The Pursuit of Other Interests: A Novel (19 page)

Ned stopped playing with his sombrero. Red splotches were rapidly materializing on his cheeks and neck.

“There’s a meeting going on in there, Tom,” Charlie said. “So you’re out of luck, pal.”

Tamales ignored Charlie and turned on Ned one last time.

“And move my desk over to where it should be.” His voice had shifted and he said this evenly. “All right? I’m not going to ask again.”

“Hey, Tom,” Charlie said.

Tamales glared at Charlie and then walked off without a word.

“He’s impossible,” Ned said after they were alone. “I feel like he’s purposely baiting me, purposely trying to do me in. I don’t know what to do.” He had placed his sombrero back on and looked both ridiculous and miserable.

“Hey,” Charlie said. “Don’t let him get to you. He’s a bully. You have to stand up to him. That’s how you treat bullies. I know. I used to be one.”

“Well, I’m apparently not very good at that. I don’t know what to do.”

Charlie chewed on his lip, thinking. “I do,” he finally said.

“You do?”

“Sí,”
Charlie said softly.
“Sí.”

“I think we’re making a big mistake,” Ned said.

“Do you hate him?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think he deserves this?”

“If not worse.”

“Then lift. On three. One…”

“It’s too heavy, Charlie. I need a second to stretch out some. I have to be limber to do this.” Ned did a couple of toe touches, bending forward in a slow manner, his face flushed.

Charlie watched him stretch and then grew impatient. They had already managed to push Tamales’s desk over to a corner in Office A, as far away from the window as possible. Now they were going to flip it over, no easy task since, as Ned repeatedly pointed out, it was very heavy. “Ready? Come on. We can do this,” Charlie said.

Ned continued to stretch, dangling his arms in front of him. “Just give me another moment. I don’t have the best back.”

After Ned’s seminar on second languages, during which Bradley had broken the piñata using two staplers, one in each hand, Charlie had lured Ned downstairs to the deli for coffee. It was there that he convinced him that turning a man’s desk upside down was a natural and even professional response to rude behavior. After some thought, Ned hesitantly agreed, though he was now reconsidering this strategy.

“I’m not so sure about this,” he said.

Charlie played his trump card. “Aren’t you related to Churchill? Didn’t you tell me that?”

Ned’s back visibly stiffened at the mention of his warrior ancestor. He lifted his chin defiantly and in his eyes Charlie thought he saw the resolve of the Blitz. This transformation was fleeting, however. As soon as Charlie thought he had him, Ned wilted and became Ned again, all asthma and anxiety.

“I could lose my job for this,” he said.

“Come on, lift.” Charlie grabbed hold of his end of the desk. Perspiration was streaming down the sides of his face. He had long passed the point of no return and was willing to die to get this done. Tamales was evil, he had insulted Ned, and, much, much worse, he had insulted Charlie. He had to be stopped. “Let’s get this over with. One, two, three. Now lift and turn. Turn! Turn! Jesus! Turn it over!”

The desk weighed as much as a not-so-small boat. Ned’s face flashed an alarming beet-red, all his splotches connecting, as he struggled to lift it.

“Come on!” Charlie yelled.

They were turning the desk sideways when Charlie began to lose his grip. He panicked, thinking they were going to drop it on his feet. “Put it down, put it down!” He gasped for breath. “Okay, leave it like that for a second.”

The desk was now on its side, its legs shooting out like a dead horse. Charlie mopped at his forehead while Ned paced around the room, hands clasped behind his head.

“You doing all right? How’s the asthma?” Charlie asked.

“I’m fine.”

“You use a humidifier?”

“They don’t help.”

Charlie thought of his beloved Rain Forest waiting patiently for him bedside, like a loyal hound dog. “Then you’re not using the right one,” he said. “Come on, now. Let’s finish this.” He grabbed the desk again. “It’s late. I was supposed to have dinner with my kid.”

“I don’t know about this, Charlie.”

“Come on. We’re defeating evil here. Standing up to him. Like your uncle Churchill did to Hitler.”

Ned returned to the desk, his English jaw rigid. “He wasn’t exactly my uncle,” he said. But he took hold of his end of the desk and began to lift.

After some thought, Charlie decided it might be best to avoid the office the next day. Instead, he woke early, bought Kyle more glazed doughnuts, went to the Wilton Memorial Library, and camped out in a secluded cubicle in the corner. Between doing research on cattle for his possible interview with Xanon and reading
Beloved
, he alternately called the Wizard, Donna, and Ned but talked to no one.

He returned home around six with the intention of spending some quality time with Kyle—doing what, he didn’t know—but instead collapsed on his bed and dreamed that he was talking to a mole. The mole was circular and brown and had a bushy Groucho Marx mustache and eyebrows. It was sitting in a chair in the reading nook, its hairy, thin spider legs crossed, casually smoking a cigar, and holding a BlackBerry.

Charlie addressed the mole. “You have to go away,” he said. “I can’t take any more bad news right now.”

The mole cast him a sideways glance, raised his eyebrows up and down, Groucho Marx–style, but didn’t utter a sound.

“I don’t care who it is, but the next bad thing has to happen to someone else. I’m at my limit.”

The mole shrugged and flicked some ashes off his hairy little legs, checked his BlackBerry.

“Please,” Charlie said. “You have to go away.”

The mole took a deep, contemplative puff of his cigar and motioned for Charlie to lean in and listen to what he had to say. “Dad,” the mole said in Kyle’s voice. “The toilets are backing up.”

“What?”

“There’s something wrong with the toilets.”

“What?” Charlie opened his eyes and found Kyle standing at the foot of his bed clutching a toilet plunger.

“Something’s wrong with the toilets,” he said. “Water is, like, coming out of them.”

Charlie cleared his throat. He was still in a fog. “What do you mean? Coming out of what? Where? What are you talking about?”

“All of the toilets are backing up. All of them.”

Charlie sat up and surveyed the room in the fading light. While there was no trace of his cigar-smoking mole, there was a sizable pool of water forming by the bathroom door.

“Jesus Christ! What do we do now?”

“I don’t know.”

Charlie jumped out of bed. “Give me the plunger. Just give it to me. Now!”

When he reached the bathroom, he found water already an inch deep on the floor.

“Are all of them like this?”

“This one is the worst.”

“Has this happened before?”

“A few times. But this is really bad.”

“What have you’ve done? How do you fix it?”

“Mom calls Tony DeAngelo Plumbing.”

“We’re not calling them. We’ve got to fix this ourselves. All right?” Charlie looked unconvincingly at Kyle. This was not the kind of father-and-son activity he’d had in mind.

“Okay.” Kyle swallowed, his Adam’s apple bouncing.

“All right.” Charlie hoisted the plunger up like it was a loaded M1 rifle. “Stay here.”

With that, he entered the bathroom and peered into the toilet. The water was swirling and spinning madly like a whirlpool. Without thinking, he thrust the plunger into the epicenter of the vortex and began pushing down.

“I tried that already,” Kyle yelled.

Charlie ignored him and continued to thrust. Rather than help, his efforts seemed to infuriate the toilet. The water was literally gushing out now. He backed away, breathing heavily.

“This is serious,” he said.

“There’s something wrong with our pipes,” Kyle said. “The plumbers are always here.”

“Screw the plumbers. They’re ripping us off!” Charlie raised the plunger and thrust it hard into heart of the beast. Toilet water splashed everywhere. He did this again and again and again while simultaneously yelling, “Goddamn it! Goddamn it! Goddamn it!” as loudly as he had ever yelled anything in his life.

God must have heard him, because the noise, the water, everything, suddenly ceased. He stood there drenched from head to toe in toilet water, amazed and dazed, still clutching the plunger. He slowly peered into the toilet, and saw calm waters, then felt something shift, sensed a new presence in the bathroom. He turned toward the doorway and saw Donna standing there, arms folded across her chest.

“Hey, Mom,” Kyle said. “When did you get back?”

After she hugged and kissed Kyle, and after she led the cleanup efforts in all of the bathrooms, and after she had asked Kyle to go return the borrowed plunger to Matt’s house, Donna called Tony DeAngelo, the rip-off artist/plumber. Charlie leaned against the island in the kitchen in his wet clothes and watched her, still shocked at her sudden presence.

She looked thinner and prettier, her curly hair captured tight in a bun, her face drawn and serious and a little wind-burned. As she waited on the phone, Charlie considered his next steps. While he had imagined her return many times, he had failed to map out a clear response strategy. By default, he decided to play it by ear and follow his mood. Unfortunately, his mood at that moment wasn’t particularly good.

“So, how was your trip?” he began. She was wearing a baggy kelly-green sweatshirt he had never seen before, and had the sleeves rolled up high, past her elbows. She seemed lost in it.

“It was okay.” She had her back to him, and was on hold.

“Well, that’s good.” He wondered if she had received his package of photos, and if they had played any role in her return. “Well, that’s nice.” He walked over to the refrigerator, opened it, closed it. He was a bag of emotions. He knew he had to stay calm, though, knew he had to proceed carefully.

“We’re glad you’re home,” he said in what he thought was a casual voice. “Kyle missed you. I cooked dinner for him and Matt, his friend.”

He waited for her to comment, but she didn’t.

“So, how was your flight?”

“It was fine.”

“Well, that’s nice.” He paused here, thinking. He had quite a few questions, but wasn’t sure if this was the right time to ask them. He decided to regroup. “I’m going to check the pipes,” he said. He disappeared downstairs to the basement, ostensibly to inspect the main water valve that Donna had turned off. He found the valve in the furnace room under a washtub. He bent down and double-checked to make sure it was closed tight, then slowly went back upstairs. His anger was rising. He had assumed an apology would have been the centerpiece of her return, though none seemed imminent.

He entered the kitchen, and listened to Donna say good-bye on the phone. “Thank you so much, Mr. DeAngelo. We appreciate it so much.”

“Mr. DeAngelo,” Charlie said.

“He’s a nice man.” She hung up the phone.

Charlie swallowed. “Nice man.”

“He’s coming out himself. He’ll be here in a few minutes. He was finishing another job close by. He’s just two blocks away. We’re lucky. You know how hard it is to get a plumber to come out?”

Charlie made one more attempt to control himself. He swallowed again. He couldn’t believe they were talking about a plumber. “We’re blessed,” he said.

Donna gave Charlie a look, then brushed some hair out of her face. Finally, she asked, “Has Kyle eaten dinner?” She picked up a dishrag and ran it under the faucet, then slowly began to wipe down the counters.

“Kyle? No. I was going to cook dinner, again, then this toilet thing happened.”

“How’s your tooth?”

“It’s okay. It’s fine,” Charlie answered. Then he couldn’t resist. “Listen,” he said. “Can we cease with the chitchat charade? I need to know about this guy. Tell me everything right now. I need to know this, I have a right to know this. Let’s get it out in the open, then we can get back to talking about dinner and Kyle and my teeth. I need to know about this guy.”

Donna continued to wipe down the counter, her face impassive. “He has nothing to do with us,” she quietly said.

This was too much. Charlie finally exploded. “
Nothing
to do with us? You’re kidding, right? He has everything to do with us. Everything!”

Donna covered her face with her hand. “I knew it was going to be like this,” she said. She was trying not to cry, but not doing a good job of it; her voice was jittery and her bottom lip trembled. “I knew it. I knew you would start.”

“I’m just asking a question, that’s all. I’m not starting anything. I’ve been very calm, considering you’re screwing some guy!”

“I’m not screwing anyone!”

With that, Donna threw the dishrag at Charlie. It hit him square on the forehead, then fell on the floor. “I don’t know why I even came back,” she said. “I don’t know! I don’t know why I did.” She covered her face again, her fingertips poking through her sleeves, which had now slid down her arms.

“Okay,” Charlie said. “Let’s just settle down. Everything’s going to be okay. We just have to talk this through.” He was picking up the dishrag when the doorbell rang. “It’s probably Kyle,” he said. “So let’s both calm down.”

She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “It’s not Kyle. He’s not going to ring the doorbell.” She sniffled. “It’s Mr. DeAngelo.”

“Oh, Jesus, him. I’m surprised he doesn’t have his own key. Let me get rid of him.”

Charlie stormed toward the front hallway, prepared to rip open the door, but found Mr. DeAngelo already standing in the foyer.

“The door was open,” he said. He was a small, older man, with puffy white hair, a matching white beard, and a slightly hunched back. He looked a cross between a mad scientist and Santa Claus.

“This isn’t a good time right now,” Charlie said.

Mr. DeAngelo peered over his shoulder toward the kitchen, pushing wire-rimmed spectacles up his nose with a long, delicate finger. “Not a good time for what?”

“For you to be here. We’re busy right now. So please leave.”

“I’d like to see your wife. She called me.”

“She’s busy. Now, if you don’t mind.”

Mr. DeAngelo cupped his hands against the sides of his mouth. “Mrs. Baker,” he yelled. “Mrs. Baker!”

Donna immediately emerged from the kitchen wiping some tears from her face. She meekly smiled at him. “Hi,” she said.

Mr. DeAngelo looked at Charlie and back at her. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, sniffled.

“See, she’s perfect. So can you leave now?” Charlie said.

“I came to do some work.”

“You’re not doing any more work here, so just leave. Leave now. You’ve ripped us off long enough.”

“I beg your pardon? What did you just say?”

“Oh, come off it. I’ve seen the bills. Ongoing water flow problems, bullshit.”

At that comment, Mr. DeAngelo puffed out his chest. When he did this, the hump on his back seemed to move down lower. “What are you insinuating?”

“I’m not insinuating anything. I’m just telling you to stop coming here and stealing my money.”

Mr. DeAngelo’s face, now red, remained composed. “I think I resent that comment.”

“I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. I really am. I know plumbers are very sensitive, very delicate people. I wouldn’t want to upset you.”

“You owe me some money,” Tony DeAngelo said. Up until this point, he had come across as well spoken, articulate even, but he said “owe me some money,” in a threatening, Tony Soprano way. “Before I leave, I wanna get paid. You owe me fifteen thousand dollars.”

Charlie was momentarily blinded by this, the room actually going dark. He reached out to steady himself against the wall. “What? Fifteen
what
?” He looked at Donna, who was still standing in the dining room.

“I thought I paid you, Mr. DeAngelo,” she said.

Charlie couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You thought you paid him fifteen thousand dollars?
Thought?
You don’t remember paying someone fifteen thousand dollars? It slipped your mind?”

“I thought I paid you a few weeks ago,” Donna said. “I’m sorry if I didn’t.”

“Paid him for what?” Charlie yelled.

“You had roots in the pipes, so we had to dig them out and get rid of them. Tree roots,” Mr. DeAngelo said. “We did it right around Labor Day. It was a big job. We had to dig them all up, dig up a lot of your lawn.”

“You dug up our lawn? It cost fifteen thousand dollars to dig up our lawn?
Shoveling
cost fifteen thousand dollars?”

“We got rid of the roots and replaced some piping.”

“Obviously, you didn’t do a good job. We still have problems.”

“We did the best we could.”

“‘The best we could’? Are you kidding me? Fifteen thousand dollars and you did the best you could? What is this, second grade? I’m supposed to give you an A for effort? A gold star and fifteen grand? Tell me you’re kidding me. Tell me so I can laugh.” Charlie folded his arms across his chest and waited. “I need a good laugh. Come on, tell me. Tell me this is a joke.”

Mr. DeAngelo turned his attention back to Donna. “The check you gave me bounced, Mrs. Baker.”

Donna was visibly horrified. She put her hands up to her mouth in shock. “It bounced?”

“Yes, ma’am. I tried to cash it and it bounced. I’m sure it’s some mistake,” he said.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. DeAngelo. I had no idea. I don’t know why it bounced.”

Charlie wasn’t sure which was worse: the fact that Donna paid a plumber $15,000 or that the check had bounced. He decided to combine the two outrages.

“You gave him a fifteen-thousand-dollar check and it bounced?” he yelled. “Didn’t you check the balance? Always check the balance before writing a check for that amount. Always.”

“Are you still getting paid?” she asked. She turned to Mr. DeAngelo. “My husband was fired a few weeks ago. That might be the problem with the check.”

Charlie shot Donna a heated look. He couldn’t believe she had just told a stranger, a
plumber
, about his situation. He was going to mount a protest, clarify that he had resigned to pursue other interests, when he felt the pain in his chest. It was sharp and long, like someone was digging a knife deep into him, rooting around for his heart. He reached over again to prop himself against the wall and started gulping air.

“What’s wrong with him?” Mr. DeAngelo asked.

“He’s fine. Mr. DeAngelo, I am so sorry about the check,” Donna said. “Let me write you another one.”

“Don’t!” Charlie croaked. Things were going dark again. He pointed at Donna. “Do not give this man a check!” he gasped. “Do not!”