Crude Sunlight 1 (7 page)

"Breaking into abandoned buildings? Really? What for?"

"Just exploring, I think. The thrill of being where they weren't supposed to be."

Michelle shook her head slowly. "And you think that's connected to his disappearance?"

"Looks like it. Apparently he disappeared while searching the basement of some state hospital. I told the police, but the officers they sent to look around down there didn't find anything."

Michelle frowned and slowly shook her head, "How strange." She reached out to place her hand on his. "I'm sorry, Thomas. This has to be so hard. But trust me. In a week or two he'll give you a call from Mexico or right here in the city, and be all surprised at how upset you've become. He's only, what, twenty? He's having an adventure. That's what college kids do. Especially Henry. You know how independent he is."

He glanced down at her hand. "Yeah, I guess so. Maybe. Though this video... there's something more going on. Either way, I feel like an idiot for having taken so long to get up there." Thomas turned his hand over so as to interlace their fingers, but she drew hers back, as if growing suddenly aware of a line inadvertently crossed. The waiter arrived and set down a slender flute of orange juice, nodded, and stepped away. Glad for the distraction, Michelle lifted the glass and leaned back, taking a sip as she watched Thomas from over its rim.

It was coming. He watched her face, trying to think of a way to forestall her, divert the oncoming words. His mind was a blank. He had nothing to say.

"Well, I didn't come here to talk about Henry or his misadventures. We can't avoid this any longer. Thomas, this isn't working." She spoke carefully. "I can't do this anymore." He averted his eyes, unable to meet her gaze. And as if this inability strengthened her resolve, her voice grew calmer, more certain. "Look, after what... happened, I just can't stay in New York any longer, but you don't take my wanting to leave seriously. It's like you're just waiting for me to calm down or get over it. I don't expect you to understand what I've been going through, but I had hoped you would show more concern. More love." She reached up to smooth back her cheeks, and then smiled bitterly at him. "But we've got money, we've paid off our debts, we can leave. Before I get any worse. Before things get any worse between us."

This wasn't the attack he had expected. He had been prepared for recriminations, to soothe her anger and ignore her jibes. This openness, this vulnerability, was different. It reached back to a kind of communication they hadn't shared in months.

Michelle leaned forward. "I mean, look at us. It's like I finally opened my eyes this past week and saw how bad things have become. Now that you're working nights I never see you anymore. Thomas, quit your job, let's sell the apartment, move to Boston, or anywhere--get a place with a garden, something, but let's get out of here before we lose our marriage altogether."

His heart was hammering in his chest. "Just like that? Do you know how large my performance bonus is shaping up to be this year?" He sounded like a tool even in his own ears, but he couldn't stop. "Do you honestly expect me to walk away from that after how much I've worked to earn it?"

"Yes, Thomas, just like that. I don't care about your bonuses, your promotions, I mean, come on. I just can't stand being here anymore. I haven't taken the subway in months, I'm cabbing it everywhere, I don't even want to go out at night. You know how hard this is for me. Why are you acting like this?"

"I'm not acting, I really am surprised. I mean, I know I can't understand how hard this is for you, but you have no appreciation for how I've killed myself to get where I am." His voice sounded flat, unconvincing. He was talking faster than he could think. As if he were reading from a script he was barely familiar with. "I mean, do you think it was easy to get this close to this promotion you hate so much?" He reached desperately for anger, found it. "And what will we do in Boston? Go help people? Get a garden? Volunteer at shelters, and, what, save the world? Those weren't plans, Michelle. Those are naïve daydreams, escapist fantasies. I mean, get real. Am I the only one who's interested in keeping our lives grounded here?"

The shock and anger on her face was clear, and it registered in him like a splash of cold water, quelling his sudden anger, turning it into resentment. It wasn't fair, wasn't fair that she could act so innocent and hurt and force him to be the responsible one. "Look, Michelle, think." He stared down at the table top, gathering his words. "You can volunteer from here. If you want to quit your job at the firm and do pro bono work, then I can support you while you do it. You should get a therapist, work through these issues, not run away from them. They're not going to disappear if we move to Boston. Face them, here where we have a home, where I can support us if you decide to take some time off. I'm not saying you can't change your situation. I'm just saying that it doesn't make sense for me to throw everything I've been working on these past few years down the drain."

"I don't. Fucking. See you. Anymore," she said. Each word was carefully articulated and stabbed at him. "During the week I see you perhaps for half an hour in the morning before I go to work. I'm asleep by the time you get in. You work weekends. You're exhausted. And when we're together? You can't even seem to look me in the eyes." She was trembling with pent up emotion, "You call this a marriage?"

He looked past her. A flash of her face, beaten and bruised, the doctor talking to him, the world spinning. He forced it away. Spoke woodenly, "We will be all right if we just calm down. We just need to get through this tough phase. I'll work less when I'm promoted."

She stared at him, shook her head, eyes burning with frustration. "I keep saying this but you don't listen. I don't want this life, Thomas. I can't pretend like you that nothing happened. I can't go back to the way things were. So here are your options. Quit your job, leave this all behind and come with me to save our marriage, or stay here by yourself and hope you find more happiness in your cubicle then you did with me."

Thomas felt his stomach knot up as if a pair of constrictors were trying to crush each other to death. "What would I do, Michelle?" His voice soft now, matching hers in intensity. "Say I quit my job. Then what? What do I do while you do your pro bono work? But what about me?"

She stared at him.

Thomas shifted his weight in his chair and looked down at his hands. He studied them, the whorls around his knuckles, the black hairs. Arguments arose within him like great waves, compelling and nuanced and outraged and defensive, but with a sigh he let them crash, explode soundlessly within his mind, unvoiced.

"Okay, Michelle. I'll think about it. I really will." He looked up, caught her expression. She was watching him carefully, as if searching for a lie. "I wish I could give you an answer right now. But... I'll think about it."

Michelle stood up. "I'll try not to gauge how much you love me by how long you take. Call me when you've figured out your priorities."

Thomas stood up, pushing the chair away with the back of his knees, the metal grinding against the stone floor. "I'll call you soon," he said. Michelle shrugged back into her coat, and picked up her umbrella. "I just need to figure some things out. I'm sorry."

"I love you, Thomas," she said, as if stating a fact, as if one could say such a thing dispassionately. They stared at each other, and then she looked away, turned, and left.

Chapter 7

Thomas spent that evening in the office, hunched over his desk, staring at the graphs and spreadsheets without really seeing them. The hubbub of his co-workers seemed to come from behind a glass wall, and occasionally he would catch himself simply staring out at the cubicles, watching people walk by, almost failing to return nods and greetings. He stared and could hear Michelle's voice asking, is this more important? More important than our marriage? He felt empty, hollow. Head stuffed full of straw. Michelle didn't appreciate how good it felt to be a top player in his department. To be respected, to be relied on by his friends and peers. She derided it all as "corporate bullshit," but some of his greatest victories had been played out in these halls, amongst the men and women who were seated in the cubicles and offices about him. He felt safe here. Protected. He knew what to do and when to do it. With Michelle these days... things were no longer clear. He no longer understood his role. No longer understood on an intuitive level how to interact with her, how to simply... be.

One by one his co-workers left, and the dimness of dusk fell over the city, which lit up its windows and lights in defiance of the night. Streets flickered and filled with headlights and the sky glowed into a wan orange of reflected light pollution. Soon only the gentle whir of the air conditioning could be heard, along with the rare creak of a solitary and hidden worker leaning back in their leather chair to assess, ponder, reflect. Standing in his office doorway, Thomas saw a few pools of clean white light emanating from some cubicles, indicating little hubs of ongoing productivity, but for the most part it was dark, silent. A sudden uncertainty gripped him--what time was it? What day? Looking at his watch he saw that it was past eleven. Thursday night. Time, he thought, to go home.

Coat draped over his arm, he selected a path to the elevators that would take him past Buck's desk. The large man was frowning at his computer screen, arms crossed over his chest as he sat back and stared the data. At Thomas' approach, he glanced up, grinned ruefully and shook his head.

"Want to finish off this analysis for me before you go?"

Thomas smiled. "No thanks. I think I'm done."

Buck paused, on the verge of saying something lighthearted, and then frowned. "You all right?"

"Yeah, sure. I guess." Thomas looked out over the tops of the dark cubicles, at the far windows, and then back. "I don't know."

Buck leaned back in his chair, the hinges squealing in protest, his belly straining out over his belt, lowering his chin to his chest as he stared thoughtfully at Thomas. "What's up? Did you get in touch with Michelle?"

"Yeah, well, she got in touch with me, actually."

"Ouch," said Buck, wincing. "Not good."

"No, not good at all." Thomas tried to recall the anger, the outrage, the arguments he had used, something with which he could explain what had happened. But nothing came. Just sadness, a deep melancholy that promised at best numbness and sleep. "It didn't go well. She wants me to quit work. Leave New York."

Buck's eyebrows shot up. "Really? What did you say?"

"I told her I'd think about it."

"I bet she liked hearing that."

Thomas took a deep breath, and passed his hand over his brow. "I don't know, man. I was pissed. She put me on the spot..." Buck nodded, but said nothing. "It's just that she's so naïve. It kills me. Like she doesn't understand how lucky we are to have what we have. And it's always about what she wants, what she thinks is best for our marriage, what..." He couldn't do it. Couldn't come up with the argument. Buck continued to watch him, waiting. "Fuck it," said Thomas. He couldn't explain to Buck. He didn't even know how to explain it to himself.

Buck nodded slowly, his expression grave. "If you give me five minutes I can wrap up here. Want to go get a beer?"

"No, I'm fine, thanks. I should probably just get home. Sleep. Think things over, you know?"

Buck looked dubious. "You need to get that stuff off your chest, man. No good lurking around in your apartment like some ghost. Come on. First beer's on me. We'll get some hot food and figure something out. What do you say?"

Thomas smiled, but shook his head again. "Negative, Captain. I'm done. Thanks for the offer though."

Buck's smile died, and he nodded. "Well, okay. I understand. But you know I'm here if you need somebody to talk to right? I mean, we don't have to go for a beer, we can just--"

Thomas laughed, "Buck! Please, no, I understand, and really, I appreciate it. Maybe next time okay? I'm off. Take care."

Buck nodded, and Thomas turned and walked over to the elevator. He'd go home, have a hot shower, put on some clean clothing and maybe order some food. Watch television till he passed out, and then come right back to the office to work some more. Watching the numbers illuminate in order as the elevator ascended toward his floor, Thomas felt bone-weary. He'd work out this problem with Michelle. Somehow, he'd figure it out.

Walking into his building, Thomas was stopped by the concierge, who emerged with quick nervous steps from behind his desk to cough quickly and wave at him as he passed. Thomas paused, turned, and raised an eyebrow. Jose bobbed his head and took a sidling step closer, reaching up to adjust his immaculately poised cap.

"Mr. Verkraft, hello. Sorry to stop you, but you have a package."

"Oh? Okay."

Jose nodded again, paused as if waiting for more, and then quickly stepped back behind his desk, ducked out of view and came up with a bulky manila envelope. Handing it over carefully, he peered down with avid interest as Thomas turned the envelope around to inspect the writing on the front.

"It is from Buffalo," said Jose helpfully, reaching out to point at the return address. "From a Julia Morrow?" His inquiring look was met by a cool glance. Jose frowned, realizing that he had perhaps overstepped his bounds, and sat down at his desk to begin chewing on the inside corner of his lips nervously.

"Thank you, Jose." Thomas turned before the man could find another opportunity to dart out once more, if only perhaps to pump his hand and tell him that it had been his pleasure, and strode quickly toward the elevators.

She had sent him a large envelope with a bulky object in the middle. A book? It wasn't overly heavy, but what on earth could it be? Something of Henry's? Resisting the impulse to open it immediately, he instead tucked it under his arm and rode the elevator up this floor.

Opening his door, he dumped his briefcase on the couch and set the envelope on the kitchen counter, moving past it to the fridge where he poured himself a glass of orange juice. He stood eyeing the package as if it might contain some sort of dangerous animal. He decided to finish his glass first, but halfway through he stepped forward, set the glass down and tore the envelope open.