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The sound of footsteps broke his concentration. He opened his eyes.
Ivy stood before him, wearing a lightweight cotton kimono. Her face glowed warmly in the candlelight. Her voice was a mere whisper. “I want to be with you.”
Peter remained seated in the lotus position, unable, it seemed, to move. He became sharply aware of her delicate physique, his nakedness. He felt their vulnerable auras bending toward one another, reaching. He thought about what he’d come to realize at the dinner table, the feeling of dread inside him that seemed to suddenly threaten everything in his life. He thought of telling her about the few close calls he had had over the past couple of years, how they had ended in tears and shattered dreams for the students. He thought of telling her that in all their years together he had never been unfaithful to Kate. He thought of telling her that in all their years together, Wallaby had never been unfaithful to him, and it was the same thing. Was, he wanted to say aloud and tell her, tell anyone who’d listen, why.
But he told her none of these things. Instead he said to himself, without uttering a word, I had a lot to drink, it was the wine. But was he really that drunk, or was it something else? Something worse? That he even considered this excuse, that he was actually entertaining a defense for something that had not even happened, not yet, presaged the guilt that would follow if he were to allow them to come together. And apart. And it was all the same thing, he told himself. Today, tomorrow, and the next day and every day after that.
He considered her. She was an angel whose mission was to ease him into the hereafter. He concluded, when he noticed a powdery white substance encircling the inner edge of her nostrils, that she was already “there,” perhaps even farther, some point beyond recognition. As if she interpreted this, she brushed her nose with the back of her hand and sniffled.
“Peter,” she pleaded, her voice husky, “You’ve empowered me. You’ve given me a whole new meaning. It’s my future.”
Somehow her words had breaking effect on him. He was both repulsed and beholden by her sentiment. By himself. He turned his face toward the window, fighting the urge to reach out and pull her down by the waist. It was not as if he were in love with this young girl. And the way she made it sound, he was acting on her behalf, like she needed him. Not the other way around. No, not that at all. He didn’t need her. She was nothing to him. Just another worshipper in a long string of subjects.
And, as if to prove his cruel pretense, she knelt before him. Her soft knees touched his shins. He smelled the peppery sweetness of her breath, and his eyes lingered on her radiant golden hair. He looked into her shining, anticipating eyes.
With a deep, winded sigh that was almost a cry, he finally acknowledged his fear. It was inevitable, he told himself, as he felt himself rising. He placed his fingertips about her neck, traced his thumbs along her delicate lips, her precious ears, touched her smooth eyelids, and gently pressed them shut. Her breath hitched, and she waited for his touch to lead them farther.
He slid the kimono from her lean body, and guided her hands to his shoulders. He drew her down, guiding her to his hips. Her smooth buttocks slid along his thighs. He felt her pause as she settled onto him, over him.
They kissed.
She pulled away her lips and raised her hips.
He moved his mind to another place, into and around and between Kate’s lovely, far-off lyrics. He concentrated, tuned himself to her rhythm.
Down, then up, then again, she slowly drove herself harder and harder. He matched her motion with equal urgency, little lunging lifts, telling himself at the same time that he was not participating, not really, that she was doing all of the work, it was all her, not him. Their mouths worked desperately, lunging for one another, each attempt to kiss more impossible, more desired than the last…
Spent, he felt a delirious sense of relief, as if it had all been a bizarre dream from which he had just awakened. He raised his head from the mat. For a brief, wanting moment he envisioned Kate resting lightly on top of him.
The music had ended, the silence was palpable.
His mind collapsed. He felt as if he had taken an enormous plunge backward from a high altitude, his head dizzy, his thoughts vague as he fell. He squirmed beneath the full weight the young girl lying atop him, trying to escape from what they had done. He wanted tonight to be over. He wanted tomorrow to be over. He wanted both gone forever. He wanted another chance.
Ivy stirred. She raised her head off Peter’s chest and looked at him. Her face was glistening, content. “Thank you,” was all she said. She raised herself from him and collected her kimono. She covered him lightly with the comforter, blew out the candle, and vanished.
He tested his defense. A whisper: “It was the wine - “
But he could not complete the sentence, for it was already done. And it was not the wine. It was another thing altogether. And he felt it now.
The little thing in his heart. The little thing that had come and gone earlier in the evening. It was back again. It lay quietly, barely perceptible, like the breathing of a tiny creature, and he had almost not noticed it. But there was no mistaking it now, and he fought to grasp hold of it, to suffocate it, but his attempts were futile. It felt as though the thing had established permanent residency.
For many hours, until his consciousness finally succumbed to mental depletion, he was disturbed by a queer premonition. That the dark, throbbing thing in his heart was determined to eat its way out, ever so slowly, boring straight through the only parts that Peter had ever loved, the only parts that had ever mattered.
It was a bright, hazy morning, not yet seven o’clock, but already hot and humid, which wasn’t so unusual for a June day in New York City. William Harrell braced himself for the cool comfort of the limousine’s air-conditioned interior.
For twenty-five minutes he would relax in a comfortable silent plushness. He stretched his legs, lengthening his taut body until his feet touched the facing seatback. His calves responded wearily. Last evening’s workout, the first in more than a week, had taken its toll. He had skipped several sessions since putting in longer hours over the past couple of days, working on the company’s portable computer strategy. The break in his routine, regardless of whatever aches and pains it caused, brought him the kind of excitement on which he thrived. His regal face had the precisely aged features of a character actor cast in the role of judge, or the President of the United States. On occasion he wore glasses, when he remembered, for seeing things up close. At sixty-two, his looks suited his job perfectly.
The car briskly pulled away from the brownstone, his course and destination the same today as it had been each business day for the past fourteen years.
He eagerly unfolded the “Wall Street Journal. In the News Brief column analysts speculated as they did every quarter about changes at Wallaby, Incorporated. According to the story, sources close to the company suggested that the company’s founder, Peter Jones, and its president, Matthew Locke, were not getting along as famously as they once had. There was speculation that a major, long-overdue reorganization would be announced in today’s board meeting. Matthew Locke’s corporate organizational changes at International Foods were revisited. A Wallaby engineer who had asked to remain anonymous was quoted: “Jones has created a rivalry between his division [Joey] and ours [Mate].” The informant went on, “It’s really strange. Jones invented the Mate, yet he says that anyone who is not associated with the Joey is a bozo.” The article explained that separate product divisions were precisely what Matthew Locke had earlier in his career put an end to at International Foods, when he had merged the food and beverage divisions, as well as several other minor groups, into one umbrella organization. A brief background story on the Joey discussed its sparse sales and the fact that few software programs were available for use with the computer, underscoring the analysts’ predictions of a major overhaul. All of the experts agreed that the product was revolutionary and proclaimed that if Wallaby could speed Joey applications to market, it could then gain major market share and thereby disarm the older, less flashy technology of its largest competitor, International Computer Products. The consensus was that Wallaby had to get its act together if it was to have any hope of remaining at the forefront of portable computer technology innovation.
William Harrell smiled. That was exactly what he had hoped to read. He folded the newspaper and tossed it onto the seat beside him.
The car neared its destination, turning for the final stretch onto a block with the largest buildings in the city.
If everything went as the analysts predicted, William Harrell would soon begin implementing his new plan. The existing one, a conservative strategy that the company had followed for two years, would soon be replaced with one informed by none of the customary Fortune 500 company protocol. William Harrell’s plan was based on a decision he had made two years ago, around the same time the press had touted Wallaby’s newly appointed president, Matthew Locke, as “ICP’s Nemesis.”
The car slowed in front of a massive building with a black marble facade. William adjusted his tie and tugged at the jacket of his charcoal pinstriped suit. As the driver opened his door the city air hit him like a furnace blast. Towering above him were seventy-six stories of world renowned corporate power, wholly occupied by the company whose name was carved in stone above the building’s entrance: INTERNATIONAL COMPUTER PRODUCTS.
He entered the building, rode the elevator to its highest level, greeted his secretary, and entered his office, on whose door a golden plaque announced: Chairman & Chief Executive Officer.
*
Each member of the board and of the senior executive staff filed into the Wallaby boardroom. Most of them arrived at eight o’clock sharp, avoiding the usual idle conversation that, in the past, had always taken place outside the room.
Matthew’s secretary, Eileen, stood in the doorway of his office. “It’s time,” she said, then returned to her desk.
Matthew stood. He clipped his pen to the yellow tablet on which he’d been writing.
Eileen busied herself at her desk, arranging papers and notes. She paused and said, “Matthew, good luck.”
He gave her a small nod and headed for the boardroom.
The exotic fruits, croissants, pastries, coffee, and bottles of mineral water on the table set up outside the boardroom had hardly been touched. Normally the table would
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