Hall was already slowing down, and rolled down his window. The rushing roar of the small breakers filled the car for the first time. “Sir?” he called. “Could you help us with directions?”
The man, carrying a fishing rod and tackle box, crossed the road slowly and came to Hall’s window. He was at least sixty years old. “If I can.”
“We’re trying to find a restaurant called the Beachwood.”
The old man pointed at the sands across the road. “Right there.”
Richard looked where the old man was pointing. “There’s nothing there.”
“That’s right. She burned down, mebbe six months ago—mebbe more. If it were day, you could see the pilings she sat on; that’s all that’s left.”
“Oh, what a shame!” Elaine said.
They thanked the fisherman, then watched him fold back into the darkness behind them as they drove away.
“Home?” Hall asked.
“Nonsense. You owe me dinner.”
“The Hearth?” he offered.
“That will be acceptable. Drive on, James.”
“Yes, Madame,” he said, but the heartiness was false. For the second time in a week, Richard Hall felt the tug of something lost.
The graphics department supervisor made his way slowly through the maze of drawing tables in the room, dropping off yellow paycheck envelopes as he went.
“Afternoon, Richard,” he said as he reached Hall’s table. He riffled through the remaining checks. “How’s your day going?”
“Pretty well.”
The supervisor reached the end of the bundle of checks and started again at the top envelope, frowning. “You didn’t get your check early, did you?”
“No.”
“And you weren’t on an unpaid leave these last two weeks?”
“I wasn’t on any kind of leave. I was right here.”
“Well, your day just took a turn for the worse. There’s no check here for you.”
“Let me see.”
“Don’t you trust me? It’s not here.”
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“Well, you’ll have to go down to payroll and get it straightened out.”
Hall started to push back his chair, and the supervisor held up his hand. “Oh, not now. We need those charts for the taping this afternoon. Go down on your lunch hour,” he said, and walked away to complete his rounds.
“I can’t wait to tell you I quit,” Hall said in a diplomatically hushed voice, glaring at his supervisor’s receding back. He pulled the phone toward him, consulted a piece of paper in his wallet, and dialed.
“Concept Execution. May I help you?”
“Personnel.”
“Thank you.” A new voice: “Mary Anders, Personnel. May I help you?”
“This is Richard Hall,” Hall said, keeping his voice low. “I submitted an application to you several weeks ago —I wanted to make certain it was all in order.”
“Yes, Mr. Hall, I remember. I’m glad you called. We recently reviewed your application when filling an opening, and found it is not yet complete. We still need a copy of your birth certificate and your educational transcripts.”
“I sent for both the day I applied,” Hall said. “The transcript is coming to you directly—I can write and make sure it’s been sent. If you recall, I explained that my original birth certificate is gone, and I’m trying to get a duplicate from the state. It should be here soon, and I’ll see that you get it right away.”
“Very good. By the way, we’ve also had a little difficulty tracking down one of the references you gave us. Would you confirm that we have the correct address? ‘Spark and Son, 213 High Street—’ ”
“ ‘Cross Creek, Pennsylvania,’ ” he finished for her. “That’s correct. My supervisor was John Spark, the owner.”
“Has the company moved or gone out of business, to your knowledge?”
“No, Spark and Son is kind of a town fixture. I can’t imagine them moving. I can try and check on that, too, though.”
When he had hung up, Hall turned to the artist working at the board to his right.
“Chris?”
“Yeah?” Chris Wood laid down his pen and looked at Hall.
“Is it possible to catch a disease that causes everyone to try and ignore you?”
“Why?”
“Because if there is, I’ve got it,” he said, and laughed.
There was a thick collection of mail, and Hall looked through it as he walked to the apartment. He shook his head unhappily as he walked through the door.
“Have I been especially bad lately?” he asked Elaine, who was seated on the couch watching television.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m beginning to feel like a victim.”
“Of what?” she asked, tilting her head quizzically.
“Of a new crime—you take a guy and ignore him, pretend he’s not there, until he cracks up. I feel like Jimmy Stewart in
“What’s making you feel that way?”
“Here—here’s the perfect example. There’s ten pieces of junk mail here, all with your name. Two even have your maiden name.”
“My lucky day,” she said, smiling and taking them from him. “When they’re in your name, you throw them out before I can see them. What else, besides the mail?”
“No check for me this morning. I had to spend my whole lunch hour fighting with payroll, and I still don’t have one. I wasn’t in the computer, that’s how bad they screwed up, and they couldn’t process a check by hand until Monday.”
“That’s enough to ruin your day,” she agreed.
“I can’t wait to get out of there. Say—I didn’t get to see yesterday’s mail. Was there anything from the state on my birth certificate?”
Elaine hesitated, but only briefly. “No. Nothing came.”
“It figures. Where’s tonight’s newspaper?”
“I left it in the kitchen.”
“Okay.” When he had disappeared through the swinging saloon-style doors, Elaine moved quickly to the buffet and gathered up several folded sheets of paper that were lying there in a neat pile. She buried them in the back of the end table drawer nearest her chair, closing it just as Richard reappeared.
“What do you have there?”
“Oh, just some trash,” Elaine said, flustered.
“Well, don’t put it in there. Give it to me and I’ll put it in the compactor.”
“I don’t—”
“Come on, give it to me while I’m still standing up.”
“It’s not really trash, not yet.”
“Are you trying to hide something from me?”
“No—I—”
“You are! Get them out. I want to see them.”
“No!” she said angrily. “They’re private.”
“Come on, Elaine, it took you too long to think of that. What could they be that they’re so terrible I can’t see them?”
