T. Boyle - Talk Talk

“She is out there,” Radko said, his voice deep and bell-like.

Bridger looked to the screen, not certain exactly what he meant-was she off the scale as far as looks were concerned or was she grazing the limits of histrionic expression? “Yeah,” he said, nodding, because it was always a good idea to agree with the boss, “yeah, she is.”

Radko waved both his hands vigorously, like an umpire declaring a man safe at third. “No, no,” he said, ““Dana,” she is out there.”

It took him a moment to understand-Dana was in the front office, beyond the uniform line of cubicles and the pouchy droop-shouldered figure of Radko, who was pointing now, his face heavy and oppressed. Bridger pushed back his chair and got to his feet. If Dana was here, then she was in trouble. Something had gone wrong. The first thing he thought of was the man in the picture, the voice on the phone, the thief. “Where?” he demanded, just to say something.

He found her in the outer office, slumped forward in one of the cheap plastic chairs against the far wall. She was wearing the T-shirt and jeans she'd had on when he left the apartment and she hadn't combed her hair or bothered with makeup and there was something clutched in her right hand, papers, letters. Was it her manuscript? Was that it? He crossed the room to her, but she didn't lift her head, just sat slumped there, her shins splayed away from the juncture of her knees, one heel tapping rhythmically against the leg of the chair. “Dana,” he said, lifting her chin so that her eyes rose to his, “what is it? What's the matter?”

There was a noise behind him-Radko at the security door motioning to Courtney, the receptionist, a nineteen-year-old blonde who two weeks earlier had dyed her hair shoe-polish black and banished all color from her wardrobe in sympathy with whatever style statement Deet-Deet was trying to make. She gave Bridger a tragic look and excused herself-“I'm just going to the ladies',” she murmured-and then the door pulled shut and they were alone.

Dana didn't get up from the chair. She didn't speak. After a moment she took hold of his wrist and handed him an envelope addressed to herself from the San Roque School for the Deaf. As soon as he saw it, he knew what it meant, but he extracted the letter and unfolded it all the same, her eyes locked on his every motion. The letter was from Dr. Koch and it said that after consulting with the board he had the regretful duty of informing her that her position had been terminated for the fall session and that this was in no part due to any dissatisfaction that either he or the board might have had with her performance but strictly a result of budgetary constraints. He concluded by saying he would be happy to provide her with references and that he wished her success in whatever new endeavor she might embark upon.

“You know it's bullshit,” she said, her voice echoing in the empty room. “They're firing me. Koch is firing me. And you know why?”

“Maybe not. He says they're eliminating the position-that's what he says…”

Her eyes narrowed, her jaw clenched. “Bullshit. I e-mailed Nancy Potter in Social Studies and she said they're already advertising for a vacancy in high school English. Can you believe it? Can you believe the gall of Koch? And these lies,” she shouted, snatching the letter out of his hand. “Just lies.”

Beyond the windows, two rectangular slits cut horizontally in the wall to let the employees of the inner sanctum know there was another world out there despite all evidence to the contrary, a woman with six dogs of various sizes on a congeries of leashes was pausing beneath the massive blistered fig that dominated the block. A kid in a too-big helmet went by on a motor scooter, closely tailed by another, the asthmatic wheeze of the engines burning into the silence of the room. He felt miserable suddenly, thinking only of himself, selfish thoughts, the what-about-me? of every contretemps and human tragedy. This would mean that Dana was going to have to relocate, no choice in the matter, and where would that leave him?

She was on her feet now, angry, impatient, thrusting out her arms and jerking her shoulders back in agitation. “It's because I was in jail. He blamed me. He all but accused me of dereliction of duty.”

He tried to put his arms around her, to hold her, comfort her, but she pushed him away. “Here,” she said, thrusting a second letter at him as if it were a knife, “here, here's the capper.”

The letter was from the Department of Motor Vehicles. A month earlier she'd sent in her license renewal, just as he'd done himself two years ago. As long as there were no outstanding convictions or special considerations, the DMV had instituted a policy of renewal by mail without the necessity of being re-photographed. Dana had taken that option-who wouldn't? The price of a thirty-nine-cent stamp saved you a trip to the DMV office and an interminable wait in one line or another. All right. Fine. So what was the problem? “It's your license?” he asked.

Her eyes were hard, burning. “Go ahead, open it.” He heard the door crack open behind him and turned to see Courtney's pale orb of a face hanging there for an instant before the door pulled shut again. He bent to fish the new license out of the envelope, hard plastic, laminated, “California Driver License” emblazoned across the top of it. They had her name right, had her address too, but the sex was wrong and the height and the weight and the signature at the bottom. But that wasn't the worst of it. The two photos, the larger on the left and the smaller on the right, were of a man they'd both seen before, and he was staring right at them.

There was no question of going back to work. Dana was in a state. Every day, it seemed, the mail brought some fresh piece of bad news, bill collectors dunning her for past-due accounts she'd never opened, a recall notice for a defect in a BMW Z-4 she'd never seen, notification of credit denied when she hadn't sought credit in the first place. And now she'd lost her job, now she'd be driving on an expired license. “What next?” she demanded, her voice strangled and unbalanced, riding up the walls like the cry of some animal caught in a snare, and she took hold of his arms in a grip so fierce she might have been trying to stop the bleeding, only he wasn't bleeding. Not yet. “Back to jail again? Tell me. What do I have to do?”

He wanted to hold her but she wouldn't let him because he was the villain all of a sudden, the stand-in for the bad guy, the nearest warmblooded thing she could fight against. A man. Hairy legs and a dangle of flesh. A man like the one who'd done this to her. He said, “I don't know, I really don't,” and she still held to her grip, her nails biting into the flesh, both of them fighting for balance. All at once he felt the irritation rising in him-she was crazy, that was what she was. Fucking crazy. “Goddamnit, let go of me,” he shouted, and he shoved her away from him. “Shit, Dana. Shit, it wasn't me, I'm not the one to blame.”

At that moment the door pushed open behind them and there was Radko, with his heavy face and his cheap shoes and his cheap watch. “I dun't like this,” he said carefully, slowly. “Not in my office.”

Dana glared at him. Here was another man to lash out at. “I want to kill him,” she said.

Radko studied the gray abraded paint of the floor. “Who? Bridger?”

Bridger understood that he was at a crossroads here, that there was a choice he would have to make, and soon, very soon, between Digital Dynasty and this wound-up woman with the tangled hair and raging eyes. A mad notion of stalking out the door flitted in and out of his head, but he caught himself. Conflict was inimical to him, a condition he'd always-or nearly always-managed to avoid. “I'm sorry,” he said, ducking his head in deference. “It's just that thing-you know, with Dana and what she's been through? It just won't go away.”