A. Homes - Safety of Objects - Stories

“Well, good talking to you,” Bob says.

“People must think you’re divorced,” Jim says to Susan, as they undress and get ready for bed. He sees her taking off her slip and underwear and imagines that Susan has secretly gotten a job on her own. She is a suburban call girl, saving tips to buy a house at the beach. If she works hard enough, she could have a house in the Hamptons by next summer.

“You’re at the office a lot,” she says.

“What about these other guys, don’t they have to work?

Susan goes downstairs. Jim follows her. She tries to start the dishwasher. It runs for a second, makes a horrible sound, then stops.

“Damn,” she says.

“Here, let me try.” He goes over to the dishwasher, opens the door, closes the door, pushes the start button again, and looks down at the machine. Nothing happens.

“I’ll call Robbie Martin,” Susan says.

“You don’t have to call anybody,” Jim says.

“You certainly can’t fix it. You have no idea of what to do.”

It is true Jim doesn’t know what to do with anything. Somehow he is content to leave it all alone and assume that it will heal itself.

Jim returns to the bedroom, takes off his pajamas, and dresses again.

“Where are you going?” Susan asks when she sees him dressed and heading for the door.

“Nowhere.”

He starts the car and pulls it up close to the house, aiming the lights toward the yard. He flicks on the high beams and gets out. Jim replants the marigolds, constantly looking over his shoulder, fearful that a band of sixteen-year-olds will mistake the lights for a party. He imagines they will find him, think he is an old man, bind and gag him, then go into his house, turn on the stereo, and eat everything, including his wife and children.

* * *

The telephone rings at quarter to six in the morning and Jim immediately thinks of death.

“Hello,” he says, waiting for the bad news.

“Mr. Train,” his secretary says, “Mr. Patterson’s secretary called me and asked me to tell you we won’t be opening the office today. The police are still investigating.”

“Thanks for letting me know,” Train says. “You wouldn’t happen to have Howe or Worth’s numbers, would you?”

“I’ll get them and call back.”

“No hurry,” Train says, hanging up and falling back into a pleasant, productive dream about redesigning the office so that it seems more like a home, with soft couches and televisions; the kind of place where a man could live as well as work.

At seven-thirty Susan gets up. Jim lies in bed and watches her dress.

“Aren’t you feeling well?” Susan asks.

“Fine,” he says, pulling the blanket up to his chin.

Susan puts on her makeup before her blouse and then makes a big show of getting her blouse over her head without it touching her makeup. Jim is tempted to suggest it would be easier to do it in the reverse, but says nothing. In the mirror Susan’s face is pulled down like she’s had a stroke, and she’s adding more mascara to her eyes, so that her lashes look like licorice sticks.

“Why don’t you get up,” she says. “You can drive Jake to school.”

The last time Jim drove him to school, Jake spent the whole ride insulting his father. “You’re going the wrong way,” he yelled. “Don’t you even know where my school is? You missed the short cut.” Jim stopped the car at the top of a hill, got out, and walked around to the other side.

“You drive,” Jim said.

“Dad,” his son whined. “Dad, get back in the car. You’re making me late.”

Jake sounded exactly like Susan. Jim stood there in the street waiting for the boy to say, You’re acting like a child. After ten minutes of absolute silence, Jim got back in and drove the rest of the way to Jake’s school.

“Are you going to drive him?” Susan asks, putting the finishing touches on her exterior with a sea sponge.

“He can walk,” Jim says.

He lies in bed waiting for his secretary to call back. Susan goes downstairs to get the children ready for school and then, without saying good-bye, she leaves with them.

Jim thinks of Patterson’s plant and wonders whose plant he’ll pee in years from now. He imagines sneaking into the associates’ offices after they’ve left and letting go a little bit in each office, in every corner, revenge against the uncommitted, the false promise of youth and ambition. He sees himself convinced it is his secret, when in reality everyone will know. They’ll give new guys cans of air freshener to keep hidden in their desks. New plants will be delivered weekly. No one will dare say anything to Jim because, after all, he is Train, the Train of Flynch, Peabody, Patterson, and Train.

At nine his secretary calls with Howe’s number.

“Worth is seriously unlisted.”

Jim writes the number on the back of a magazine and tells her to have a good day.

“I will,” she says. “There’s a sale at Macy’s.”

He lifts himself out of bed tenderly as though just returned from a hernia operation. He takes the steps slowly, as if in pain. How can he be in the house, midmorning, midweek, except as a sick person?

Jim calls Howe. The number rings ten times before Howe picks up the phone. Jim stands in the kitchen, the phone tucked under his chin, his free hands randomly plucking bits of food out of the refrigerator and popping them into his mouth.

“What took you so long?” Jim asks.

“I thought my wife was going to get it. It’s usually for her.”

“Any news?” Jim asks.

“My wife is kicking me out of the house. She says I can’t come back until six o’clock, preferably seven. I’m driving her crazy.”

Jim lets the refrigerator door close and rinses off his fingers in the sink.

“I guess I’ll go and buy some shoes, shirts, stuff for the office,” Howe says.

“Big sale at Macy’s,” Jim says.

“Then that’s where I’ll be. Any details about the bomb?”

“Nothing,” Jim says. “You?”

“Last I heard they were still checking. Kind of weird, isn’t it?”

“It is and it isn’t,” Jim says.

He thinks of himself as the closest thing the firm has to an in-house philosopher.

“Yeah, guess so,” Howe says. “Well, the housekeeper wants to use the phone. I better let her.”

Jim’s call-waiting beeps.

“See you,” Jim says, pressing down the receiver button. “Hello?”

“Is this Bill’s Repair Man?” a woman’s voice asks.

“No, it’s not,” Jim says. He was here yesterday.”

“This is Jill Robinson. Leave a message for Mrs. Train that I’ll meet her at the Chew-Chew, in town, at one?”

A loud noise in the basement/garage startles Jim. He hangs up without saying anything, grabs a butcher knife, and runs downstairs.

“Don’t move,” he yells at the man stealing his lawn mower.

“Who are you?” the man asks.

“The question is who are you?” Jim says, waving the knife around.

“I come to cut the grass, but I don’t need this shit,” the man says, dropping the mower bag and walking out of the garage to his truck parked in the driveway.

Jim is in the process of reorganizing the cutlery drawer when Susan comes in at noon.

“Why aren’t you dressed?” she asks.

“I have nothing to do,” Jim says, sadly.

Jim is not himself. Without his work, he is a dark and depressed man.

“Get dressed. We’ll have lunch in town,” Susan says.

“You’re meeting Jill Robinson at the Chew-Chew at one.”

“Then hurry,” Susan says.

“Well, hello,” Jill says in a voice that’s a little too friendly.

It’s the first time they’ve met. Without asking, Jim knows she’s a real estate broker — that’s what women around here are if they’re not social workers, or in rare cases pediatricians. Jill is too hyperactive to be a social worker, too stupid to be a doctor. If Susan weren’t there, he’d sit Jill down at the bar and discuss the possibilities of selling his house, or burning it to get the insurance money.