are more important than others.” He left them sitting in the parlor, staring at the recording device on the table. Outside, in the distance, they could hear the sound of cars ap proaching. Federal cars. Coming to collect what was owed. * * * * * * There is aunique satisfaction that comes from watching the cor rupt face consequences—not the petty corrupt, nor the small-time grifters and street-level criminals, but the truly powerful corrupt. The ones who believe their wealth and position make them untouch able. The ones who were wrong. * * * * * * Reginald Newhouse was reviewing files at his desk when the fed eral agents arrived. He looked up with irritation as his office door opened without knocking—ready to reprimand whoever had the au dacity to interrupt him—and found himself facing three men in dark suits with FBI credentials. “Reginald Newhouse?” the lead agent said. “Yes?” Reginald stood, his irritation shifting to confusion. “What’sthis about?” “You’re under arrest for coercion, obstruction of justice, and conspiracy to manufacture false evidence in afederal investigation.” The words didn’tregister immediately. Reginald stared at the agents, waiting for the punchline, waiting for someone to explain that this was amistake, or adrill, or some kind of administrative confusion. “I’msorry,” he said carefully, “but Ithink there’sbeen some kind of error. I’mthe head of Securities Fraud operations. Idon’t—” “We know who you are,” the lead agent interrupted. “We also know that you coerced Pierce Williams into fabricating evidence against one Humphries Feelgood to protect Lawrence and Amelia Mathews. We have recordings of your conversations. We have docu mentation of your instructions. We have everything we need.”
Reginald’sface went pale. “That’s—that’snot—Iwas protecting the integrity of the investi gation. Iwas—” “You were obstructing justice,” the agent said. “Turn around and put your hands behind your back.” “This is insane,” Reginald said, but he was already turning, al ready complying, already understanding that this was actually hap pening. “You can’tjust—Ihave rights. Ihave—” “You have the right to remain silent,” the agent said, snapping handcuffs onto Reginald’swrists. “ Anything you say can and will be used against you in acourt of law. You have the right to an attorney—” Pierce Williams stood in the doorway of his office, watching. He had re-entered the building after remembering he had forgotten to retrieve his vast amount of business card contacts compiled through the years. He stood watching, asense of both amusement and accep tance flowed within him. He had known this was coming, but seeing it actually happen was different from knowing it would happen. Reginald caught sight of him as the agents led him past. “Pierce,” Reginald said desperately. “Pierce, tell them. Tell them Iwas just trying to protect the investigation. Tell them—” “Ican’t,” Pierce said quietly. “Because it wouldn’tbe true.” Reginald’sface twisted with rage and desperation. “You self-righteous bastard,” he spat. “You think you’re better than me? You agreed to frame Humphries too. You signed the docu ments. You’re just as guilty—” “Iknow,” Pierce said. “But Iconfessed. Iresigned. Ichose integ rity over complicity. You chose to double down on corruption.” The agents pulled Reginald toward the elevator. His protests echoing down the hallway—denials and rationaliza tions and desperate attempts to shift blame—until the elevator doors closed and the sound cut off. Pierce stood in the sudden silence of the Securities Fraud office. Around him, investigators were emerging from their cubicles, star ing at the space where their boss had just been arrested, trying to process what they’dwitnessed. Pierce walked back to his desk and sat down. His phone rang. “Pierce Williams’ desk,” he answered. “Mr. Williams, this is Director Chen from the FBI. Ineed you to come to my office immediately. We have some things to discuss.” Director Chen’soffice was on the ninth floor—two floors above Securities Fraud—in aspace that radiated federal authority and bu reaucratic power. Pierce sat across from her, waiting. Director Chen was awoman in her late fifties with steel-gray hair and the kind of face that suggested she’dseen every variety there was of human corruption. She was no longer surprised by any of it. “Mr. Williams, I’ve reviewed your file. I’ve read your confession to Amelia Mathews. I’ve listened to the recordings of your conver sations with Reginald Newhouse. And I’ve consulted with my col leagues about what to do with you.” Pierce waited, quietly thinking to himself, all this in the span of one morning. An early one at that. Surely higher powers had bugged Newhouse’soffice and had been listening in. “You agreed to fabricate evidence against an innocent man,” Director Chen continued. “That’s aserious crime. It’s abetrayal of everything this office stands for. Under normal circumstances, you would be facing criminal charges alongside Reginald Newhouse.” “Iunderstand,” Pierce said. “However,” Director Chen said, “you also confessed. You resigned rather than follow through with the fabrication. You chose integrity over career advancement. And most importantly, your confession provided the final piece of evidence we needed to move against the Mathews siblings and Reginald Newhouse.” She leaned back in her chair. “So here’swhat’sgoing to happen,” she said. “You’re not going to be charged. You’re going to be offered Reginald Newhouse’sposition as Head of Securities Fraud operations. And you’re going to use that position to ensure that Mr. Feelgood is completely exonerated and that the Mathews siblings face appropriate consequences.” Pierce stared at her.
“You’re—you’re offering me apromotion?” “I’moffering you achance to make this right,” Director Chen corrected. “You compromised your integrity once. Now you get to spend the rest of your career proving that was an aberration rather than apattern.” She slid alarge folder across the desk. “This is asummation of the full case file on the Mathews inves tigation. Everything we have. The rest is in the banker’sboxes next to the door, including everything that has been recorded. It contains everything you’ll need to clear Mr. Feelgood and prosecute the ac tual criminals.” Pierce opened the folder with trembling hands. Inside were tran scripts, summations of recordings, financial documents, all the evi dence of fraud that had been gathered over the years. “Why?” he asked. “Why give me this chance?” “Because you confessed,” Director Chen said simply. “Because when you realized what you had done, you didn’ttry to hide it or rationalize it or blame someone else. You faced it. You accepted re sponsibility. You chose truth over comfort.” She stood, indicating the meeting was over. “Don’tmake me regret this decision, Mr. Williams.” “Iwon’t,” Pierce said. He walked out of Director Chen’soffice carrying the folder that would destroy the woman he loved and save the man he’ dtried to frame. Justice, he realized, was more complicated than he’ dever imagined. But it was also more necessary than ever. * * * * * * There is an exacting courage required to confess love—not the easy declaration made in the heat of passion, but the vulnerable ad mission made in the cold light of self-awareness. To say: Ihave been wrong about myself. To say: Everything Ibe lieved about my identity was incomplete. To say: Ilove you, and that terrifies me, and I’msaying it anyway. This is the courage that changes lives. * * * * * * Eileen found Lawrence in the garden behind his estate, standing among the sculptures and manicured hedges, staring at nothing. She had driven here directly from Sheila’sapartment, leaving Florence with Humphries and Wanda and the illumination of revealed secrets. She had something to say. Something that couldn’twait. “Lawrence,” she began— He turned, his cobalt eyes showing surprise and something else—hope, maybe, or fear, or both. “Eileen,” he said. “Ididn’texpect—” “I’min love with you,” Eileen interrupted. Lawrence stared at her. “What?” “I’min love with you,” Eileen repeated. “Not just attracted to you. Not just confused by you. In love with you. Genuinely, terrifyingly, completely in love with you.” She walked closer, her hands trembling. “I’ve spent most of my friendship with Florence telling her that men are worthless,” she said. “Years of preaching that she should leave Humphries and discover herself. Years of building my entire identity around being alesbian who had given up on men entirely.” “Iunderstand,” Lawrence said quietly. “And it was all alie,” Eileen continued. “Not about being ales bian—that was real. But about giving up on love. About being com plete in myself. About not needing anyone.” She stopped afew feet away from him. “I’ve been running,” she said. “For years, I’ve been running from the possibility of genuine connection because Iwas terrified of being hurt. Ibuilt walls and called them principles. Ipreached indepen dence and called it strength. Icriticized Florence’smarriage while being too afraid to risk my own heart.” Lawrence took astep toward her.
“ And then Imet you,” Eileen said. “ And everything Ithought Iknew about myself turned out to be incomplete. Not wrong—Iam alesbian. Ihave been attracted to women my entire adult life. But apparently I’malso capable of being attracted to you. Of loving you. Of wanting to build something with you even though it contradicts everything Ithought Iwas.” “Eileen—” “Idon’tknow what this makes me,” Eileen interrupted. “Bisex ual? Pansexual? Someone whose sexuality is more fluid than Iever imagined? Idon’tknow. And right now, Idon’tcare. All Iknow is that Ilove you, and I’mtired of running from that truth because run ning has cost me too much already.” Lawrence closed the distance between them and took her hands. “Idon’tknow what Iam either,” he said quietly. “I’ve been gay my entire adult life. I’ve never questioned it. Never doubted it. And then Isaw you at that stoplight and everything Ithought Iunderstood about myself became... negotiable. From aquick, brief encounter, my entire world changed.” “Negotiable,” Eileen repeated, almost laughing. “That’sone way to put it.” “Imissed three gear shifts driving you to lunch,” Lawrence said. “Ihaven’tdone that since Iwas ateenager. You made me forget how to operate machinery.” “That’sromantic,” Eileen said dryly. “It’sterrifying,” Lawrence corrected. “But yes. Also romantic.” They stood together in the garden, two people whose carefully constructed identities had been demolished in asingle afternoon, trying to figure out what came next. Could such abrief encounter, aminute spark within the cosmic universe that is life, be possible? “Idon’tknow what we’re doing,” Eileen said. “Neither do I,” Lawrence admitted. “But Iwant to find out.” “So do I.” It wasn’t adeclaration of eternal love. It wasn’t apromise of hap pily ever after. It was simply two people agreeing to stop running from the truth of what they felt, even though that truth contradicted everything they thought they knew about themselves. Sometimes, that’sall love requires—the courage to stop running. There is adifference between asking and confirming. When you ask, you are seeking information. You are inquiring about availabil ity, checking schedules, determining whether something is possible. When you confirm, you have already decided. You are not seeking permission or checking feasibility. You are announcing intention. You are declaring that achoice has been made and you are simply ensuring the other party understands. This is the difference between “Are you available Thursday?” and “I’ll see you Thursday.” One is aquestion. The other is acommitment. * * * * * * Florence sat in her living room—the same living room where Humphries had awakened hungover on the floor that morning, though it felt like years ago rather than hours—and stared at the telephone. It was 6:47 PM. The sun was setting through the windows, casting long shadows across the carpet where her heels had left indentations for twentytwo years. She had returned from Sheila’sapartment an hour ago, leaving Humphries with his biological daughter and the woman he’dbeen obsessed with for aquarter century, leaving him to face the reality beneath his fantasy while she came home to face her own. The house was empty. Quiet. For the first time ever, Florence sat in her living room and felt no obligation to prepare dinner, to worry about Humphries’ drinking, or to maintain the performance of a “correct” suburban housewife living in suburban contentment. She was alone. She was free.
She picked up the phone and dialed Marcus’snumber from the card he’dgiven her that afternoon on the roadside. It rang twice. “Hello?” Marcus’svoice was warm, slightly cautious. “Marcus,” Florence said. “It’s Florence Feelgood.” “Florence.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “How are you? Are you okay?” “Iam,” Florence said. “Thank you again for the ride. And for... everything else.” “You’re welcome.” There was apause—not awkward, but weighted. Both of them understanding that this call was more than acall about simple grati tude. “I’mcalling,” Florence said carefully, “to confirm my appoint ment on Thursday.” Another pause. “Confirm?” Marcus said quietly. “Yes,” Florence said. “Not to ask if you have availability. Not to check if the time still works. Iam confirming that Iwill be there. That Iintend to be there.” She could hear Marcus take abreath. “Iunderstand,” he said. “Do you?” Florence asked. “Because Ineed you to understand that this isn’tjust about amassage appointment. This is about choos ing something genuine. Something real. Something that isn’tperfor mance or obligation or twenty-five years of going through the mo tions.” “Iunderstand,” Marcus repeated, and this time his voice carried absolute certainty and clarity. “I’mstill married,” Florence said. “Technically. Legally, I’mstill Florence Feelgood, wife of Humphries, resident of this suburban house with its indented carpet and its empty guest room. But I’mnot that person anymore. Or maybe Inever was that person and I’mfinally admitting it.” “Florence—” “I’ll see you on Thursday,” Florence interrupted gently. “At our regular time. And Iwanted you to know that when Iwalk into that room, Iwon’tbe walking in as someone seeking escape or distrac tion. I’ll be walking in as someone who has chosen to build some thing genuine with you. If you’re willing.” The silence on the other end of the line stretched for several sec onds. Then Marcus said, “I’mwilling.” “Good,” Florence said. “Thursday,” Marcus confirmed. “Thursday,” Florence agreed. She hung up the phone and sat in the brightening darkness of her living room, feeling the weight of what she’djust done. Not asked. Confirmed. Not inquired. Committed. For the first time in twenty-five years, Florence Feelgood had made achoice that was entirely her own—not arranged by her father, or approved by her husband, not expected by society, not performed for the benefit of bridge partners or neighbors or the carefully main tained fiction of suburban contentment—she had chosen. For her. And in choosing, she had become real. There is an architecture to change. Not the dramatic architecture of revolution—barricades and manifestos and blood in the streets—but the quieter architecture of individual moral choice accumulating into collective transformation. One person chooses truth over comfort. Another chooses jus tice over privilege. Athird chooses integrity over career. Afourth chooses love over ideology. Yet another chooses genuine connection over marital obligation. Suddenly, without anyone planning it, or orchestrating it, the entire structure of lies and compromises and comfortable delusions that is life begins to collapse. Not all at once. No. Not with thunder and fire. But with the steady, inexorable pressure of people refusing to live falsely anymore. This is how worlds change. How societies and cultures change. Not through grand gestures, but through small acts of courage re peated until they become impossible to ignore.
On this particular Thursday in late spring, in various locations across the suburban landscape, while Humphries Feelgood sat in his biological daughter’sapartment, coming down from an LSD trip that had forced him to confront twenty-five years of fantasy and begin the slow, painful work of learning to live in reality, many others were confronting their own as well. Amelia and Lawrence Mathews sat in their estate parlor, having confessed to federal crimes and committed to donating fifty million dollars in restitution, more if necessary, waiting for the authorities to arrive and knowing they would face prison but choosing it anyway. Reginald Newhouse sat in afederal holding cell, his career de stroyed, his reputation ruined, facing charges for obstruction of jus tice and conspiracy, learning that corruption eventually faces conse quences. Pierce Williams sat in his new office—Reginald’sformer office— with the case file that would exonerate Humphries Feelgood and al low for the prosecution of the actual criminals, understanding that redemption sometimes arrives in the form of asecond chance you don’tdeserve but accept anyway. Eileen stood in Lawrence’sgarden, having confessed love that contradicted everything she thought she knew about herself, and discovered that identity is more fluid and mysterious than ideology ever admits. And Florence Feelgood sat in her living room, having confirmed an appointment that was in reality acommitment to build genuine human connection, and felt the architecture of her old life finally, completely, irreversibly collapse. All of them, in their separate locations, had made the same fun damental choice—truth over comfort, reality over fantasy. They chose, well, except for Reginald Newhouse, genuine con nection over performed contentment. Justice over privilege. Integ rity over career. Love over ideology. It was not easy. It was not comfortable. It would cost them ev erything they’dbuilt upon the foundations of lies, compromises, and convenient delusions. But it was real. And in the end, that was all that mattered. The walls had stopped breathing. The LSD had worn off. The confessions had been made. The arrests had been executed. The love had been declared. The appointment had been confirmed. And in the gathering brightness of asuburban Thursday after noon, multiple lives pivoted simultaneously toward truth, toward justice, toward genuine human connection—not because anyone had planned it, or orchestrated it, but because sometimes, when enough people refuse to live falsely anymore, change becomes inevitable. The architecture of their old lives was collapsing, but the archi tecture of their new lives—uncertain, terrifying, and genuine—was just beginning to take shape. And that, perhaps, was enough.
Epilogue—Four Years Later There is adifference between transformation and perfor mance. Performance is what we do when we want others to be lieve we’ve changed—the grand gestures, the dramatic declarations, the visible markers of reformation that announce to the world: Look, Iam different now. Transformation is what happens in the accumulated silence of four years of small choices—the morning you wake up sober and choose to stay that way, the afternoon you make adifficult phone call instead of avoiding it, the evening you sit with discomfort instead of drowning in it. Performance is theater. Transformation is architecture. And ar chitecture, unlike theater, must be built one brick at atime. Humphries Feelgood sat at his desk on the third floor of First American Teleflorist and Life Insurance Company and reviewed the quarterly earnings report with the kind of focused attention that would have been impossible for him four years ago. The numbers were good, but not spectacular—First American would never be a Fortune 500 company—but it was solid, legitimate. Built on actual business rather than the elaborate fraud that had nearly destroyed it. Revenue was up twelve percent from the previous quarter. Cus tomer retention was high, remaining at ninety-four percent, and em ployee satisfaction was the highest in company history. Humphries set down the report and looked around his office. It was modest by executive standards—no mahogany paneling, no leather furniture, no ostentatious displays of wealth. Just afunctional desk, comfortable chairs, and windows that overlooked the parking lot where he’dnearly killed atamale vendor four years ago. On the desk were three framed photographs. The first showed Sheila at her college graduation—cap and gown, diploma in hand,
genuine smile. She’dfinished her business degree while working full-time as First American’s Director of Operations, aposition Humphries had created specifically for her talents. The second showed Wanda in her wheelchair at afamily dinner, laughing at something Florence had said. Her face was older, worn by the years and her disabilities, but the dimples were still there— real dimples on areal person, not the fantasy he’dcarried for several years. And yes, they were on her face. The third showed all four of them together—Humphries, Flor ence, Wanda, and Sheila—at Thanksgiving dinner ayear ago. An ex tended family that made no sense on paper but worked perfectly in practice. Humphries picked up the phone and dialed Sheila’sextension. “Director of Operations,” Sheila answered with professional ef ficiency. “It’syour father,” Humphries said, still getting used to saying those words. “Do you have the vendor contracts ready for the board meeting?” “ Already on your desk,” Sheila said. “Third folder from the left. Ialso included the cost analysis you requested and the projected sav ings if we switch suppliers.” Humphries found the folder and flipped it open. The analysis was thorough, detailed, and exactly what he needed. “You’re much better at this than Iam,” he said. “Ilearned from watching you,” Sheila said. “Well, the new you. The old you would have been passed out in the parking lot by now.” Humphries laughed—asound that still surprised him with its genuineness. “Fair point,” he said. “See you at the board meeting.” He hung up and returned to the quarterly report, making notes in the margins with the kind of clear-headed strategic thinking that four years of sobriety had made possible. No alcohol. No delusions. No fantasies about topless dancers or executive washrooms solving existential crises. Just work. Real work. The kind that built something instead of destroying it. His secretary buzzed the intercom. “Mr. Feelgood, the dedica tion ceremony is in fifteen minutes.” “Thank you, Margaret,” Humphries said. “I’ll be right there.” He stood, straightened his tie, and walked toward the door. To day was the day they were finally dedicating the executive washroom. The absurd quest that had started everything. There is apeculiar irony to the moment when delusion becomes reality—not because the delusion was correct, but because reality has shifted to accommodate it in ways no one could have predicted. The washroom Humphries had promised Manfred Young years ago had finally been built. But it wasn’tthe monument to corporate excess he’doriginally imagined. It was something else entirely. * * * * * When Humphries arrived, the third-floor hallway was crowded with employees, board members, and afew invited guests. At the center of the crowd was Manfred Young in awheelchair, oxygen tank beside him, face gaunt but eyes still sharp. He was in Stage 4 prostate cancer. Six months to live, maybe less, or so the doctors said. The disease that had driven him to desperate bathroom trips for years had finally metastasized into something terminal. The irony was not lost on anyone—least of all Manfred himself, who had joked darkly that he’dspent his entire career running to the bathroom and would probably die in one. Humphries approached and knelt beside the wheelchair. “Manfred,” he said quietly. “How are you feeling?” “Like shit,” Manfred said with aweak smile. “But Iwanted to be here for this. Wouldn’tmiss it.” “You don’thave to—” “Yes, Ido,” Manfred interrupted. “This is important. Not the washroom—though God knows Icould have used it years ago—but what it represents.” He gestured toward the door at the end of the hallway, where abrass plaque had been mounted. “Read it,” Manfred said. Humphries stood and walked to the door. The plaque read:
THE MANFRED YOUNG EXECUTIVE WASHROOM Dedicated to dignity, compassion, and the recognition that some problems—no matter how small they seem— deserve genuine solutions. Built 2024 Humphries felt something catch in his throat. Four years earlier, he had misunderstood everything. He had thought Manfred’sdes perate bathroom trips were the problem to be solved when the actual problem was the company’simpending bankruptcy and the illegal trading scheme that had caused it. He knew now he had been drunk, delusional, and completely wrong about what mattered in life. But somehow—through aseries of events no one could have orchestrated—his misguided quest had led to the truth being exposed, the criminals being prosecuted, and the company being saved. And now, four years later, the washroom he had promised to build actually existed. Not as amonument to his delusion, but as agenuine gesture of compassion for adying man who had spent his career in discomfort. Humphries turned back to the crowd. “I’dlike to say afew words,” he said. The hallway quieted. “Four years ago,” Humphries began, “Isat in Manfred’soffice and completely misunderstood what he was telling me. Ithought he needed aprivate bathroom when what he actually needed was someone to save the company from collapse.” Afew people laughed quietly. “Iwas drunk most of the time back then,” Humphries continued. “Iwas living in fantasies ins