Joshua Ferris - Then We Came to the End

Immediately she turned away from him and her hand rose up to greet her hair in a tentative and self-conscious manner, as if she were trying to hide it from him. “Don’t talk about my hair right now,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s stupid. We’re talking about something else.”

“Don’t you like it?” he asked.

She turned to the opposite wall, as if expecting a mirror there, something reflective to see herself in. “I don’t know,” she said. “Let’s not talk about it.”

“I think it’s a great update,” he said.

She turned back to him. “Update?” she said. “What the hell does that mean?”

“No, I just meant —”

“That’s a pretty shitty thing to say,” she said.

“No —”

“I have no idea what the hell it means,” she said, “but it sounds pretty shitty.”

“No, I was just saying I liked it.”

“Update,” she said. “You don’t say ‘update,’ Benny. That’s the wrong word.”

No! NO! He had tried to say it just right! He had considered other options, alternative phrases, but he thought what he had settled on was perfect. He had rehearsed it over and over again, practicing a nonchalance in his voice, then waited for the exact right moment — and still he flubbed it! He probably should have run it by a copywriter.

Even with the best of intentions, it was impossible not to offend one another. We fretted over the many insignificant exchanges we found ourselves in from day to day. We weren’t thinking, words just flew from our mouths — unfettered, un-thought-out — and next we knew, we had offended someone with an offhand and innocent remark. We might have implied someone was fat, or intellectually simple, or hideously ugly. Most of the time we probably felt it was true. We worked with some fat, simple people, and the hideously ugly walked among us as well. But by god we wanted to keep quiet about it. If in large part we were concerned only with making it through another day without getting laid off, there was a smaller part just hoping to leave for the night without contributing to someone’s lifetime of hurt. And then there were those, like Marcia, who had the ability to turn even a compliment into an insult, bringing us (Benny especially) to our knees so that the only way to win was to remain silent, absolutely silent — unless, of course, the opportunity presented itself to bloody a scalp and leave it on Benny’s desk.

“I’m sorry if I offended you,” said Benny. “I was just trying to say it looked nice.”

“No, I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t take compliments very well. Was I mean to you just then?”

“No, no, not at all,” he assured her.

Suddenly Genevieve was standing in his doorway. Benny went quiet. Marcia saw his attention diverted and turned and saw Genevieve, too.

“Marcia, can I talk to you?”

Like that, Genevieve was gone. Marcia looked back at Benny. “Sure,” she called out after her, rising quickly. Benny had never seen Marcia’s eyes so wide.

“Benny,” she whispered.

“Go,” he said.

When Marcia left, Benny called Jim to tell him the news but Jim wasn’t picking up. He stood and walked out into the hallway. Things were quiet. He went back inside and put another call in to Jim. Again no answer. He went back out into the hallway. Everything was calm and empty. The large fake plants stood unstirred at both ends of the hall, and on the walls between the doorways hung all of the agency’s past advertising awards, collecting dust. He returned and called Jim a third time. Then he e-mailed him to tell him to listen to his voice mails. He spent two minutes waiting for a reply at his desk before deciding to hunt Jim down. He went back out into the hallway, but he stopped when he saw Karen Woo approaching. He had no desire to be the one to let Karen know that Genevieve had emerged from Lynn’s office. She would only spread the news around. So he casually lifted his arms and grabbed ahold of the top of the doorway, as if he were just hanging out, having a stretch. Karen grew closer, and he thought they might just greet each other and nothing more. And in fact, she seemed to have no intention of stopping and chatting, which was a relief. She just said, “Turns out Lynn doesn’t have cancer after all,” and then she passed by and disappeared down the hall.

MARCIA STOOD WITH HER BACK against the closed door of Genevieve’s office while Genevieve paced behind her desk, occasionally stopping to grab the back of her chair, as if to throttle it.

It was very simple. Lynn sat down at her desk and the question of where to start, how to broach the subject, eluded Genevieve entirely. Luckily, Joe began to speak. She couldn’t remember what he said, exactly, but he was very direct. Genevieve was nervous. She had to keep reminding herself of why she was there. This person who could so thoroughly dominate every other aspect of life — who dusted with domination — was really very sick inside, and weak, and in need of intervention, even if that intervention came from a cowed underling sitting mutely beside Joe. If she had not kept that in mind, she would have had to excuse herself for being so nervous. Joe said, basically, that a rumor had emerged, he did not know from where, that she had been diagnosed with cancer. Normally he didn’t put much stock in rumors, but he hoped she would understand why he’d give second thought to one that claimed she wasn’t well. There was the conviction among certain individuals that an important operation had been scheduled for yesterday, but that she had missed it. Perhaps deliberately. Her aversion to hospitals — something of a well-known fact — might explain why. He was there — and then he remembered Genevieve and turned to her. “The two of us are here,” he said, turning back to Lynn, “to let you know that these rumors are out there, they’re floating around, I don’t know to what degree of truth, but if there is something we can do for you, if we can help you in any way —”

“Joe, have they suckered you into it at last?” she asked him.

It? What was she referring to specifically, Genevieve wondered. While Joe was speaking, the tricky smile Lynn sometimes wore to express disbelief or bemusement appeared on her face. Joe must have seen it, too. Yet he persevered. Genevieve didn’t know where he found the will to continue with Lynn Mason looking at him like that. He stopped briefly when she interrupted to ask if he’d been suckered in, but then something truly remarkable happened. He kept at it.

“No, I don’t think I’ve been suckered into anything,” he replied. “I’m not here on their behalf. I’m here for myself — and Genevieve — because I believe there might be something wrong with you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” she said simply, drawing into her hands a silver letter opener in the shape of a stiletto.

“That maybe you’re sick,” he continued — Genevieve did not know how or why and wanted him to stop — “but because of your fear, you aren’t letting yourself get looked after properly.”

“There is nothing wrong with me,” she repeated.

Joe was silent. Genevieve was ready to leave. Okay, Joe, she’s okay — let’s go. “A person with a genuine fear,” he continued, slowly, not apprehensively but patiently, as if trying to coax something out of her, “somebody incapacitated by fear, would say she wasn’t sick, if it meant she could continue with her life and not face that fear.”

Lynn offered a grudging, humorless chuckle. “I’m sorry, Joe,” she said. “Do you have access to my medical file?”

“No.”

“No,” she said, “no, I didn’t think so.”

“No, this is pure speculation, Lynn,” he continued, and by then, Genevieve felt the definite need to distance herself from Joe somehow. Not sick, Joe! Please stop talking! “Speculation that is probably not justifiable,” he continued. “But if you are sick, and scared, and keeping yourself from medical attention —”