The Dislocated Man, Part One (2 page)

She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips.

“You do realize you’re one of those investment banker miscreants, right?”

“Yeah, but I’ve been forced into it by my gold-digging wife who always wants more luxuries…like food and clothes for the kids. Next you’ll want to college educate them.”

“Maybe we should get them out of elementary school first
,
”
s
he s
uggested
. “I better get home. I’m feeling a little warm.”

“See, I should go with you.”

Hannah gazed into her husband’s eyes.
“Really, babe, it’s okay. I’ll be right back.”

Knowing he was just being foolish, he nodded and watched her sway toward the far end of the conference hall where she would find her coat and the exit. At the last minute, she turned and waved.
Something about her smile made him regret not going. He
got up but then watched
as she disappeared through the door.

The next hour was nearly as arduous as he had imagined. He moved toward the brown-nosing end of the hall where brokers wore permanent smiles and spouses aggressively flirted
upward. Jack didn’t know for certain, but he assumed the flirters really would have slept with upper management if they thought it would gain them or their spouses an edge. He also wouldn’t have been surprised if
those people abandoned one spouse for another
,
anything for a nicer home, fancier car or larger expense account. Of course, at the center of the kiss-ass whirlwind, he found Thomas
Boonsen
and his wife
,
Edith
Boonsen
,
perched like
silver monarchs at the end of
the immense conference
table. Around them crowded the most hardcore of their flock. One man—a hedge fund manager from the Seventh Avenue building—was actually spreading jam on a biscuit and handing it to Mrs.
Boonsen
who accepted it with the aloofness of a queen. Jack wished he could say she had been
less haughty
when he first entered the game or
that
had he seen the way the
Boonsens
really were
he might have made different choices.
But
he would have been
lying to himself.

He just found it increasingly hard to suffer it.

“Jack
Werth
,
” Thomas
Boonsen
said, somehow noticing him through the throng of greedy hangers
-
on. “How’s my favorite manager of temperamental clients?”

Suddenly, every eye within fifty feet was staring at Jack. More importantly, a pathway opened up so he could actually approach the exalted couple to make his yearly bow of respect.

“I’m not sure managing one temperamental client makes me an expert
.
”
He moved
close enough to shake Thomas’ hand.

Since the
queen
’s
blue-veined hand didn’t reach
his way
he simply
nodded and
smiled
at her
.
Her return gesture could have been a wince.
She had never been one to mingle much with the
help
, though everyone knew she was responsible for
a
majority of company decisions, including who got fired and who didn’t. The balding manager with curly red hair at the sides knew exactly what he had been doing when he handed her a jam-filled cracker.

“I see big things ahead for you and T.
Boonsen
,” Thomas said generously.

Translation:
W
e’re going to make
big money with or without your help this year.

“Thanks
,
” Jack said. “I hope you and your family—”

“Mr. Werth! Mr. Werth!”
His assistant’s
panicked voice lanced through the din.

Every eye at the clotted end of the room snapped to see a young redhead pushing her way toward them, a cellphone aloft in her hand. Though in her late-twenties, she still had a vicious case of acne and an awkward teen aura about her. Not having seen her since shortly after the party began, he was surprised
that
his secretary hadn’t actually left already.

“Mr. Werth, it’s the police
,
” Allison said, her voice carrying easily now that the room had fallen silent. “They’re calling from Mrs.
Werth’s
cell phone.”

Jack felt as though a glass dome had slipped over his entire body. People separated so he could retrieve the cell phone.

“They tried all her speed dial numbers
,
” the young woman said
.
“You must not have your ringer on.”

His chest tighten
ing
into a ball of black coal, Jack
shoved
back the way he had come.
Most of the partygoers parted for him.
At the distant end of the room people were still dancing, gesturing, their faces filled with smiles. He reached for the phone.

“He-Hello.
This is Jack W-Werth.” He could hear sirens wailing and commotion
pushing
through the other end of the receiver.

“Mr. Werth, my name is Sergeant Abbott with the Minneapolis Police Department. I’m sorry to
infor
—”

“Where is my wife? Tell me where she is!”

“Mr. Werth, there has been an accident.”

“No. No. Where is she? I need to talk with her.” Jack’s head felt like an overheated steam furnace. His heart pump
ed
fear straight into his brain.

“The medics are with her right now, Mr. Werth,” Sergeant Abbott said. “It might be best if you came here to the sce
ne
—”

“Is she okay? Is she going to be okay?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Werth. The medical technicians and the doctors will have to make that determination…”

“Which hospital?”

“We have a lot of victims here, Mr. Werth
,
”
t
he sergeant said. “It has not been determined yet—”

“
Which fucking
hospital?” Jack screamed. He ignored the
stares and expressions of horror and
detached interest.

“She is still at the scene, Mr. Werth.”

“Where?
I’m leaving right now!”

The lights were getting dim and a rushing sound reverberated in his head. Vaguely, Jack heard someone speak.

“I’ll drive you.”

Minneapolis valets were neither common nor known for top notch service, but one of the two young attendants outside the
Kirstwood
Hotel’s lobby retrieved Derrick Branson’s late-model Chrysler in record time.

“Do you need me to sign anything?” Derrick asked the uniformed thirty-something who hustled around the car and handed him the keys.

“Just get him to wherever he needs to go
,
”
t
he young man said.

Jack fought back tears as a movie of his life with Hannah played like an emotional whip in his mind. He could see her smile at the Brown campus where they met. She was still smiling when they moved into their first cockroach-infested apartment in Grand Rapids. He even remembered her laughing the day the doctors made him bring their first-born
,
Chet
,
home from
the hospital without her. He slid into the passenger side of Derrick’s car and barely noticed the Burger King bag that Derrick snatched from the seat before he could sit on it.

Why did I let her leave without me? I should have—

He buried his face in his hands and fought the tidal wave of emotions that were swirling like hot lava though his mind.

I need you, Hannah. I need you to be okay. Please be okay!

“Seat belt, Jack
,
” Derrick said.

Jack looked up.

“Yeah.
Sorry.” Absently, he pulled his belt around and locked it in place.

“The Nicollet Island bridges are still closed for construction
,
” Derrick said
.
“We’ll have to cross at North Plymouth. Sound alright?”

Jack nodded.

Derrick momentarily jerked to a stop at the entrance to 6th Street before the Chrysler’s tires squealed and jumped out into a stream of cars.

Jack willed cars to move, lanes to open, anything that would get them to Hannah’s side sooner. He was tempted to call the policeman back, what was his name…Sergeant Abbott? But he knew it wouldn’t do him any good. The man had refused to give him any information over the phone.

I need you, Hannah. The boys need you!

“I know you can’t help it, Jack
,
” Derrick said, jerking his car into the outside lane and passing a car
ful of
teenage girls, all of whom seemed to be giving them the finger. The girls’ horn blared as Derrick’s Chrysler slid in front of them.

“Jack
,
l
et go
!
”

“What?”

“You need to let go of your keys. You’re bleeding.” Derrick reached behind the seat and pulled out a wrinkled fast food bag. With one hand, he somehow managed to pull out two napkins embossed with a large “M.” He passed them to Jack.

“Squeeze these instead.”

“Okay.” Jack
did
as
he was
told
. He didn’t even remember pulling the keys from his pocket. He willed the blood to stop but like Kool-Aid on a white tablecloth, a red stain spread rapidly through the napkins.

Twice in one day. I definitely can’t tell Hannah.

He felt the same flood of shame as he had the day it all started, the day he had seen the surprised expression on his brother’s dead face. Jack didn’t remember much after that, but the doctors said he had nearly bitten through his own thumb by the time the ambulance arrived.
Then, after several hours in surgery, he had been confined for two
weeks
t
o Ward Six for psychiatric patients.

Fourteen?
I was
only
fourteen when Emil died.

He still regretted not being allowed to attend his brother’s funeral.

“Are you okay?” Derrick asked.

“It's just a nervous reaction
,
” Jack assured him. He didn’t see any reason to reveal to his sales manager that he had to take two pills a day to keep his nerves under control. He smiled remembering Hannah’s first reaction when he had explained about the psyche drugs.

“I like that you were upfront about it
,
”
s
he had told him. “At least your kind of crazy won’t surprise me.”

“Not unless you take away my pills
,
”
h
e said.

“Guess I’ll just have to serve you personally each morning and night
,
”
she had
whispered before
kissing h
is ear. And that’s the way it had been ever since. Twenty-
two
years, and she had never once missed giving him his two pills. Over the last few years, his therapist had suggested
several times
that he might be able to do without them, but Jack refused. He had promised never to be the kind of crazy that would surprise his wife—

Jack wiped the tears away and realized that his palm was still bleeding. The dark stain had soaked through the napkins and onto his pants.

“
Do you
have any more tissues or anything?”

Derrick pointed at his glove box.

“I don’t cook much at home
,
”
t
he heavy man said defensively as he pulled the steering wheel
and sent
them bolting left onto 8
th
Avenue. A horn blared somewhere behind them. “And the fast food places usually give extra napkins.”

Any other day Jack would have been horrified at having one of his managers see him like this, but the glass dome was still muffling the outside world. He fished out several crumpled napkins. Derrick’s eyes shot to a few drops of blood on the leather seat
. Jack
wipe
d
up the spots before pressing the
napkins
deep into his palm.