Joshua Ferris - The Unnamed

“This room is death, Becka. Let me out.”

“It will run its course. You have to be patient.”

“It would have done so by now, goddamn it. Let me out of here! It’s death in here!”

How easy it would have been to leave the room and plug his screams with headphones. He was locked away as well as any lunatic on suicide watch. But with her mother gone and she alone to care for him, abandoning him was not an option. Her three or four days with him were always a rigorous and continual effort to keep him focused, somehow keep him connected.

She bought an iPod and filled it with music. “I want you to try something, Dad.”

“Where is your mother?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Where does she go when she leaves the house?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re lying.”

“Stop straining your neck. Relax.”

She placed a noise-canceling pair of headphones over his ears, hopeful they would eliminate the rustle of his legs as they struggled against the sheets. Then she introduced him to some of the music that had been her own solace for as long as she could remember.

He had sat before the panel trying not to cry. Whatever you do, don’t cry. Just keep talking. His desperation was like a pheromone secreting itself into a room full of wolves. He appealed to them on the basis of over twenty years of impeccable service and the many millions of dollars he’d made the firm. You thankless sons of bitches! he wanted to scream. You ruthless bureaucrats! You’ll all get sick one day, too! This flinty nerve vied in him against total supplication. Oh, please, please take me back! Grant me the full measure of life again. On hand and knee, peering up at formidable and unmoving faces: I will be good, will do as told. No more breakdowns, promise, promise.

“Tim, I think we’ve heard all we need to hear,” said Kronish.

He was jabbering on, making a case for himself, trying not to cry.

“Tim, Tim—”

He stopped talking.

“We’ve heard enough, thank you. I’m sure we’re all very happy that your health has returned. Now give us some time to discuss the matter and we’ll have an answer for you in a couple of days.”

Enough time had passed that his worst transgressions had faded and his earlier reputation had somewhat revived. They agreed he deserved an audience, and he made a decent case for what he had to offer: expertise, years of loyal service, a good legal mind. Still, they voted not to reinstate his partnership in light of his professional misconduct. They invited him to rejoin as a staff attorney, a non-partner-track position.

In accordance with the bylaws he was still receiving his quarterly share of that business he had brought in for the firm during his partnership days. Financially he could have rejected Kronish’s offer for the insult it was. But he was so grateful to be back in the world again and loved Troyer so fiercely that he immediately accepted. He set the phone down and wept. They were such fine people. They had such capacity for forgiveness. It would be fun to be a staff attorney.

One of the first things he did after he returned to Troyer was invite Frank Novovian to dinner. He wanted to express his appreciation for the time long ago when Frank walked down the street with him on a cold winter day and gave him his wool cap.

Frank sat on his stool at the security post as still as a pond frog. He looked up from a bank of security monitors as Tim approached.

“Mr. Farnsworth, how are you, sir?”

His tone was flat and affectless and he did not smile — admirable qualities in a man in charge of building security.

“Frank, we’d like to have you over for dinner, you and your wife.”

The invitation caught Frank off guard.

“I’m afraid I don’t know your wife’s name,” said Tim.

“Linda.”

“Jane and I were thinking Saturday, if you and Linda are free this weekend.”

Frank reached around to scratch at a shoulder blade, stretching his suit coat taut. He had added bulk since Tim’s departure. Tim wondered how the blazer didn’t rip down the back. “We’re pretty free, I think, Mr. Farnsworth. What’s the occasion?”

“You can call me Tim, Frank,” he said. “I’m not a partner anymore.”

“If you work for Troyer, Barr, Mr. Farnsworth, I call you by your last name, partner or no partner. It’s a policy not too many others take seriously around here, but that’s them.”

Tim nodded. “All right. But will you call me Tim if you come to my house for dinner?”

Frank thought about it. “If you let me bring the wine,” he said.

“It’s a deal, then. Saturday?”

“Saturday,” said Frank.

Frank took off his Yankees cap the minute he stepped through the door, placing it inside his winter coat in which Tim could picture him clearing his driveway of snow. A vivid image of Frank’s neighborhood came to mind: many houses set close together, metal siding, small backyards separated by chain-link fencing. There was a dog barking and minivans were squeezed into tiny driveways.

In the doorway, Frank lifted his head and looked around the house, as if standing at the start of a guided tour. Out from his post now, he had loosened up and began to praise Tim’s house. He offered Tim a six-pack of bottled beer and introduced his wife. Linda was smaller than Frank, an Asian woman with dark bangs, thick eyeliner, and a wide and pretty smile. Tim had expected a heavily primped Italian with a Bronx accent. Tim took their coats, and Linda offered him a bottle of wine.

“I really mean it, Mr. Farnsworth. This is one hell of a house.”

Tim considered reminding him that they had a deal — he was Tim tonight, not Mr. Farnsworth — but he thought calling attention to that fact might embarrass Frank. He decided to let the matter resolve itself. He moved them inside and Frank thanked him again for having them over.

“This is one hell of a nice room,” said Frank once he had situated himself on the sofa. “And I bet that thing gets great reception.”

“Try it out,” said Tim, handing Frank the TV remote. “My wife’s just in the kitchen.”

“Can I help?” asked Linda.

“Whatever it is,” said Frank, “smells delicious.”

“You can help by telling me what you’d like to drink,” said Tim.

Linda looked at Frank.

Frank looked up at Tim and asked, “What are you having?”

“I thought I’d start with one of your beers,” he said.

“Me, too, then,” said Frank.

“I’ll have a beer,” said Linda.

“Three beers, then,” said Tim, “coming up.”

He walked in and found Jane sitting at the kitchen island. She was peering into her wineglass as if in search of fish.

“Jane?”

She turned to him slowly. She looked at him and then lifted the wineglass. She inadvertently clinked her teeth against the glass, making a ringing sound and causing the liquid inside to break like a golden wave and splash her face. “Mmmm,” she said, setting the glass down and reaching precariously over the kitchen island for a napkin. She sat back heavily on the stool and wiped away the wine.

“Banana?” he said.

“Hmmm?”

“How many glasses of wine have you had?”

She didn’t answer.

“Tonight, too? It had to be tonight, too, Janey?”

“Mmmm,” she said, getting off the stool. “The lamb.” She walked to the oven as if through water. With the oven door open she stood again and turned around, peering across the kitchen. “The hot mitt go?”

“Let me do that,” he said, taking the hot mitt from her hand.

“I got drunk,” she said.

“I noticed,” he said. “When did that happen?”