Stillness & Shadows John Gardner (nice books to read .txt) 📖

up to run some errand for him, or would reach for her phone. Craine frowned, his eyebrows ramming toward his nose. Three secretaries, thirty thousand dollars at least; four student workers, say two hundred a month, and God only knew how many more of them in the woodwork—say forty-five thousand dollars in office help, conservative estimate; all for what?—to get grants, play politics, save and increase the Scotch-tape, rubber-band, and paper-clip budget! He heard himself letting out a growl and clamped his mouth shut.

The young secretary in the silver wig was looking out at him, smiling and nodding encouragement. He jerked forward—the glass door stood open—went up to the front of her desk, and snatched his hat off. “Good morning,” he said, slightly bowing.

She studied him, wonderfully polite but noticing the whiskey stink. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for one of your employees,” Craine said. “Man named Ira Katz.” He smiled, head tipped. He held the hat in both hands.

Still smiling, she gave him a calculating look, seeing if he was putting her on. The secretary at another desk called over, “Ira didn’t come in today.”

“Didn’t come in?” Craine said, as if offended.

“I’m sorry,” the one in the wig said, and smiled more widely.

Craine jerked his hands out sideways, as if astonished, playing crazy. “He just ‘didn’t come in’? Didn’t call in with an excuse or anything? Just didn’t come in?”

“It must not have been one of his teaching days,” she said.

He already had his mouth set to start up his mad scene—offended taxpayer, What kind of bidness you running here?, etc.—when he was stopped by the pictures on the walls. He covered his mouth with his hand and squinted at the one over her desk, then swung around and looked at the others, one by one. They were interesting; that was what was strange about them. Not all interesting in the same way, like the pictures in the office of an art museum. They were pictures of utterly different kinds, in fact—a photograph of barns and a tree; a lithograph of ruins; a theater poster; some kind of modern-art print even Craine, for all his reading, had never seen before; a small assembly of New Yorker cartoons; a blown-up picture from some popular magazine—a bald man reading a book.

“Who did the art?” he said.

They looked at him—all three of the secretaries and the student worker who was passing through, a boy in suspenders—then the secretary in the wig began to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” he said.

“Nothing. I’m sorry!” she said and covered her mouth. She was pretty, it struck him. All three of them were pretty; so was the boy in a faggoty way. Bunch of movie stars.

“It’s not often you see interesting pictures in an office,” Craine said, moving in on her. “Very good PR. I take my hat off to whoever’s responsible.” He tapped the side of his head. “Parent comes in, sees the pictures on the walls, right off he says, ‘Cultured, very cultured’ around here! This is the place for my Deirdre.’ ”

Now the other two secretaries were smiling, watching him like something from the zoo. He began to catch on. His eyes opened wider. “Nobody did it, it just happened,” he said. “You all put up whatever you felt like, and this is the result!” He saw that it was true. “Interesting!” he said. He clasped his hands behind his back and went over to look more closely at the lithograph of ruins. “Interesting,” he said again. He took a slip of paper from his pocket and a pencil from the nearest of the desks, discovered that he’d forgotten what he meant to write down, drew a face, folded the paper, and put the pencil back. He returned to the desk of the secretary in the wig, hunted for the license in his suit coat pocket, found it, and held it out to her. “Pictures on office walls are usually pretty phony,” he said. “Nobody really notices, they wash over you like Muzak, but they always have a message. You know—these lousy crap paintings in a doctor’s office; travel-bureau posters, pictures of ducks and fish in the dentist’s office, photographs of government buildings at City Hall. —You’re sure Ira Katz isn’t in today? It’s pretty important, actually.”

She looked up from the license to his face. “I could give you his number at home, if you like.”

“Yes, good. Good idea. Maybe I could borrow your phone for a minute.”

She flipped through a file, reached for a slip of paper, and wrote down Ira’s number. “Here,” she said, “I’ll dial, if you like.” She lifted the receiver and, without listening for the dial tone, began to dial. When she was finished she handed the phone to Craine. “I hope it’s not trouble,” she said.

He gave her a vague headshake and listened. The phone rang and rang. Nothing. “Anyplace else he might be?” Craine asked.

The secretary at the desk nearest the door said, “You might try the computer center.”

The girl in the wig, Janet, nodded thoughtfully, pressed down the receiver button, and began to dial again. Behind and to the left of her an office door opened and a white-haired man looked out, concerned. He gave Craine a little nod, at the same time sliding off his glasses. Craine returned the nod, then looked down at the secretary’s dialing finger, carefully showing no expression, struggling to get his mind crystal clear. Had the man been listening? Was Ira in trouble with the department? He cleared his throat.

The secretary held up the receiver. “It’s ringing,” she said.

As soon as he had it at his ear, a voice said, “Computer center.”

“Hello,” Craine said. “Tell me, is Professor Ira Katz there, by any chance?”

There was a pause. “One moment please.” Half a minute later she was back. He wasn’t there.

Craine hung up, and glanced at the secretary. “No luck,” he said. He drew his hand back and pushed it down into his overcoat pocket. “Tell me,” he said, “what does Ira