the wall of the elevator, panting. His face was flushed. He was wearing perfectly pressed khakis and a blue LaCoste shirt, deck shoes without socks, and was carrying a tennis racket in a white-and-blue-striped canvas bag.
“It’s a private matter, Chris.”
“A private matter,” he mimicked her. “I’ll bet.” His eyes narrowed to slits over his high cheekbones. “Well, forget about it. It’s over.” He slumped, appeared to shrink like a balloon someone had let the air out of.
“Is it Abby? I’m really sorry about that, Chris.” He seemed so deflated. Feeling sorry for him, Wetzon reached out and touched his tanned, muscular forearm.
“Who? Oh, yeah. Abby. Right.” He looked down at her hand on his arm. “Come and get a cup of coffee with me.”
She shook her head. “I can’t. I’m going to be late as it is.” She was sorry for him, but she didn’t want to get involved in his messy private life. This was the new Leslie Wetzon, and she was making a real effort not to give too much of herself to everyone.
The doors opened on the lobby and Chris got off. He turned back. “Don’t go up there, Wetzon.”
“What are you talking about? I have to.” She pressed sixty-seven. The elevator pronounced its good-morning wishes.
“Suit yourself.” He shrugged and turned his back on her as the doors closed.
What peculiar behavior , she thought, yawning and rotating her jaw for the pop in her ears as the elevator rose. There was something about Chris that was bogus. As if he were in costume, a boy imitating an adult. She couldn’t put her finger on it. As if he was blue-collar putting on white, so he wasn’t entirely accepted ... and he wasn’t entirely real.
She stepped off the elevator on sixty-seven into almost total silence. No Carlton Ash. No one. She walked into the reception area past the empty desk. The sun poured through the skylight high over her head onto the tree, making dazzling patterns on the walls, carpets, and furniture. It was quite lovely.
“Hello?” she said tentatively. “Dr. Ash?” Where had he said he’d meet her? She was sure he had said by the bank of elevators. She looked at her watch. Seven-forty. The silence and emptiness were eerie, as if she were the only human being left in a world after the hydrogen bomb had been dropped.
She shuddered. What a dreary thought on such a beautiful day. She turned to the marble staircase and started up. Maybe Ash was waiting for her in the conference room.
Something glinted in the sunlight about three steps above her. She bent to get a closer look. She picked it up. It was a watch crystal, in one piece, but shattered. It was small and oddly shaped. A woman’s watch. Anyone could have lost it; though there were few women brokers, the firm was full of women in subsidiary positions. She walked back down the stairs and placed the crystal on the reception desk.
She climbed the stairs again slowly, her heels clicking on the marble. Total silence, but for that. At the top, she called again, “Dr. Ash?”
No response.
She opened the door to the conference room. It was empty. Three Styrofoam cups were on the conference table. The ashtray was full of cigarette butts and ashes. She walked into the room.
Behind her, the door slammed shut with a thud. Startled, she jumped, bumping the table. Coffee spilled from one of the cups. Get with it, Wetzon, it was only the goddam door , she told herself. What was there to be jumpy about? A draft can close a door. She went back to the door and turned the knob to open it. It was locked.
13.
W ELL, HERE ’ S A fine how-do-you-do , Wetzon thought, and she laughed out loud. Then, this isn’t funny, Wetzon. You could be here all weekend, and what would you eat and where would you pee?
That did it. She jiggled the knob and thumped on the door with her fist. “Hey! I’m locked in!” She bruised the side of her hand, looked at it, rubbed it. “Oh, shit!” she yelled and did Rumpelstiltskin with her
“It’s a private matter, Chris.”
“A private matter,” he mimicked her. “I’ll bet.” His eyes narrowed to slits over his high cheekbones. “Well, forget about it. It’s over.” He slumped, appeared to shrink like a balloon someone had let the air out of.
“Is it Abby? I’m really sorry about that, Chris.” He seemed so deflated. Feeling sorry for him, Wetzon reached out and touched his tanned, muscular forearm.
“Who? Oh, yeah. Abby. Right.” He looked down at her hand on his arm. “Come and get a cup of coffee with me.”
She shook her head. “I can’t. I’m going to be late as it is.” She was sorry for him, but she didn’t want to get involved in his messy private life. This was the new Leslie Wetzon, and she was making a real effort not to give too much of herself to everyone.
The doors opened on the lobby and Chris got off. He turned back. “Don’t go up there, Wetzon.”
“What are you talking about? I have to.” She pressed sixty-seven. The elevator pronounced its good-morning wishes.
“Suit yourself.” He shrugged and turned his back on her as the doors closed.
What peculiar behavior , she thought, yawning and rotating her jaw for the pop in her ears as the elevator rose. There was something about Chris that was bogus. As if he were in costume, a boy imitating an adult. She couldn’t put her finger on it. As if he was blue-collar putting on white, so he wasn’t entirely accepted ... and he wasn’t entirely real.
She stepped off the elevator on sixty-seven into almost total silence. No Carlton Ash. No one. She walked into the reception area past the empty desk. The sun poured through the skylight high over her head onto the tree, making dazzling patterns on the walls, carpets, and furniture. It was quite lovely.
“Hello?” she said tentatively. “Dr. Ash?” Where had he said he’d meet her? She was sure he had said by the bank of elevators. She looked at her watch. Seven-forty. The silence and emptiness were eerie, as if she were the only human being left in a world after the hydrogen bomb had been dropped.
She shuddered. What a dreary thought on such a beautiful day. She turned to the marble staircase and started up. Maybe Ash was waiting for her in the conference room.
Something glinted in the sunlight about three steps above her. She bent to get a closer look. She picked it up. It was a watch crystal, in one piece, but shattered. It was small and oddly shaped. A woman’s watch. Anyone could have lost it; though there were few women brokers, the firm was full of women in subsidiary positions. She walked back down the stairs and placed the crystal on the reception desk.
She climbed the stairs again slowly, her heels clicking on the marble. Total silence, but for that. At the top, she called again, “Dr. Ash?”
No response.
She opened the door to the conference room. It was empty. Three Styrofoam cups were on the conference table. The ashtray was full of cigarette butts and ashes. She walked into the room.
Behind her, the door slammed shut with a thud. Startled, she jumped, bumping the table. Coffee spilled from one of the cups. Get with it, Wetzon, it was only the goddam door , she told herself. What was there to be jumpy about? A draft can close a door. She went back to the door and turned the knob to open it. It was locked.
13.
W ELL, HERE ’ S A fine how-do-you-do , Wetzon thought, and she laughed out loud. Then, this isn’t funny, Wetzon. You could be here all weekend, and what would you eat and where would you pee?
That did it. She jiggled the knob and thumped on the door with her fist. “Hey! I’m locked in!” She bruised the side of her hand, looked at it, rubbed it. “Oh, shit!” she yelled and did Rumpelstiltskin with her
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