Jack O'Connell - Wireless

Flynn takes the first real break, allows himself a long, audible breath. It’s a necessary risk. The worry is that he won’t find exactly the same voice tone, that the set of the face might change. But he knows he’s got them. They’re rigid in their seats. No amount of buttery, imported Italian leather can comfort these two now. He drops his eyes, for just the briefest second, down to the desk, closes them slowly, bites his top lip, and reopens the eyes.

“You want to take the guess?” he asks. “Either one of you? ’Cause you’re right. The guy in the story was my old man.”

The second pause, this time just heavy breathing.

“Excuse my language, but forty-seven goddamn years old. Yeah, I’m still a little bitter. And I’m sorry for that. But I was just ten years old at the time. And my brothers and sisters were even younger. And, I’m sorry, but unless it’s happened to you, you can’t, you don’t …”

He takes a minute, pauses, then starts again. “Here’s the point. The story doesn’t end there. Not by a long shot. There’s burial insurance, okay, and there’s that passbook savings account. But at forty-seven you haven’t built up too big a pension. And you’ve got a mortgage that’s not even half paid off.”

Fourth pause. The briefest so far.

“My mom went back to work, but we still had to sell the house, moving in with some relatives who tried their hardest not to resent us. I’m not trying to say we were the Job family or anything. I’m sure you could match me story for story. There are plenty of people out there who’ve been dealt worse. Deformities. Lingering diseases. Mental illness. No question. But this isn’t my point. I’m not bartering for sympathy. The past is the past. Let it go. Look ahead. Fine. I did okay. You can see that. There are visible signs of that all around you right now, as we speak. But let me tell you something, and if you think I’m blowing my own horn, so be it. I’m the exception, not the rule. I worked hard. And let’s say it, I got some lucky breaks. I’m the first to admit this. You can’t purchase luck. I crawled out of the hole that was left when my old man’s heart blew up. Others in my family, God help them, haven’t been so lucky. You know what I’m saying. Every extended family can tell the same stories. The lost jobs, the drugs, the failed marriages. It’s a tough life. We agree. I try to help out as best I can. And not just with the money stick, if you follow. I’ve got a sister, and I don’t want to get too personal here, but we think she’s in Florida. I say ‘think’ because we don’t know. Last heard from her six months ago. My mother’s heart. You can imagine. Okay, enough about me and mine. The thing is, we could not, capital C , capital N , could not have prevented our father’s death. No way. When it’s time, it’s time. But with a little foresight, things could have been very, very different in the wake of that death. A little planning and maybe we could have kept the house. Maybe we could have paid for a few college educations. I delivered pizza till four A.M., four years, just to get through State. Maybe, with a little adequate planning, some of my siblings could’ve gotten some counseling before it was too late. Here are the questions: Could the old man have afforded some life insurance? Well, he afforded the passbook, right? Huh? There are always options. You can’t cut the whole life, bang, go with the term. There’s never been more flexibility. Never been more possibilities to provide for a family.”

The last pause. A long look from his face to hers.

“Bo. Carol. You made some choices. You made some sacrifices. You’re on your way down the road of your life. Do me this favor. Do me one favor, all right? Tonight. Eleven o’clock tonight. The local news is going on, okay? Walk away from the set. Get up out of the chair and walk down the corridor. Together. I’m serious. Literally do this. You stop at the bedrooms. You look in the door. Study those little faces, sound asleep, total faith that Mom and Dad have everything under control. Okay? Look hard. Then you picture those faces about ten, fifteen years down the road. And now here’s the hard part. Mom, or Dad, or, God forbid, both, are gone. They’re not there anymore to keep things under control. And you, and I mean both of you, ask these questions: Where are they living? Where are they sleeping at night? Who’s buying their clothes? Their Christmas presents? Who’s going to put them through school? Pay for the weddings? Tough questions? Yes. Absolutely. But they need answers. Those little girls, sound asleep in that dim room, need those questions answered. By you two. You’re the only ones.”

A shrug. A raising of the eyebrows.

“What’s the answer, Carol? What do you say, Bo?”

There they are, two puddles of anxiety, two terrified gobs of flesh, sweating onto the leather arms of the chairs, looking at each other, choked throats, swelling tongues.

Bo actually says it: “I don’t know.”

Flynn finally sits back in his chair and heaves an almost genuine sigh. “I know you don’t. That’s why I’m here.”

It’s another half hour to the signatures at the bottom of the policy. Flynn reads from the preprinted form about the required AIDS test. Carol writes out the check, a rectangle of paper decorated with beagle puppies. Bo gives the name of their family doctor and makes a mild joke about the urine specimen.

At the front door, Carol actually gives Flynn a hug and Bo bursts out in a thrilled laugh. He pumps Flynn’s hand, thanks him earnestly. Flynn walks them both to the sidewalk, a hand on each of their backs. He beseeches them to bring the girls by someday, promises Bo a pair of complimentary Red Sox tickets, stands waving, smiling, as they drive away in a Ford wagon.

Back inside, Flynn locks the doors and starts to shut down the office. He’s meticulous about this, making sure each light is out, each monitor shut off. He sets the alarm, then exits up the spiral staircase to his apartment. He’s anxious to get into his study. Though his office and apartment are entirely Victorian, his study is strictly contemporary — all high-tech minimalist done in blacks and whites. Flynn loves the idea that no one looking at the outside of the building could imagine the study’s interior. One just doesn’t lead to the other.

He removes his suitcoat, goes to the bathroom, and splashes cold water on his face again. He dries off, looking in the mirror, thinking that maybe it’s true, in some alternate universe or some dream life, maybe it’s true that his father died at a young age, that he has troubled brothers and sisters, that fate dealt his family a rough hand. But in this conscious life, Flynn was still raised by an army of meat-fisted, ancient nuns at The Galilee Home for Boys.

It’s been a good night. The Millers weren’t a huge sale, but Flynn would rather a consistent number of medium-sized policies anyway, a couple a week, middle-class folk who’ll never restructure the package, never borrow against the pot, always pay the premium a month before it’s due. And the only thing they’ll want in return is the free calendar, at Christmastime, with enormous, hyper-clear photos of selected national parks. I’m telling you, Carol, we’ve got to get to Yosemite .

Flynn undresses, hangs up his suit carefully, no creases, pocket flaps out. He changes into the gray cotton pants he picked up in Japan last year and a black-on-black sweater with just the slightest hint of turtleneck. He goes to the refrigerator, pours himself a Gatorade from a glass pitcher, moves to the answering machine, and hits the flashing button.

Hello, Flynn, it’s Hazel. I think we’ve got some problems. I’ll talk to you tonight .