Noah's Compass by Anne Tyler Page B

past. He watched after them, but they didn’t turn in at Cope Development.
    He studied the graffiti painted across the base of the hydrant: BLAST, in luminous white, with a sloppily drawn star before and after. He examined the word closely, frowning, as if he were pondering its meaning. Blast. A woman clipped by with a jingling sound of keys or maybe jewelry. She had a purposeful, confident gait. At Cope Development, she pivoted smartly and climbed the steps and disappeared inside.
    A green Corolla approached from the other end of the block, stopped just past the mission, and backed into the parking space there.
    Liam abandoned the hydrant. He straightened and resumed walking in the direction of Cope Development.
    The assistant’s unfortunate fashion statements were becoming familiar to him. Even from a distance he recognized the too-long skirt (in some bandanna-type print of red and blue, today) that made her seem to be walking on her knees as she rounded her car, and the sleeveless blouse that rode up and exposed a bulge of bare midriff when she bent to help Ishmael Cope from the passenger seat. Liam was close enough now to hear the inconclusive clucking sound the car door made as she clumsily nudged it almost shut with one hip. He heard the pat-pat of Ishmael Cope’s crablike hands checking all his suit pockets before he took hold of the arm she offered.
    Liam sped up.
    They met in front of the Cope building. The assistant was preparing to inch the old man up the steps. Liam said, “Why! Mr. Cope!”
    The two of them turned and peered into his face, wearing almost comically similar expressions of puzzlement and concern.
    “Fancy running into you!” Liam said. “It’s Liam Pennywell. Remember?”
    Ishmael Cope said, “Um …”
    He turned to his assistant, who instantly flushed all over—a mottled, dark-red flush beginning at the deep V-neck of her blouse and rising to her round cheeks.
    “We met at the gala,” Liam said. “For juvenile diabetes; remember? We had a long conversation. You suggested I come in sometime and interview for a job.”
    From their instantaneous reaction—no longer confusion but outright shock—Liam sensed at once that he had made a mistake. Maybe Ishmael Cope didn’t have anything to do anymore with hiring employees. Well, of course he wouldn’t. Liam cursed his own stupidity. Ishmael Cope said, “A job?”
    “Why, ah, that is …”
    “I was going to hire someone?”
    Ishmael Cope and his assistant exchanged a glance. Clearly a con man, they must be thinking. Or no, perhaps not; for next Mr. Cope said, in a wondering tone, “I promised a man a job!”
    So this is what it had come to, was what that glance had meant. A whole new symptom, more advanced than any they’d seen before.
    All Liam wanted now was to take back everything he’d said. He had never intended to cause the man distress. In fact, he wasn’t sure what he’d intended, beyond gaining a few moments of conversation with the assistant. He said, “Oh, no, it wasn’t an actual promise. It was more like …” He turned to the assistant, hoping she could somehow rescue him. “Maybe I misunderstood,” he told her. “I must have. I’m sure I did. You know how it is at these galas: glasses clinking, music playing, everyone talking at once …”
    “Oh, sometimes people can’t hear themselves think,” she said.
    That low, clear, level voice—the voice that had murmured “Verity” in Dr. Morrow’s waiting room—made Liam feel reassured, although he couldn’t say exactly why. He gave her his widest smile. “I’m sorry,” he told her, “I don’t remember your name.”
    “I wasn’t there.”
    “Oh. Sorry.”
    He knew he must look like a fool, with all these “sorry”s. He was doing everything wrong.
    “It’s just …” he said, “I mistrust my memory so these days; I always act on the assumption that I’ve met somebody even when I haven’t.” His laugh came out sounding false, at least to his