

**loll** _v_. lolled, _lolling_ , _lolls_ — _intr_. 1. To move, stand, or recline in an indolent or relaxed manner. 2. To hang or droop laxly. **loller** _n_.

That's the dictionary definition. A loller is a shirker, a slacker, a goof-off, an idler, a goldbrick, a dirtball, a ne'er-do-well—all of which define Claude Amognes's behavior quite nicely. He's lazy and selfish; he gets into trouble taking short-cuts at work at the power company while depending on the union to bail him out; having got his job only because his father was the union president, he is never in danger of working himself to death—in fact, taking advantage of the sick-leave policy his father negotiated years ago, he has no difficulty in using the slightest indisposition to generate a week or two of sick leave where he can recover by fishing and boozing. So he's a good-time Charlie who smokes and drinks too much and does as little work as necessary; but while all these things are true, he's also a delightful character and fully human. He loves his daughter Jamie and in his own way also loves his long-suffering wife Joan. He alone makes reading this novel wonderful, rollicking fun. Years ago when he began his career with the electric company as a meter-reader, he'd been attacked by fleas in a basement and had to flee for his life, swatting and scratching up a storm. That incident had earned him the nickname "Bugsy" with his union brothers. Later after a scheme to get full disability and a comfortable annuity fell through when Mr. Schulke, his boss, had video proof he was faking his headaches, this traumatic attack of fleas comes in handy. Delightful in a Falstaffian way as Claude is, he is surrounded by dozens of other fully realized characters who add breadth and depth to this wonderful novel. At one point we even get the point of view of a trout! In short, _The Jig of the Union Loller_ is a page-turner. It offers quite a picture of work in America along with much wit and wisdom about human behavior and the human condition.

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THE JIG OF THE UNION LOLLER

by

Michael Burnham

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

The Wessex Collective on Smashwords

THE JIG OF THE UNION LOLLER

copyright 2009 by Miichael Burnham

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Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

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### Chapter 1

Nick had jumped. The two men who'd seen him on the third floor knew it, and although they didn't witness the final transaction, neither doubted that the Rhode Island Electric stores department had lost its second man in eighteen months.

The man in the blue cardigan stared at the closed door at the end of the empty hallway. The other man, the one with the rough complexion, tugged the cardigan.

"Come on, John. We've got to tell someone."

The men rushed to their department and together whispered the news to the shop steward. The steward put a finger to his lips and pointed to the back exit. Not everyone in the department would take the news well.

The three men punched out for morning break, slipping their manila-colored cards into the time clock, waiting a beat while a set of red numbers thwacked onto the cards, and sliding the cards in the proper slots on the gray metal rack beside the clock. They walked along high shelves to an open door two pickup trucks wide. Once outside, they stood around a white bucket filled with sand.

"Nick didn't do it," the shop steward said. "He's still with us. I know he is."

"We saw him, Scotty," the man with the rough complexion said. "John and me. Nick was standing with Feeney outside the executive conference room. Wendell from meter reading came walking up, and Nick couldn't look at him. He turned his face until Wendell passed."

"Did he see you?" Scotty said.

"No," John said. "He couldn't. Bugsy and I were down near the safety office."

The three men looked to the ground. John slid his fists to his hips and kicked the toe of his workboot into the hard dirt. Scotty pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his flannel shirt, gave one to each of the other men, and lit his own with two firm drags before killing the flame. He exhaled a cloud of smoke as he returned the pack and lighter to his pocket.

"Maybe he didn't jump," Scotty said softly. "Maybe we can still talk sense into him. Nothing frantic. Just talk, nice and calm, and hope he hears us. Before it's too late."

"It's already too late," John said. "But if it isn't, who's going to talk to him?"

"I'll do it."

"I don't know, Bugsy," Scotty said. "Maybe we better get Frank."

"Me and Frank then."

Scotty ran a hand from his forehead through his thinning red hair and held the back of his neck for a second before looking up. "All right, Bugsy. We've got the Baugh Street kids coming in for a tour, but once they're gone let's you and me get Frank and the three of us'll talk to Nick."

John gave his dirt groove another hard kick. "I know one thing," he said. "As soon as Nick becomes management they'll work him to death. They will. Then the first time he slows down they'll get rid of him. I've seen it happen. We've got to make Nick understand that now, because once he's gone, he's the enemy."

"He knows that," Scotty said. "But these guys who skip, they get hypnotized by the money. It sounds like so much—wow, thirty bucks an hour when my last raise was from $24.30 an hour to $24.50. They don't think, well now I have to become a professional nitpick, and now I have to work whatever overtime they dump on me, and now when there's a problem with the boss it's just me against him, nobody to back me up, just the guy making the rules against me. They don't think of that stuff."

Again the three men gazed into the earth. Without speaking, John turned toward the steps leading to the company cafeteria. The other two continued to smoke. Five minutes later, Scotty dropped his cigarette into the bucket.

"You coming, Bugsy?"

"Nah, I'm going to have another butt. Punch me in, will you?"

Scotty nodded. Alone with his cigarette, the remaining man leaned against the brick building and daydreamed about Feeney daring to offer him a management position. As he invented the conversation, his face betrayed the speaker: a scowl when he listened to Feeney's imaginary pitch, a smile when he heard himself tell Feeney to shove it. At last, he swayed himself upright, flicked his cigarette to the ground, and crushed it with the heel of his workboot.

"That's right Feeney," he said out loud. "Me and the union, I'm in it and it's in me. Stuff your promises up your ass, because I know your game, and I want nothing to do with you, not now, not ever. Claude Amognes ain't no fucking traitor."

#

As Claude smoked his second cigarette, John reappeared from the cafeteria door, munching a candy bar as he approached. Claude pointed to a line of children coming over the crosswalk from Baugh Street Elementary. The children reached the near sidewalk, marched in double file along Rhode Island Electric's black fence, and disappeared behind a stack of spooled wire and a small pyramid of new utility poles. They appeared again after rounding the corner onto Thompson Street, where their teacher stopped them in their rows. Claude and John saw the woman gesture toward the company, and then across the street to a three-level apartment house with a porch on each floor.

White dwellings lined the block along Thompson Street. Wheelless cars rested in the driveways of two apartment houses, and a neat array of hubcaps for sale adorned the driveway of a third. Tree roots pushed up the sidewalk in places but did not disturb the street itself. Everywhere hung laundry, from third-floor porches to backyard poles. Everywhere were chairs: on sidewalks, in front yards, on porches, driveways and a sprinkling of rooftops.

Near the corner of Thompson and Baugh, the teacher continued to teach. Once more she pointed to the company and then back to the apartment building.

"Wonder what she's telling 'em," John said.

"Kids, you want to get a job here," Claude said, "so you can move out of here."

John nodded. "They're sweet. Those big smiles coming from under all those uneven bangs and grubby faces. Kinda breaks your heart. I'm glad we help them out."

"You're a sap," Claude said. "And please, the company's not doing this out of the kindness of their hearts. We wouldn't know that school existed if there was nothing in it for us. Works out well that one of the guys on the utility commission has three kids there. We drop a few bills on the poor inner-city school, he looks the other way while our rate restructuring plan sails past the board. Nice arrangement."

"Maybe, but it's still good for the kids. You coming in?"

"Too nice out here."

"What if the boss is back from his meeting?"

"Screw him," Claude said. "Make the bastard drag me back inside if he wants me. But don't sweat it, he ain't back from his meeting yet. Besides, if you check my card, you'll see I'm punched in. It's all legit."

Claude smiled. John finished his candy bar and tossed the wrapper in the white bucket.

"All right, Bugsy. See you in a few."

When he returned from break, Claude heard high-pitched squeals and with a hand over his eyes squinted into the dim interior of the building as if trying to make out the source.

"Ready?" Scotty said to the children. "One, two, three..."

"Hi Bugsy," the children called. "It's about time you finished your break."

The school kids howled. Claude smiled, and walked toward Scotty.

"Say hi to Miss Karakostas's fourth grade class," Scotty said. "Their principal couldn't afford a real field trip, so they get a tour of Rhode Island Electric."

"Better than some stuffy museum," Claude said. "Come on, let's race 'em up the aisles, you know, get a little obstacle course going. I'll put five bucks on the tall one."

"Maybe another time. We've only got fifteen minutes until the teacher comes back and takes them to the yard for bucket rides."

A cheer went up from the class.

"Who's giving the rides?" Claude said.

"Derek and Leo," Scotty said. "Medical took them out of the buckets, and Feeney has nothing else for them to do. The kids'll get a kick out of it. First, though, we're supposed to show them how our department works."

"Let me join you," Claude said. "I'll learn 'em stuff they'd never get in school."

"That's what I'm afraid of. But sure, come along."

Scotty led the group toward the front of the building and sat the children down.

"We're a stockroom," Scotty said. "That means this is where we keep all the equipment needed to keep the electricity on in your house. When something breaks, or when someone's building new houses that need electricity, our workers come here to get the things they need. Each day, our big yellow trucks drive in to drop off all the junk they've collected during the day. They drive right through one of these four big doors and park here, in what we call the loading bays. When we take all the junk they've collected, sometimes we throw it away, sometimes we put it back on one of those high shelves, and sometimes we chuck it in one of those bins over there to be recycled. How many of you recycle?"

Every child raised a hand.

"Good," Scotty said. "Good. Once we've taken everything off the trucks, then we put on the trucks the things the crews will need for the next day's job. It could be wire, or streetlights, or just about anything else that helps keep your lights on."

A thin, dark-haired boy turned to Claude. "When can we ride the buckets?" he said in a near-whisper.

"Soon enough, spud," Claude said. "But first you have to learn about the wonderful world of the stockroom."

Scotty walked to the edge of the loading dock and eased down to one knee. "See this big piece of rubber?" he said. "It's nailed right into the cement. That way the trucks can back all the way in without worrying about scratching the paint or denting the bumper. We have to climb on and off the trucks while we load them and unload them, so we don't want them too far away or we'd have to jump to reach them, and this rubber lets them get in close."

A chubby blonde girl pointed to clear, foot-wide plastic strips hanging from the ceiling in the mouth of each bay. "What are those?" she said.

Claude hopped off the loading dock, landing without a stagger, and walked toward the strips. "These keep the outside temperature from becoming the inside temperature when the steel doors are up," he said in a loud voice. "They move apart easily when the trucks back in, and look, look over there on that wall. When it's sunny with a bit of a breeze, they shoot colors onto everything that's dark, which is just about the whole building, because those little windows way up near the roof don't hardly let no light in at all, and because those light bulbs on the ceiling are what's called energy-efficient bulbs, which means they don't cost much to use but don't light the place worth shit."

Claude shot a palm over his mouth as the children burst into giggles.

"Poop, I mean. They don't light the place worth poop. Unless it's dark outside or the steel doors are down. Then you can kind of see in here."

Scotty started the group through the maze of floor-to-ceiling shelves, explaining what each shelf held and how it helped keep the state's electricity on. The children remained quiet but started to fidget. Claude thought axes and giant snips might hold their attention better, but they didn't, so when Scotty reached the spot where the department stored its forklifts, flatcarts, and dollies, and started in on the horsepower each vehicle could muster and the maximum load it could carry, Claude powered two flatcarts into the middle of the back aisle and gestured for the kids to climb on. They scrambled aboard. Scotty objected, but Claude told him to relax, he wouldn't race them, he'd just show them how the things worked.

"Now stay in the middle and don't move," Claude said.

He twisted the handgrips like a biker revving his motorcycle engine, and the cart moved forward. Claude drove them toward the back door, wheeled them in a circle, and drove them back toward the group. When they arrived, Claude motioned for the children to sit tight, and when they did he brought a black lever down slowly and lifted the flatcart bed ten feet in the air. From over the sides of the raised bed beaming children waved to their classmates. After Claude lowered his group, Scotty gave the others the same ride in the second cart.

"Can we go again?" Claude's group said. "Take us up again."

Scotty vetoed the idea, noting they only had two minutes to finish the rest of the tour, which they could never do, meaning the children would be late for the bucket rides. Scotty hustled the class toward the center of the building, where Rhode Island Electric had erected four plasterboard walls and a ceiling. In the unpainted room were three desks, three file cabinets, and a sign reading "Stores Department."

"This is the office," Scotty said. "This is where we get our paperwork done."

Claude leaned over to the tallest boy in the class. "It's where the big jerk hangs out," he said. "You can tell he's not here right now because he's not yelling about something stupid."

A girl in pigtails interrupted Scotty. "Where do those stairs go?" she said.

Claude bent low and gathered the children around him. "They go to the roof," he said. "But if you look at the top, you'll see a little platform."

"The nest," Scotty said.

"The nest," Claude said. "If you're sitting on the back of the platform, near the door, nobody down here can see you, so you can goof off all you want. But the boss don't know about it, so don't tell anyone, okay? It'll be our little secret."

"You're not supposed to goof off," the pigtailed girl said.

"You got a lot to learn, little wiseacre."

Scotty took over again and pointed to the ceiling, to a small cockpit suspended from two orange tracks on the roof, a metal floor beneath a tiny seat surrounded by black-knobbed levers and shifts. A safety bar ran three quarters of the way around the cockpit, and a safety harness dangled over the metal floor, its buckle reflecting incoming light from the bays. Scotty showed them a ladder on the back wall, which provided the only access, and told the children the crane took three full minutes to inch the 150 yards from the front of the department to the back. He told them the crane could lift up to ten tons, and showed them the different sized hooks and rigs that could be attached to the main lifting line. He also pointed to the yellow lights—like lights atop a tow truck—that twirled whenever Frank, the crane operator, sat in the cockpit.

"Has anyone ever been crushed?" the thin boy asked.

"No, thank god," Scotty said, "We're very safe here. The lights twirl to let people know to be careful. We take every precaution to make sure nobody is injured, because you don't want to wait until after an accident to start thinking about safety."

"Ahem," Claude said from the back of the group. Scotty gave a shrug and a wrinkle of his face.

"This is supposed to be educational," Claude said. "Now children, we can't lie to you, once in a while something falls off the hook and almost kills someone, but Frank has a horn he can use to warn people of stuff, and usually a good loud honk will get people scrambling from whatever it is is about to crunch them into a pancake. Most of the time, though, Frank just leans on the bar and does nothing, because the crane moves so slow on its tracks poor Frank would die if he had to haul his stomach up and down the ladder all day, but the good thing about that is Frank has a good view of the place, and does a good job of warning us with a quick blast of the horn whenever we need to look sharp for the boss."

As Claude spoke, a short man with oil-stained boots and a grease smudge on his cheek rounded the corner, his thick fingers holding an unopened can of soda.

"Hey, everyone," Scotty said. "We're talking about Frank, and here he is. Kids, meet Frank Dombrowski."

"Hi kids," Frank said. "Nice to see ya."

"You go up that ladder?" the pigtailed girl said.

"Just watch, little darling."

As Frank climbed the ladder, a voice called hello, and Scotty leaned into the office doorway to see a tall woman with long, dark hair standing opposite him in the office's other doorway. The children ran to her.

"Miss Karakostas, Miss Karakostas. Can we go on the bucket rides now?"

She said yes, but first instructed the children to thank their tour guides, which they did. She herded them toward the door on the far side of the building, near the steps leading to the nest, and down the hall that would take them to the front parking lot. Claude and Scotty watched her backside as she went.

#

After the children left, everyone in the department gathered on the loading dock near a van delivering small boxes of office supplies and paper. Dave Darezzo, a short blond man who always wore a hockey jersey to work, sat on a forklift off to one side of the dock, hands folded behind his head and feet crossed on the lift's black steering wheel. Warren Taylor, whose sandy hair was cut so unevenly everyone thought he trimmed it himself, leaned on an upright dolly. John Carrollton sat on a pile of boxes. Elton MacGibbon, a dark-haired, wiry man in his early fifties, reviewed a packing slip with the deliveryman. Although the van held nothing large, Frank started the crane toward the front of the building. Claude and Scotty joined the others.

"Where's Schulke?" Warren asked Scotty.

"At a meeting," Scotty said. "Told me he'd be most of the morning."

"Him and his meetings," Warren said. "Useless A and Useless B."

John bit his nails, inspected the new shape, and bit some more. Warren stuck a pinky in his ear, pulled it out, stuck it in again, and twisted it around. Darezzo spat on the floor. All three looked up when Frank brought the crane overhead. Frank set the brake, leaned on the safety rail, and waved to the group below.

Darezzo sat up. "Hey where's Nick?" he said. "I haven't seen him all morning."

"Shit that's right," Claude said. He turned and yelled toward the crane. "Hey, Frank, I forgot to tell you. Nick's interviewing with Feeney for a management spot. We need you to come with me and Scotty and talk to him."

Scotty rolled his eyes.

"I didn't know that," Elton said. "He told you he's going for a management spot?" "No, me and John saw him with Feeney before break," Claude said.

"Well I'll have to have a talk with Mr. Dubois," Elton said. "Give him a few things to think about."

"No, we're going to have a talk with him," Claude said. "Me and Scotty and Frank. It's already been decided."

"Well I'm coming too."

"Sorry, Elton my man, three's company, four's a crowd."

"Four nothing," Frank said from the crane, "I just got here and I'm not coming down. If Nick's interviewing with Feeney, he could be in there all day. You guys take care of it without me."

With that, Scotty agreed to include Elton. Claude wheeled around without speaking and headed to the office, where he shuffled through a stack of work orders until he found one for equipment stored near the hallway leading to the overhead lines office. Claude plucked the work order from the pile, drove a forklift to the shelf containing the item, and sat.

Before long, Nick rounded the corner at the far end of the corridor. He struggled to undo a necktie, and when the knot popped loose he slid the tie from the collar of his mint-colored, short-sleeved dress shirt, crumpled it in one hand, and stuffed it into the front pocket of his blue chinos. The clumps made by his work boots echoed through the empty hall.

"Whatcha got in your pocket there?" Claude called.

Nick saw Claude on the forklift and stopped walking.

"Looking pretty for Feeney?" Claude said. "So come on, how'd it go?"

"I was just listening."

"Just listening, eh?"

"No concern of yours or anyone else's. Just listening."

"Me and the guys, we don't want you even listening, Nick. Your union does a lot for you, and, damn it, we don't like guys running around trying to stab us in the back and join management. It just ain't good. We all got to stick together. You can't waltz off on your brothers just because Feeney pretends to kiss your ass for a few minutes."

"Thanks for the input, Bugsy. Fortunately I don't make life decisions based on feedback from you."

Nick walked past Claude, and a few steps later arrived at the loading dock.

"Hi scab," Darezzo said from his forklift.

Nick ignored him. The other members of the department gathered around. Claude pulled up in his forklift and joined the group.

"Hey, Nick," Scotty said, "does Feeney want you?"

"I don't know," Nick said. "I just went to listen."

"If he gets you, he's going to work you into the ground," Elton said. "You might as well kiss time with your family good-bye."

"Well, my family's kind of the reason I went," Nick said.

"How so?" John said.

Nick shrugged. "You know, Melissa's a sophomore in high school, and we could use the extra money when she's ready for college, and the wife and I, we aren't too far from retirement age, and we were talking the other day about maybe it'd be nice if we could buy a place in Florida and not have to spend our retirement shoveling snow in New England. You know, move up a little."

"The money's not worth it," Elton said. "It isn't that much. It's not going to send Melissa to Harvard or buy a palace on Miami Beach."

"I don't really want to discuss it any more."

"Well you're going to," Claude said. "We don't want management among us. Are you going to collect information for the next two weeks and then spill it to Feeney when he hires you? You think we're stupid? If you're a rat, say so, and we'll put on our rodent gloves until you're gone."

Nick snorted and shook his head. "I knew this'd happen. Look, I'm no dupe for Feeney, or for Schulke, or for anyone, and I probably won't even take the job if Feeney offers it to me. But as long as I'm in stores, I'm stuck. I make a decent living, sure, but I can never advance anywhere. I'm here until I retire, and then I have to live on a pension that isn't even a full month's pay. I hear what you're saying about the money not being that much different between a stockman and a front-line supervisor, but don't forget that there are other levels of supervisors. There's coordinating supervisors, planners, department managers, and operations managers, and those guys make big bucks – I bet Feeney makes a hundred and fifty a year, easy. And remember, most of the supervisors around here are no spring chickens. They're going to be retiring soon, and when they do the top brass will be looking to move front-line supervisors into the big chairs. Hey, I climbed poles for twelve years before I got hurt and wound up in stores. I can't string wires any more, but I can supervise. I know the job."

"Scab talk," Darezzo called from the forklift. "Talking scab. Totally scabatious."

"Now hold everything," Warren said. "Let's get one thing straight here."

Everyone froze. Even Frank in the crane leaned forward to hear.

Warren extended an index finger and waved it once across the entire group. "A scab is someone who crosses a picket line and takes your job while you're on strike. Nick's not a scab. He's a turncoat. Get the terminology right."

The group, save Nick, broke into laughter. Even the deliveryman chuckled, but then Frank's horn sounded and all heads searched the perimeter for the boss, Tom Schulke, who emerged from the stacks near the meter reading hallway.

"What's going on here?" Schulke said. "This isn't party time. Get this truck unloaded and get back to work. There are a million things to do."

Scotty and Elton returned to the packing slip and the others slowly dispersed.

"Claude," Schulke said, "I told you Tuesday to enter all the invoices into the computer so the vendors can get paid. They're not done. You haven't even started."

"I've been busy."

"Bullshit. Get going."

Claude stiffened to mock attention. "Yes sir, Mr. Schulke sir! I know how vital they are to our mission, sir! I will enter these invoices as you have commanded, sir!"

Claude saluted, put his toe behind his heel, turned military style, and marched away from the boss with a huge grin for the guys to see. With a clenched jaw the boss walked toward the bays. As the guys stifled their chuckles, Schulke jumped off the loading dock and disappeared around the corner.

Although he went to the office and typed the first invoice into the computer, Claude did not type a second. Instead, he rummaged through the morning paper until he found the sports section. He peeked toward the bays for a sign of Schulke. When he didn't see one, he flipped a silent middle finger to the absent boss and headed for the bathroom.

#

After lunch, with Schulke back, Claude entered invoices into the computer. At 2:30, Claude turned his attention to stock orders for the line trucks pulling into the bays.

The first truck pulled into Claude's assigned bay, and Dan Thompson, the junior member of the two-person crew, unloaded the scraps from the day's work. Claude logged everything coming off the truck, then separated the trash from what might be reused. In another log, he described the reusable items and their condition and set them aside to be put back on the shelves. He next went through the trash pile and removed metal, porcelain, and other recyclable material, jotting each in a third log before dragging the new piles to the appropriate bins and tossing them in. The remaining refuse from Dan's truck had no use whatsoever, but even garbage came with paperwork: the local trash-to-energy plant burned garbage to make cheap power, and paid Rhode Island Electric a small fee for each ton it hauled from its premises. Claude weighed the trash, recorded the figure in yet another log, and chucked it in the dumpster.

As Claude and Dan unloaded, Nate Coffey, the senior member of the crew, went to the overhead lines office, reported the work done that day, and picked up the crew's next assignment. In the stores department, he met with Claude to review the materials needed. By now, Claude had gathered everything in the stock order and moved it to the bay.

"Easy day Monday?" Claude said.

"You got it," Nate said. "Set a few streetlights. Perfect way to start the week."

The men checked off the items as they were loaded onto the truck. The pile transferred, Dan and Nate climbed into the truck's cab, gave a wave, and drove the big yellow beast with the smiling light bulb on its side to the company gas pumps for refueling. Once they filled it with gas and parked it, their weekend began.

Since no other trucks pulled in right away, Claude meandered to the far end of the department to check out the female meter readers as they came off the road. Before long he heard footsteps, and when Frank confirmed the source of the footsteps with a quick blow of the horn, Claude broke into a play-act, running his finger from left to right as he pretended to search a shelf for an item, pointing to a work order and shaking his head, and finishing by making a face of feigned frustration. It worked. The boss passed without comment.

Five minutes later, Claude again heard footsteps coming toward him, but this time there was no horn from Frank.

"Bugsy, what the fuck is wrong with you?" a tall man in a yellow hard hat holding two strips of wire said.

"What do you mean, Jeff?" Claude said.

"I needed seven spools of 477. You loaded me with five of 477 and two of one-ought. Look at this, you idiot: One-ought is this really thin wire here, 477 is this half-inch thick wire here. See the difference? How could you not notice? If I'd strung one-ought from the Foster substation the damn shit would've melted the first time someone flipped a light switch."

"Hey, Jeff, I'm really sorry," Claude said in a low voice.

"Sorry is right," Jeff said. "You're a sorry motherfucker. You told me all seven of those spools were 477s. If you weren't such a pussy, I'd kick your ass right here."

"The printout must've been wrong. Sorry, man."

"Stop saying you're sorry," Jeff yelled. "The printout wasn't wrong. You got the wrong shit. Now get me two more 477s and put them by truck 317. Me and Junior have to fucking drive all the way to Foster on a Saturday for 45 minutes of work, because Feeney's all over us. He wanted that damn substation online today."

Jeff slammed his work order for Monday on the floor by Claude's feet and stormed off. Claude walked to truck 317.

"Junior, hey man, I'm really sorry. Someone must've put one-oughts in the wrong place. Tell Jeff I'm sorry."

"You could have screwed our production numbers," Junior said. "I missed a goal last year and it lightened my bonus check about $500. Jeff'll cool off, but you can't keep doing this, man. It isn't that hard. Make sure what's on the sheet is on the truck."

"Sorry man. Tell Jeff I'm sorry."

Claude ran his hand to the top of his head, then back down to the nape of his neck. "Someone put one-oughts in the wrong place."

"Just be more careful next time." Junior stepped from the truck to the dock. "Let's load this bugger and get the hell out of here. The Dub's a-waiting."

### Chapter 2

Most Fridays Claude's post-work drinking began as soon as he could punch out and drive to the bar. This Friday, however, he swung by Central High School to watch his daughter Jamie, a junior at West High School, play softball. After fourteen games, Jamie had just three plate appearances and four mop-up innings in right field, but when the vice-principal hit West's starting right fielder with a three-day suspension for smoking in the school parking lot, the coach told Jamie she'd be starting the second game of the doubleheader against Central.

Claude parked his red Chevy pickup truck and walked a short tree-lined path to the field, emerging just as West took the field for the bottom of the second inning. Claude found his wife, Joan, seated on the top row of a set of bleachers between the press box and the visitors' bench. He climbed up and sat next to her.

"Any score?" he said.

"Two to nothing," Joan said. "Mr. Abeles kept us in a department meeting that went on forever, so I got here late. But I heard West won the first game."

"Jamie done anything?"

"Nope. She was just about to bat, but her team made the third out. She ran over to get one ball, but it ended up being foul, I think. I don't know, maybe it was a hit, but she didn't do anything wrong. The coach didn't yell at her."

In right field, Jamie chomped on a wad of gum but only blew bubbles between pitches. Her snug uniform —blue pants and a white top with red trim—showed the contours of her body: thin legs, narrow hips, b-cup breasts, slender arms. She pulled her cap lower to her eyes than the other girls, and unlike many of them let her shoulder-length hair fall as it may instead of tying it in a ponytail and pulling it through the hole above the hat's adjustable strap. Although brown, her hair had natural blondish tints, and her eyebrows were blonder still. She had white skin, colored only by the blemishes she was prone to, and brown eyes. Jamie loved her eyes, loved looking into them in a mirror, but hated her chin, which she felt receded too far beneath her bottom teeth and didn't match the rest of her skull.

As her pitcher delivered, Jamie rested her glove and her throwing hand on her knees. Between pitches, she stood upright, hanging her arms free as she blew a bubble or two. The first batter of the inning grounded out, but the next two singled to left to bring up Central's leadoff hitter, a lefthanded blonde girl nearly six feet tall.

"Jamie's playing too shallow," Claude said.

"So yell to her to move back," Joan said.

"No. She'll be mad."

The batter swung and lifted a lazy fly ball to right. Two small steps and Jamie stood beneath it, but instead of settling in her glove the ball hit the outside finger and caromed toward the foul line. Both baserunners scored, and the batter wound up on third when Jamie's throw to second sailed into left field. The next batter struck out, but after that six Central hitters put up six straight hits – and scored five more runs —before a skinny sophomore tapped to first to end the inning.

When Jamie came in from the field, teammates Betty Allen and Lyndi Bayne met her near the coach's box to console her about the muffed fly, but the public gesture didn't dissuade some of the other West players from firing looks of disgust in Jamie's direction. Jamie stuffed a helmet onto her head, windmilled a bat a few times, and stepped to the plate.

"Leading off for West," the young man at the public address system announced, "the right fielder, number two, Jamie A-mogg-knees."

"Not A-mogg-knees, you idiot" Claude yelled. " _Amognes_. Rhymes with _alone_."

"Correction," the P.A. announcer said, "now batting for West, Jamie _Amognes_."

"Rhymes with _let's-see-if-she-can-atone_ ," someone yelled from the far-side bleachers.

Jamie fouled to third, but later in the game dribbled a grounder past the second baseman for her first varsity hit.

After the game, won by Central in a rout, Jamie found her parents in the small crowd and gave each a hug.

"Nice hit, Princess," Claude said.

"Thanks, daddy," Jamie said. "Come on, walk with me toward the bus."

"I don't see why you can't just come home with us," Joan said. "Coach makes the rules," Jamie said.

She paused to put on her red windbreaker, then tucked her glove under her arm and started with her mother and father down the path.

"Is the coach going to play you more now?" Claude said.

"I doubt it," Jamie said.

"Why not?"

"Well, because Jenna's coming back for the next game, and because I stink."

"You don't stink," Claude said.

"Sure I do. But it's ok. I don't have to be a superstar to have fun. I like being on the team."

"You know your coach's uncle is a union brother of mine at Rhode Island Electric. I could have him put in a good word for you, maybe convince your coach you should be playing more, you know, maybe let her know that if she can find a few starts for you there might be something we could do for her in return."

Jamie laughed. "What, like store huge items in the stockroom? Daddy, if I want to play more, all I have to do is practice and I'll be good. But I don't feel like doing softball drills twenty-four hours a day. I have a life. Besides, Allison got her father to speak to the coach about playing more, and we all think she's a bitch because of it."

"Jamie," Joan said, "watch your language."

"It's true," Jamie said. "Lyndi's dad's the chief of police, and she's a benchwarmer just like me. We don't care."

They arrived at the bus and Jamie climbed on.

"See you tonight," Joan called.

"See you tomorrow," Claude said.

As Jamie disappeared toward the back of the bus, Claude put a hand on his wife's shoulder.

"I'm going to the Dub," he said. "Don't wait up."

### Chapter 3

To get to the Dublinner Inn, patrons had to park in the vacant lot next to Pablo's XXX Video, cross the street, walk past the recently-defunct Li Phan's Lucky Star Restaurant and the long-defunct El Salvador Laundromat, and take a left down three cement stairs to the bar's front door. Above the stairs hung a sign, hand-painted four decades earlier by the original owner, repainted with spray cans two summers ago by members of the Diablos Por La Justicia gang. Together, the two paint jobs spelled Dublinner GrInnGo Go Fucking Home and featured a smiling leprechaun dressed in a green and gold suit with black horns and a large black penis.

The Dub had two televisions, one at each end of the bar, and a dart board. The local joke: darts sticking randomly from the walls, ceiling, bar, even the floor—everywhere except the dart board.

Aside from alcohol, the Dub sold peanuts and potato chips. Popcorn was free, and patrons were allowed to bring in pizza or hot wieners from the joint two doors down. Tall customers ducked to enter through the front door. The Dub had no windows, seven tables with seven seats at each table, and seven stools at the bar.

On the wall near the entrance, a white board proclaimed in magic marker "If you're not here to drink, get out," a motto conceived and written by Frank Dombrowski. In the lower right corner of the board, the bartenders kept a tally of women served since September 1, 1991: ninety-six. At one point, someone altered the corner to read "women, blacks, hispanics, and asians served," leaving the tally at ninety-six, but Dub owners Ted and Maury, aware that a few of the regulars from the union at Rhode Island Electric were Black, Hispanic, or Asian, erased it quickly and made personal apologies to anyone who might have been offended. Though Ted and Maury acknowledged they knew who wrote the phrase, they never publicly confirmed his identity, and everyone from Rhode Island Electric assumed it was either one of the elderly Irish men who played noontime games of cards at the Dub or one of the handful of middle-aged Irish men who refused to leave each night until the bartender put away his broom, put on his coat, and held his finger over the light switch.

When Claude entered the Dub, he ordered a pitcher of beer and sat down next to Frank. The conversation among the six people at the table stopped.

"Oh boy Bugsy, you'd better watch yourself on Monday," Frank said. "The boss is gonna be waiting for you at the door about this Foster thing."

"Who ratted on me?" Claude said.

"Nobody fucking ratted on you," Frank said calmly. "Junior and Jeff had to explain why Foster ain't done yet."

Claude looked around the table for confirmation.

"Feeney came back with Schulke after you left," Scotty said. "They went through the work orders, and compared what was on the shelves with what should have been on the shelves. There were two fewer one-oughts, and two more 477s."

"But that's bullshit," Claude said. "Anybody could have taken those off by mistake. Schulke doesn't have any proof I did it."

Frank shook his head. "Three hours ago you were kissing Jeff's ass about this, and now you're talking tough? Jeff's in danger of missing a goal; that's money out of his pocket. You need to be ready for the boss come Monday, Bugsy, that's all I'm saying. Tell any story you want, but don't finger Jeff and Junior for your screwup."

"Hey Bugsy," Scotty said with both hands on his beer mug, "what are you sweating about? You've still got a performance warning to give, don't you? Take the written warning and keep your nose clean until it clears."

Rhode Island Electric had a three-three-three disciplinary program. Three levels: oral warning, written warning, decision-making leave. Three probation periods: six months, twelve months, eighteen months. Three categories: attendance, conduct, performance. Keep screwing up and keep moving toward termination. Keep clean and go back to square one.

Dan Thompson turned to Claude. "Bugsy, you've already got warnings, and you mouth off to Schulke like you do? What do you have, rocks for balls?"

"More like rocks for brains," Scotty said.

Except for Claude, everybody laughed.

"Whether I've got a warning to give is not the point," Claude said. "They've been looking to get me for a long time. If the sheet says seven spools of 477, I go to where the 477s are and get seven spools. We're busy. If somebody keeps putting shit on the wrong shelf, orders are going to get loused up. Why should I get written up because things are on the wrong shelf? For all I know, Schulke knew the one-oughts were there and didn't say a word, trying to catch me. He's the damn supervisor. He's supposed to know where everything is. Why do I have to eat my last performance warning for someone else's screwup? The whole thing is bullshit."

No answer came from around the table as six mugs rose to six mouths.

Dan attempted to ease the tension. "Hey Frank, tell us the Bugsy story again."

It worked. They all laughed around the table, save Claude, and Frank told Dan to get his junior lineman ass over to the bar and bring back two more pitchers and he'd tell him the story, which most everyone had heard many times, and always looked forward to hearing, and which Frank loved to tell when he had the right audience and a lot of beer.

#

At first, Claude was known as "Jackie's kid." It wasn't a nickname, just a description. Everyone at the company knew Jackie Amognes, the union president, but few guessed this skinny 19-year old was any relation.

For one thing, Claude didn't look much like his father. Jackie was a short man with a pot belly, white hair, and cheeks that sagged over the sides of his neck. For a man his size, he had large feet, feet which pointed at ten o'clock and two o'clock when he walked. Jackie also had unusual eyes: the black part always seemed big, and the blue part larger still, leaving a set of eyes with very little visible white.

Claude's eyes were about the last thing people noticed about him. The first thing they noticed, back then, was usually a large, festering pimple on his face or neck. Those who continued looking next saw a weak chin, prominent upper teeth, indentations where cheeks belonged, and small, circle-shaped ears. Claude was short, too, though taller than his father and much thinner.

The big reason, however, that Rhode Island Electric employees had difficulty placing the two at the same dinner table was the stark difference in personality. Jackie's brazen bombast seemed incongruent with Claude's skittering apprehension. How could one beget the other?

Incongruent or not, it was true Jackie loved an argument. Arguments brought attention. Few things satisfied Jackie more than forcing an opponent to submit in front of a rapt audience. Although Jackie sometimes used sound reasoning to induce submission, relentless yelling remained his tactic of choice.

During contract negotiations one time, management sat some fresh blood across the table, and, as Jackie saw it, the new collection of master's degrees paid far too much attention to trends and directions and numbers and far too little attention to Jackie Amognes. So Jackie stood up and announced that these negotiations were going no further unless one of the plums coming the union's way was a job for his son. Well, immediately the master's degrees began buzzing about the wisdom of repealing the rule against hiring relatives. Jackie said hold it right there, you guys aren't listening. He didn't want the rule changed – hell, that'd mean every pecker in the company would be hounding him to get a job for a cousin, an uncle, a goddamn grandnephew, and he didn't want that.

He wanted a job for his son. And although Claude did not at the time have gainful employment, it hardly mattered. Jackie got Claude the job to show the new shirts he could do it. He didn't want to change the rule, but he wanted everyone to know it didn't apply to him. Simple as that.

Soon thereafter the two sides shook hands, ratified a four-year union contract, and took in a basketball game from the company president's luxury box. Not long after that, Jackie's kid reported to his new job in the company's meter reading department.

Right away, Claude took to the position. He liked his yellow company pickup truck. He liked walking around the nice neighborhoods rookies were usually assigned. He liked working alone. He also liked the idea that he had a fixed number of meters to read on each route, and that if he hustled a little each morning, he could spend much of the afternoon laying on the grass watching the women jog Blackstone Boulevard until it was time to return to company headquarters and pick up his next day's assignment.

The pay was good, he lived at home, and the drinking age was still eighteen.

Three years later, the pay was a little better, Claude had his own apartment, and the drinking age didn't matter. He had been dating Joan Knowlton for more than a year, and although she wasn't fond of his dingy apartment, she regularly spent the weekends.

One afternoon, when Claude picked up his assignment for the next day, a route with which he was well familiar by now, he noticed he was scheduled to check the meter of DiCecco's Pizza, a new place on Chalkstone Avenue. A note on the card said the previous occupant, a veterinarian, closed his practice eight months earlier but never called to shut off his electric service.

Because the veterinarian closed his office in October, by the time his electric bill was seriously past due Rhode Island Electric was already into the cold-weather period when state law forbade it from shutting off anyone for non-payment. Since the empty building used virtually no electricity all winter, the amount due was low, and the bill did not attract much attention in the collections department. On April 15, when shutoffs could resume, the company sent a termination of service notice to the building's owner, who passed it on to Mr. DiCecco. Because he couldn't risk having the electricity turned off so early in his new business venture, Mr. DiCecco paid the bill and saved his argument with the landlord for another day. To bolster that argument, Mr. DiCecco requested a read so he'd have all the numbers in order when he sat down with the owner. The request went on a route card and the route card went into Claude's mail slot.

And so it was that on a beautiful, 85-degree day in early May, Claude Amognes called on DiCecco's Pizza to do his job, to look at the face of an electric meter and write down the numbers indicated by the dials.

#

Dan Thompson returned to the table at the Dub and placed two pitchers of beer in the middle. Each man at the table filled his mug, and Frank began speaking about the colorful Jackie Amognes and how the company used to be back in the good old days. In fact, Frank had everyone in such stitches about Jackie that by the time he got around to DiCecco's Pizza on Chalkstone Avenue, both pitchers were empty.

No problem; Scotty rectified the pitcher situation, and Frank proceeded.

"You shoulda seen him then," Frank said of Claude. "He's so skinny, his company uniform top fits him like a pup tent fits an Ethiopian. Supposed to be short sleeves, but they hang three inches off his arm. He's got this collar, but no neck to fill it.

"So anyway, it's a really hot day in May, and Claude has on shorts. He parks his company truck near the golf course, and figures he can do a whole side of Chalkstone Avenue before eleven o'clock, then cross the street, do some more reads, and go to DiCecco's Pizza to read their meter and grab a sandwich. That way, he can read a couple more meters before the people in the offices go out for lunch. That'll help him finish his route early so he can swing by the East Side and, you know, watch the boobies bounce on the boulevard."

The others at the table hooted and whooped, and Claude couldn't hold back a smile.

"Now it's noon time," Frank said. "Claude goes to the pizza place, and the boss's daughter is behind the counter. Blonde chick. Tits out to here, tightest ass you ever saw. Eighteen years old and dumb as a rock. Would rather be doing anything but fronting her father's pizza parlor.

"Well, must've been a while since Claude looked in a mirror, 'cause he starts flirting with her. And she must've needed glasses pretty bad, 'cause damned if she don't nibble the bait. He's got some beer at his pad; she's got some friends and no plans for Friday night. She's doing a lot of smiling; he's harder between the hips than a diamond in deep freeze.

"But Claude's no dummy. He knows the worst thing he can do is stick around and let her look at him for a long time. He sets the meeting time and gives her the address, then he wants to read the meter and head someplace to jerk off as quick as he can."

The bartender interrupted. "Should I send for hot wieners?"

Definitely, the table agreed.

"I'll go get them," Claude said.

Some of the table members flinched in surprise.

"What, don't you want to hear the rest of the story?" Nate said.

Claude didn't. He was thankful for the opportunity to let Frank finish without him. He rose, collected everyone's money, and left. But as he sat in the wiener joint, puffing on a cigarette, waiting for the order to be prepared, he couldn't help recalling the events of that day. In the end, in his mind he put himself through the very story he sought to avoid.

#

The truth was, the exchange with the pizza girl left him feeling high. As she led him to the cellar stairs, he was already concocting a plan to keep Joan away come Friday.

At the top of the stairs, Claude opened the door and flipped the light switch, but no light came on.

"Veterinarian probably left the light on, and the bulb burned out," he said to the girl.

"Could be," she replied. "Since my father took this place over, I don't think anyone's even been down there."

Claude took the flashlight from his belt and trotted down the stairs. At the bottom, he shined the light along the side wall until he spotted the meter.

He hopped over a small puddle and strode toward the meter, but at his third step something bit his neck. He slapped his neck and took another step. He felt another bite on his leg, and brushed his thigh with his hand. Then more bites on his neck, which he tried to swat with his flashlight hand. Then more on his legs. All of a sudden, Claude felt bites over his whole body: on his arms, his legs, his neck, his face, and began slapping himself frantically. He waved his flashlight into the dark, but saw nothing. At the last the flashlight caught part of his own arm, and Claude gasped at what he saw: his arm was black with fleas. He looked at his legs, and they too were covered. He let out a loud shriek and dashed up the stairs.

The pizza girl heard his yell and leaned into the doorway to look down the stairs. When she saw Claude she screamed, and scrambled back into the hallway.

At the top of the stairs, Claude stopped and looked at her, as if to ask what to do. Her body language startled him—he saw horror in every message she conveyed – and several of his body parts began shuddering the amplified vibrations of panic.

"Get out, get out, just get out!" she screamed.

As she lurched to close the cellar door, Claude ran into the main part of the pizza place and out the front entrance. The fleas were still biting him. In his reflection in the storefront window he saw he was covered with bugs, and he shrieked again when he realized he was being bitten in places like the inside of his ear and the inside of his boxer shorts.

He sprinted a few yards to an insurance agency and pounded on the window. Nobody home. He turned to run toward the next business, but after a few steps could no longer bear the bites and dropped to the ground to try to roll the fleas off him.

"Call an ambulance," he yelled, though there was nobody around. "Call an ambulance. Somebody call an ambulance."

Claude jumped to his feet and sprinted. He came upon an office with a man working near the front window and banged for his attention. A human! When the man looked up and their eyes met, Claude dashed to the front door, but the man beat him to the spot and held the door so Claude couldn't enter.

"Don't come in," the man yelled. "Don't come in."

"Call an ambulance," Claude shouted. "I'm getting attacked by fleas. Call one quick."

"I will," the man replied. "I'll call an ambulance."

But Claude continued to push the door and the man continued to hold it firm. When Claude jumped back to resume slapping, the man locked the door before moving to a phone to dial the fire department.

"Find some water," the man shouted at last. "The ambulance is on its way. Run to the golf course. Find some water and jump in."

Although the fleas kept biting, hearts can only race at top speed for so long. Panic began converting to despair. The golf course was a long way from there. For another few counts, Claude continued slapping himself in front of the office. But then he remembered a small fountain he'd passed on his way from the golf course, so he turned and sprinted toward it.

As he approached the fountain, he yelled to the people soaking in the warm sun to get out of the way, and although they didn't immediately grasp what was happening, they complied. The water in the basin was only two feet deep, but it was enough for Claude to submerge himself.

And it worked. The fleas stopped biting him. They floated to the surface of the water. When Claude saw them there, he moved to another part of the fountain, and for a few seconds just sat.

When he climbed from the fountain, he noticed that the half-dozen people in the small sidewalk park had all moved far away, back behind a row of benches, and stared at him. He moved toward the curb and peered down Chalkstone Avenue, looking for the ambulance. He felt nauseous, so he sat down. He wanted to scratch all over. He began to cry. Before long he was sobbing in the palms of his hands, and although none of the onlookers had left or returned to what they were doing, neither had any approached Claude or spoken to him.

After a few moments the sobbing subsided, and Claude lifted his head. From his spot on the curb, he couldn't see past the parked cars in either direction, so he saw the ambulance too late to flag it down.

The man in the office must've told them I ran to the golf course, he thought.

Claude stood up, walked to his company truck, and, without seeing the ambulance, drove himself to the hospital. To his relief, the nurse at the emergency room took him straight to a private examining room, so he didn't have to face the people in the waiting area. She helped him onto a table, and asked what happened. When he told her, she said don't worry, he'd be all right. She brought him a glass of water, took his temperature and blood pressure, and told him not to scratch; a doctor would be in in a minute.

#

Claude's daydream into the past ended when the order of hot wieners arrived at the counter. Claude paid for it and returned to the Dub.

As he descended the steps, he heard the drunks roaring. When he stepped through the doorway, he saw the men at his table laughing in several positions: tilted back in their chairs, leaning to one side, and flopped on the table in front of them.

"Hey Bugsy," one shouted. "Got the wieners, Bugsy?"

"Yeah Bugsy," another yelled. "I'm dying to bite something, Bugsy."

Everyone laughed. Even the bartender chuckled as he dried mugs behind the rail. Claude put the platter of wieners on the table and the men helped themselves.

"Come on Frank," Dan said. "Go on with the story."

"I don't talk with my mouth full," Frank said with his mouth full, "and that means someone else will have to do the talking until these wieners are gone. Claude, I told them about how you got bit and went to the hospital and how you had a hard time reading meters after that. You tell the rest."

Claude shrugged. "There isn't much to tell," he said. "My dad didn't think it was a good idea for me to go back to meter reading right away, so he negotiated an agreement that put me in the stores department. Management made the agreement with him, then got all my dad's enemies behind closed doors and used it as an example of how crooked he'd become. They convinced his enemies to campaign against him, and he lost the next election by four votes. Ever since then, management's had the puppets they want at the negotiating table, and the union's pissed away everything my dad got for it and then some."

"Hey Bugsy," Dan said, "your stories aren't as funny. Let Frank tell how it was."

"What Claude said is one version of the story," Frank said in an even voice.

Frank raised a mug. "I think we've busted Claude's balls enough for one night. He's been a good sport. Here's to Claude: from now on, may he be bugsy in name only."

The men smiled, but the mood was broken. The conversation proceeded in other directions. Claude drank, but not heavily. At midnight, he said he was going home early, waved good night, and left.

When he arrived home, only the living room light was on. He crept into the bedroom and undressed. As he crawled under the covers next to his wife, he stumbled into her, causing her to snap around as she awoke.

"Claude?" she said. "Claude. How was the Dub?"

He thought of telling her about Schulke and Monday morning, but decided to wait.

"Good," he said.

He spooned up beside her, lay his arm around her thick waist, and kissed the back of her neck before falling asleep.

### Chapter 4

The next morning, Claude slept until eleven. As he headed to the kitchen to make coffee, he called to Jamie and Joan but received no response. As the water in the coffeemaker gurgled, he heard a faint "Oh, don't break in half!" and looked out the back window to see Joan on her hands and knees in her small garden, holding two pieces of a plant she seemed to be trying to transfer from pot to soil. Claude smiled and shook his head. He picked the sports page from the kitchen table, poured a cup of coffee, and popped three frozen waffles into the toaster oven.

On the front of the sports page he saw a close-up of a grinning white poodle with a ribbon on its forehead. Once a year, a regional dog show took over West High's athletic fields. It interrupted the slate of games of a normal springtime Saturday, but provided enough in rental fees to leave the administration at West more than willing to make the necessary accommodations to the schedule.

Hmmph, Claude thought, that's not sports.

But the picture got Claude to thinking: where's Jamie? She played yesterday instead of today. I thought she said she didn't have practice. Where is she?

Claude ate two syrup-drenched waffles and read to page three in the sports section before he put the paper down, walked to the breezeway, and opened the screen door.

"Hey Joan," he called. "Where's Jamie?"

"Working the dog show," Joan shouted from the garden. "Twenty-five dollars for the whole day."

Claude returned to the kitchen and refilled his coffee mug. Ignoring the paper and the plate holding his third waffle and a puddle of maple syrup, Claude went to the family room and turned on pro wrestling. He'd planned to spend the day with his daughter. She'd made other plans. There wasn't anything else he wanted to do.

#

At 4:30, Jamie strode through the front door, announced she was home, grabbed a soda from the fridge, and headed for the family room. Claude was watching cartoons and only grunted at his daughter as she entered the room. Jamie flopped on the couch next to her mother.

"How was the dog show?" Joan said.

"Good," Jamie said. "I worked the concession stand. Those people don't buy much, so mostly I just watched the dogs do their stuff."

"Those dogs are so talented," Joan said.

"Big whoop," Claude said from his recliner. "So Fido can walk on his hind legs and balance a beach ball on his nose. Big deal."

"It's not a circus, daddy," Jamie said. "They don't do tricks."

Claude lifted his legs from the footrest and stretched. "All I know is they should pay you more than $25 for a whole day's work. That's only three dollars an hour. It's slave wages."

"Maybe," Jamie said. "But nobody offered me $26 for today, so I'm not complaining. It'll pay for a movie and leave me a little to stick in the bank."

"You're going to the movies tonight?" Claude said.

"Yup."

"What about cribbage?"

"That's why I came home," Jamie said. "Deal 'em up."

Claude rose from the recliner and moved to a small card table at the back of the room. Jamie followed. She shuffled a deck of cards and began dealing.

"I saw Mr. Linsky today," she said. "He said to say hi. His dogs are so beautiful. One of them won something, and you could tell he was so proud."

"He's such a nice man," Joan said.

"He is," Jamie said.

"He's a goody-two-shoes," Claude said. "He's not a true union brother. Does whatever management tells him to do. Always makes everyone in his group look bad. Do you know he hasn't missed a day of work in like five years?"

"What a scoundrel," Jamie said. "It's not your crib."

Claude slid the two cards on the table toward his daughter. "And god forbid you should run into him in the lunch room . It's always 'my youngest baby did this' or 'my oldest baby did that.' They're dogs, for crying out loud. Last fall Nate was telling everybody that his kid won the starting quarterback job at Central, and Linsky jumps in and says 'well, that's nothing, my oldest won best in breed and newcomer of the year at the same show.' I was like, okay fella, time for me to go. See ya."

"You're just mad because he reported you for telling dirty jokes that time," Joan said.

"It's everything," Claude said, "with that guy it's everything. I had five guys rolling on the floor, and he plays all insulted, storming off in a huff. A total dick move. He got the worst of it, though, 'cause the guys razzed him for weeks once word got around."

Claude and Jamie played their game, and Joan watched the rest of the cartoon. By the time Jamie had gone upstairs, showered, and dressed, Betty Allen was at the front door to take her to the movies.

### Chapter 5

Sunday night, the potential of a morning meeting with Schulke upset Claude's attempt to sleep.

After he turned out the light, he rehearsed in his head his testimony for the next day. As the story flowed to his liking, Claude lay still. As flaws appeared in the narrative, he changed arms under his pillow or rolled to a different side, curled his knees close to his chest or turned to lay on his back. At times, the silent re-telling of the story lulled him to sleep. Before long, however, he'd be conscious again, seeking the red lights of the bedside clock, estimating the time left to rest if he could sleep it in a single block. He convinced himself the meeting was a certainty.

At 5:45 the alarm rang, and Claude spent five minutes discussing with himself the merits of calling in sick. Pro: It would delay the meeting with Schulke for at least another day. Con: The meeting would eventually come. Con: He would need to devise a new narrative about his false illness (and he was too tired). Con: It was stupid to take a single sick day, but with his less-than-stellar absence history, calling in for a whole week would probably prompt a meeting with Schulke. Con: To call in sick, he had to speak with Schulke.

Claude got up to take a shower.

Hell, he thought, maybe they'll fire me. Then I can come home and collect unemployment.

Upon arriving at work, Claude went to the line shed for a cup of coffee and a donut. Built in the middle of the company's main parking lot, the building featured lockers, showers, a television, toilets, card tables, a small kitchen, and an assortment of centerfolds and lewd cartoons. It had no windows. The shower area was reasonably clean, but in some parts of the building one could see footprints in the grime on the floor. Although other members of the Union of Utility Workers were allowed in the common areas of the shed, it was the domain of the line workers, and no lesser member of the UUW dared usurp, infringe upon, or tarnish in any way the clubhouse privileges of a lineman in the shed.

It was also a good place to hear gossip. If Schulke planned to write Claude up, he'd have to alert the union, and word would get around.

Claude passed through the lobby area to the kitchen counter. As he scanned the donut options, he kept himself from interrupting the conversation —apparently about some work incident that happened over the weekend —to feel the linemen out about Schulke. Although he tried to get to work early, he only had about ten minutes before he had to punch in. Still, ten minutes should be plenty of time, he figured, for the current topic play itself out.

He was wrong. Over the weekend, there'd been a flash—a moment when electrical current leaps across open air to reach a nearby conductor—that burned two members of a substation crew and landed the crew foreman, Gino Carbone, in hot water. Gino, Randy Bohenko, and Desmond Curtis were just about to finish a nice overtime shift installing new equipment when two city blocks in Providence lost electricity, forcing dispatcher Buddy Catanese, who had been reading them their switching orders, to put them on hold while he rerouted power to bring as many homes as possible back on line. Buddy said it should take about twenty minutes. But Gino had a hot date and didn't want to wait.

"Goddamn it," he said. "Two fucking orders from going home. Close and check closed the 3J21 breaker. Close and check closed the 3J24 breaker. Take down our grounds, and we're done."

He reached for the first switch, but Randy grabbed his elbow. "Don't, Gino. Let's wait."

Gino slammed his hardhat to the dirt. "They're working on shit twenty miles from here. Don't be such a pussy. What are the chances this will close into a live source?"

As it turned out, there was a one-hundred percent chance that closing the switch would send electricity head-on into more electricity. Gino just didn't know it. When the flash happened, Gino called all the right numbers —911, dispatch, the on-call supervisor —but when Gino tried to go with his mates to the hospital, the on-call supervisor insisted he accompany him back to the office. Gino panicked. He'd fucked up. Without permission, he'd thrown the switch; his crewmen had burned for his error; their flesh had shielded him from harm. He scrambled to concoct a story to cover his ass, but knew it was futile.

So he became belligerent. _Who are you to tell me about safety? I've been a crew foreman for fifteen years. You've got no goddamned authority to question me. If I hear another word from you I'll have my lawyer's foot so far up your ass you'll have boot marks inside your rib cage_. The entire ride to company headquarters it continued. What Gino neglected to consider was that the on-call supervisor had already alerted company brass to the situation, so when Gino saw Feeney standing at the front gate with his arms folded, the rate of his already-sprinting heart doubled again. But the campaign of belligerence seemed to be working, so Gino leapt from the car and screamed the _who are you_ bit in Feeney's face. Feeney fired him on the spot.

Unfortunately for Claude, the guys at the table recounted the tale at a pace that gave him no natural opportunity to ask if Schulke planned to write him up. As the clock hit seven he punched in, waved to Frank in the cockpit, and shuffled through the pile of invoices he had to enter into the computer. He didn't see Schulke anywhere. For two hours, he typed material descriptions, purchase order numbers, and activity codes into his terminal so accounts payable could cut checks to various vendors. Despite constant traffic around him, Claude worked uninterrupted.

At nine, he and his coworkers walked to the cafeteria for break. Claude drank his coffee, ate his English muffin, and kept quiet.

After break, Claude still didn't see Schulke, so he returned to entering invoices. An hour later, Claude convinced himself that Frank's warning at the Dub was crap. He rose from the computer and mingled with the guys as they moved a shipment of large equipment from the bays to the storage area.

Up in the cockpit, Frank had a half-ton regulator on the line and was inching the crane toward the back wall. When the crane advanced beyond the office in its journey from front to back, Frank noticed Schulke in the doorway. A few seconds later, Frank saw Jim Shepard, the current UUW president, and sounded the horn.

Claude would have liked to have been inputting invoices when the boss arrived, but it hardly mattered. Disciplinary proceedings weren't the chew-'em-out, arm-flailing rampages they might once have been. Much like the monotone routine of a Catholic funeral helps subdue the emotional energy of the bereaved, so the bureaucratic procedure of the so-called positive discipline policy aimed to distract and pacify a worker now another checked box closer to unemployment.

Schulke sent for Claude and Scotty, and when they arrived he closed the door behind them, walked across the office, and closed the other door as well. In the middle of the office, a semi-circle of chairs intended for Claude, Scotty, and Shepard faced a single chair meant for Schulke. Shepard greeted Claude and Scotty and sat in an end chair. Claude sat in the middle.

After closing the door, Schulke walked to a brown metal desk in the corner of the office, keeping his back to the three seated men, and opened a worn leather satchel from which he pulled a thin packet of papers. He paused to read the cover page, took a few more seconds to scan the second page, and turned to the third.

Claude wished he had an angle to glimpse the pages. Schulke stood 6-2 and maintained a respectable physique for a man of 57. Seventeen years of climbing utility poles, as linemen did when Schulke was a young man, kept him in athletic condition, though in recent years the paunch invaded his middle to a noticeable degree. From his seat, all Claude could see was Schulke's gray polyester slacks, his white short-sleeved collared shirt, a few inches of each hairy arm, and the crescent of hairline on the back of his head.

When he finished glancing at the pages, Schulke turned around. He looked each man in the eye. At the silent count of five, he stepped forward and sat down.

"Claude." he said, "I have a problem."

Claude hated the way Schulke said that, so mechanical, with that unnatural pause in the middle. Since the beginning of the year, Claude had had a streak of attendance, conduct, and performance problems, so this was the sixth time since January he'd heard Schulke say he had a problem. For the sixth time, Schulke delivered it as though he were a third grader who memorized the line for a Christmas play.

"Excuse me?" Claude said.

"Claude," Schulke said. "I have a problem."

Scotty Williams folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. Claude put the fingers of each hand beneath his thighs and leaned forward with his eyes toward the floor.

"On Thursday afternoon, May 18, you were loading truck 317. The work order said to place seven spools of 477 on the truck. You placed five spools of 477s on truck 317, and two spools of one-oughts."

Although Schulke hadn't been reading from the packet of papers in his hands, he now looked down and flipped to the next page.

"This could have led to a very serious situation. If the crew of truck 317 had installed one-ought instead of 477, fire could have resulted. Serious injury could have occurred.

"Claude, it's our job here in the stores department to load vehicles properly. Safety on the job is a high priority. On February 10, you received an oral warning for incorrectly matching items from a work order with items placed on one of our trucks. At that time, you agreed to put a check mark next to each item on the work order, and point to each corresponding item on the loading platform. Do you recall that agreement, Claude?"

Claude looked up. "I do recall that agreement of February 10, Mr. Schulke, sir."

"Very good," Schulke said. "At this point, I want you to tell me about last Thursday, when you were loading truck 317."

"There isn't anything to tell. We were busy, and I was running around trying to load as many trucks as I could. Not everyone was working hard like me. I saw that the work order listed seven spools of 477, so I went to the shelf where the 477s are stored. I moved the spools with the forklift to one of the platform dollies. When I got to truck 317, I put some of the spools on the truck. I pointed to each one as I loaded them, and put a check on the sheet. All I can guess is someone's playing games and trying to get me in trouble, Mr. Schulke sir, or that one-oughts were put on the 477 shelf where they didn't belong. We're busy, Mr. Schulke sir, and it's important that people put things on the right shelf. You should let your department know that."

Schulke nodded through Claude's explanation, and kept nodding after Claude finished.

"There appears to be a disagreement of fact," he said, "and I will be sure to note that.

"However," he continued, "Ned Feeney and I verified on Friday that there were two more spools of 477 wire on the 477 shelf than there should have been, and two fewer spools of one-ought wire on the one-ought shelf than there should have been. This is evidence an error was made. The crew of truck 317 testified that they were given two spools of one-ought, and had both spools when they returned from Foster Friday afternoon. Moreover..."

Schulke took a page from the bottom of the packet and handed it to Claude.

"Moreover, the shipment of wire in question, when it arrived, was removed from the loading dock and placed on the shelves by you, on May 2, as this computer printout attests. At this point, I would like you to tell me about Thursday, when you loaded truck 317, or about May 2, when you placed the wire in question on the storage shelves.

Claude said nothing. After an appropriate wait, Schulke continued.

"Claude, this is a disciplinary conversation. I am issuing you a written warning for your work performance regarding the incorrect loading of truck 317 on Thursday, May 18, which could have led to a fire at a Rhode Island Electric Company substation, and possibly to injury of Rhode Island Electric employees. I am confident we can reach an agreement on behavior that will help avoid similar errors in the future. I am confident in your ability to carry out that agreement. I have lost no faith in you as a result of this incident or this warning.

"If, however, there are further problems —that is, if I have further problems —in work performance in the next twelve months, it will become necessary to proceed to the next step of the positive discipline policy, which is decision-making leave. If you are given a decision-making leave, you will have three days, with pay, to decide if you are willing, and able, to make changes in your actions that will allow you to continue as an employee in the stores department of Rhode Island Electric. Is there anything you wish to say?"

Claude said nothing.

"Is there anything either of you wish to say?" Schulke said to Scotty and Shepard.

Both indicated no.

"Claude," Schulke said, "do you have any suggestions that will help you avoid incorrect loading errors in the future?"

Claude thought what he'd like to say: Oh yes, Mr. Schulke, sir, I'll prance up to every spool of wire in this glorious company and kiss them twice before loading them onto our beautiful trucks for our dedicated, All-America linemen. By golly, sir, I'll be the best darn employee this great nation ever saw, because Rhode Island Electric treats me with the dignity I deserve and because —on a personal note —there's no one in the world I respect more than you, Mr. Schulke sir.

But he said nothing.

"In that case, Claude," Schulke said, "since you have no suggestions, I would like to give you a copy of a document renewing our agreement of February 10, which I have taken the liberty to draw up. Claude, will you agree to that renewal?"

Claude looked to the floor, but gave as small a nod of agreement as he could get away with.

"Very well," Schulke said. "Please sign the bottom. By signing you merely acknowledge the warning and the conversation we've just had. Your signature means you agree to mark items off the list and point to them as they are loaded on each truck. By agreement between union and management, you may submit a rebuttal to this warning. Any rebuttal must be submitted by the end of the third working day after this meeting, and will be attached to this warning and placed along with it in your disciplinary file."

Claude signed, and each witness signed too. Claude stood up without speaking and left the room. Instead of slamming the door behind him, he left it wide open.

Shepard gave a slight smirk to Schulke, which irked Scotty.

"Boss," Scotty said, "maybe you should give Bugsy the rest of the day off. Personal time, you know, let him collect himself."

"Fuck that," Schulke said. "That S.O.B. is going back to work, and he damn well better start getting it right or I'll run his fucking ass out the goddamn door."

Claude marched to the back corner to write his rebuttal among some boxes, but after ten minutes Scotty came to get him for lunch. As the two walked to the cafeteria, Scotty warned Claude about what Schulke said.

"Screw him," Claude said. "The contract gives me the right to write a rebuttal, and I'm writing it. If he can write me up during working hours, I can write my rebuttal during working hours. If he doesn't like it, he can kiss my ass."

After lunch, Claude returned to the corner, sometimes writing but mostly pouting. An hour and a half later, Claude heard Frank's horn and figured Schulke was heading for him. He signed the bottom of the rebuttal and rose to meet Schulke in the aisle.

"Here is my rebuttal, Mr. Schulke sir," he said. "As per the contract, I want this attached to my written warning and placed in my file. I also believe I'm entitled to a copy. Please leave the copy in my mail slot by the time I go home tonight."

Schulke accepted the rebuttal without comment. Claude walked back toward the office. Schulke read the paper.

This is my official rebuttal. I do not believe the written warning I was given by Mr. Thomas Schulke was fair. Mr. Schulke does not want me in this department because of who my father was and is looking for any little thing to write me upfor. It is not fair. There are many times when mistakes are made and people don't get written up. That's besides the point though. The wrong equipment was placed in the wrong place on the shelves, and when I went to get it I went to the right place but the wrong things were there. This is a setup, because I went to the right place on the shelves. It isn't the crisis he's making it out to be. Mr. Schulke also said I loaded the shelf but that doesn't mean two weeks later the same spools were there. The crew leader is suppose to check everything on the truck, and that did not happen. I only found out about it one day later, and that is why I think I am being set up by Mr. Thomas Schulke and people in the Union of Utility Workers who were enemies of my father. I think they will try to write me up again, and the union will let it happen. I have been a good employee of R.I. Electric for over 20 years, and Schulke is the worst supervisor in the company and everyone know it. I will sue if he tries to set me up and the union let's him get away with it.

Claude Amognes

Schulke walked to the photocopy machine and made six copies. He attached the original to the written warning and placed it in his satchel for delivery to human resources. He curled a copy and put it in Claude's mail cubby. He sent copies to Scotty and Shepard, to the operations manager, to the company president, and kept one for himself.

As he lifted his satchel and left the office, he passed Scotty.

"I'm off to a meeting for the rest of the afternoon," Schulke said. "Tell Claude I want him to finish entering that stack of invoices into the computer, and I mean today."

### Chapter 6

Claude slept no better Monday than the night before. At least Sunday he could blame the story he was rehearsing for upsetting his rest. This night, as last, he awoke nearly as soon as fell asleep, but this night, unlike last, the immediate cause eluded him.

As he lay waiting for the morning alarm, Claude considered calling in sick. Maybe it wasn't the best idea, not the day after a written warning, though it would sure show the guys he wasn't afraid of Schulke. Next week was short, because of Memorial Day, so no sense calling in then —better to wait for a full week. Perhaps in the middle of June, or the end of June to be safe, Claude could come down with a case of stores department fever and take a week away from Schulke.

Rhode Island Electric, per its union contract, granted employees a week of paid sick time for each full year of service the employee had. As long as the absence did not extend beyond five work days, the employee need not give a reason for the absence. Once the absence moved to the sixth day, however, the employee couldn't return to the job until cleared by both his own doctor and by the company physician.

To balance the generous sick time allotment, the contract contained a paid-for-time-worked provision. With the fourth separate absence in a rolling twelve-month period, the company suspended the employee from receiving sick pay for a year. As a result, it was deemed foolish in union ranks to take a single sick day at a time. "Don't infect your brothers; make sure you're healthy before returning to work" was a popular tongue-in-cheek slogan.

Although other electric companies had similar sick pay policies, the Rhode Island Electric policy was one of the coups of Jackie Amognes's tenure as UUW president. At the time, the company didn't think to include language to require people to be sick when they took sick time —they just assumed the underlying value would remain in place. Big mistake. That work ethic might show itself among management go-getters, but it did not carry over to the union population, not in the least, and once Jackie took the cap off that particular bottle there was no stemming the tide that burst forth. _If it's five days or less I don't need a reason. If it's six days or more I'm entitled to a week for each year of service_. Each contract since, the company tried, and failed, to amend the sick policy.

As an employee with more than twenty years of service, Claude had five legitimate weeks of vacation, and each year also took two five-day stretches of sick time, three if his mood at work had really decayed. And that's if he remained healthy. If he actually became sick, forget it. He once passed a kidney stone and missed six weeks of work. He sprained a wrist playing football and missed ten weeks. And once he broke his ankle on the job —during a contest to see who could jump the farthest from the back fire escape —and missed nineteen weeks of work. At the time, company policy allowed employees to collect sick pay and workers compensation benefits at the same time and keep both, so Claude sat home and kept collecting. The boss loved that one. At last, Schulke received permission from the human resources manager to drive to Claude's house and insist Claude accompany him to the Rhode Island Electric medical department. When he did, medical pronounced the ankle fully healed. Although Claude filed a grievance over the matter, he had all he could do to keep from laughing when he submitted it, since during his "recovery period" he'd played a full season of men's league softball and climbed three mountains with Jamie —all while the double checks rolled. He lost the grievance, but the extra work it created for Schulke pleased him.

This day, Claude went to work. He punched in, and headed directly for the computer and the stack of invoices. Schulke was already at his desk. Neither man spoke, nor did they make eye contact. Claude sat down and typed orders into the system. Although he had his back to Schulke, he monitored the boss's movements by watching reflections in the glass of a framed notice about minimum wage laws.

For two hours, both shuffled papers and tapped keyboards. At nine, Scotty poked his head through the door.

"Bugsy. Break."

Claude stood up and joined Scotty. They waited for Frank to climb down the ladder, punched out, and walked to the cafeteria. After they chose their snack items, they left their money on the counter and sat at a table away from the everyone else.

"That Shepard's some asshole, ain't he Bugsy?" Frank said. Although Shepard had only recently risen to high office in the union, Frank knew Claude considered him a legacy of Jackie's enemies.

"No shit," Claude said. "Sat there the whole time yesterday nodding along with everything Schulke said. Did he say anything to you, Scotty?"

"Hell no," Scotty said. "I'm just a shop steward. He doesn't need to speak to me. Looked to me like he did all the talking he needed to before you and I got there."

"Bastard," Claude said.

"So Bugsy," Frank said, "you gonna toe the line for a change?"

Claude recoiled. He looked at Frank. He held his coffee cup close to his lips for a second, then took a sip. He looked back to Frank.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he said.

"What do you mean?" Frank said.

"What do you mean 'what do you mean'?"

Frank laughed.

"Bugsy, fucking relax already. I'm on your side, and always will be, and you know it."

Claude put down his drink and leaned back in his chair.

"I just wonder sometimes why you think this is all worth it," Frank continued. "I mean the goofing off and the calling in sick and the flack you give Schulke just to stick it up his ass. You're a smart guy. If you wanted to, you could be a good employee. I'm not saying become an ass-kisser, but if you put in half an ounce of effort you wouldn't make so many brain-dead mistakes and you wouldn't be sweating it with Schulke all the time. You could come in, do your job with none of the grief and go home. Wouldn't you be a hell of lot happier?"

"Hey, Frank, come on now," Scotty said.

"No, I'm serious," Frank said. "How is it better for you, Bugsy —how does it improve life for you —to constantly half-ass everything here at work? Explain it to me. I mean, you've got writtens across the board now. What if you slip up again? And again after that and you're out the door? What the hell are you going to do for work, forty-whatever years old with no experience except in the stores department of a frigging electric company?"

"I thought my goddamn parents were dead," Claude said.

"You don't have to listen to me if you don't want to," Frank said. "Hey, I'm happy, and I'm going to stay that way whether you get fired tomorrow or win employee of the year. But I worry about you, Bugsy. I see my kids, and the good jobs they have, and the lives they enjoy, and the trips they take, and I know you can trace everything they have right back to that cockpit under the crane. That crane gave my family a good life, a damn good life, and if one day I woke up and couldn't operate it, it's not me who would've suffered, Bugsy. Not me, chief. Them. It's them who would've suffered. How are you going to take care of Jamie and Joan if you don't have Rhode Island Electric?"

Claude rose from the table and left without comment. Scotty picked up the table litter and threw it away. Frank shrugged his shoulders.

"It's just as easy to do the job right and not have to worry about it," he said.

### Chapter 7

For the rest of the week Claude avoided Schulke and matched work orders correctly. For the first time in months he skipped Friday night at the Dub, and Saturday rose early to help pack the family Buick for the Amognes' annual Memorial Day trip to a three-bedroom cabin on a little lake in southern Maine.

Joan's older sister, Connie, joined them. Although Joan and Connie had been close growing up, marriage drove a wedge between them. Connie's husband, Lou Farley, spelled success with dollar signs and prided himself on his straight-talking approach to life, but neither inner drive nor blunt honesty carried him beyond modest success as an entrepreneur —twice he sold too soon, twice he sold too late —and after he vowed to earn a place among the social elite he never again condescended to mingle with his buddies from high school and college, even when depression drove him to the brink of suicide and Connie begged him to find a friend to laugh with, because Lou Farley believed his chance meeting with one of the city's real movers, the "Say, aren't you Lou Farley?" meeting that would vault him into prominence, could happen at any time, and he didn't want to risk sitting with the wrong anybody when it did. Lou told a man his strengths and told a man his faults. That went for his wife, too; he often told her how he admired her grace at parties, her ability to speak in public, her dignified walk that showed the elite, yes, the Farleys belong among you. He rarely, however, liked her haircut.

In the months after Joan married Claude, the Farleys and the Amogneses hiked together, went to drive-in movies together, played board games together, and made each other miserable. Lou nagged Claude to find some ambition, to do something with his life. Claude demanded to know how Lou could buy a print shop and immediately replace his group of union men with lower-salaried scabs. Eventually, they just ignored each other, even when seated in the same Mercury Monarch for four hours of a double feature, and from there it was a short, easy step to avoiding each other altogether. For years, either Joan visited Connie and Lou or Connie visited Joan and Claude.

Then one time when Joan and Jamie were visiting the Farleys at their cottage on the beach, Lou scolded his ten-year old niece for failing to return a dirty plate and drinking glass to the kitchen sink. His simple reprimand snowballed to an all-out attack on Claude — _you're no better than your sloth of a father, can't you learn any manners in that hellhole? you're white trash and he's the reason_ —driving Jamie to tears and bringing Joan and Connie scurrying from outside to make peace. And peace was made. Connie led Lou to the picnic table on the small lawn and Joan threw Jamie's things into her travel bag and hustled the still-sniffling girl to the car. But peace didn't last. As Joan stepped up to hug her sister and say good-bye, Connie folded her arms.

"You know, there really isn't any excuse for her not bringing the dishes to the sink."

Joan stormed out the door and peeled out of the driveway even though she drove an automatic. For Jamie's sake she tried to keep a calm exterior, but inside she raged. Jamie explained through another gush of tears that she was going to the waves to talk to that little girl playing by herself. Joan explained that Lou doesn't understand how nice it is to have friends and didn't mean everything he said. Jamie said she always picks up after herself —or almost always —but this time she forgot. Joan said she knew, she knew what a good girl Jamie was, and she appreciated all the ways Jamie helped her out around the house. She told Jamie not to cry, and to hold her head up.

For five years, Joan and Connie exchanged Christmas and birthday cards, but despite the many days Joan longed to call her sister, they didn't speak. The next time Joan heard Connie's voice she wished she hadn't: when the Amognes returned from Maine last Memorial Day, a message on the answering machine informed them Lou had died of a massive heart attack. Joan drove straight to Connie's house and the sisters cried in each other's arms until the following dawn. Although Connie didn't expect Claude to attend the wake or the funeral, he showed up for both. At the wake he patted her hand and told her she was always welcome in his home.

"I wished Lou would've at least tried to see things my way," Claude said, "but you know, that just wasn't him. These last few years have been hard for Joan. I hope you two will see a lot of each other from now on."

Claude hugged his sister-in-law.

Connie smiled. Claude's sportcoat needed dry-cleaning, his necktie hung off to one side, his workboots tracked oil residue throughout the funeral home, and his brief remarks weren't much of a eulogy to Lou Farley, but even so Connie smiled. It beat what she expected. Claude hadn't offered to fix her up with one of his union brothers, hadn't spit on the coffin or vomited beneath it, hadn't shown up drinking a bottle of beer.

"Thank you, Claude," Connie said. "I'm sorry it took Lou's death for us all to realize how much we mean to each other. I'm grateful you've come, and once everything settles down I want you to come to the beach with Jamie and Joan. We'll have a nice dinner. We have a lot of catching up to do, and we have a lot to look forward to."

#

In fact, the idea to invite Connie to Maine on the anniversary of Lou's death came from Claude, not Joan. In years past Joan complained about Claude and Jamie leaving her alone while they fished, canoed, or played mini-golf. Maybe with Connie around, Claude figured, he wouldn't have to listen to it.

Saturday morning was mostly cloudy, though still warm. Claude drove the Buick and Joan sat in the front passenger seat. Jamie sat behind her mother, with Connie seated behind Claude. The radio played, loud enough to hear but not loud enough to stifle conversation between the Knowlton sisters.

Because Claude and Jamie had taken advantage of a rare Friday night together by playing cribbage until three in the morning, neither offered much in the way of conversation for the early part of the trip. As they drove into New Hampshire, though, Jamie and Claude began to perk up.

"Daddy!" Jamie said suddenly. "Can I have a beefalo sandwich?"

"Beefalo, Buffalo, beef beef buffalo," Claude chanted.

Jamie chimed in, and Joan too, and the three Amognes sang:

"Buff buff beefalo, chase me a beefalo. Beef beef buffalo, I see a buffalo. Buff buff beefalo, eat me a buffalo s-a-a-a-ndwich. Or run like hell, hey!"

At the last word, the three, including Claude at the wheel, thrust their hands in the air and laughed deep laughs.

"What's all that about?" Connie said.

"One time we were driving to Maine," Jamie said, still giggling, to her aunt, "and back there we saw two buffalos chasing a guy down the street."

"Buffalo?"

"It's true," Joan said. "The song kind of evolved over the years. We only go to Maine on Memorial Days."

"Forget the song," Connie said. "I want to hear about the buffalo."

"It was pretty funny," Joan said. "We were driving to Maine after Claude and his buddies had been out drinking all night. There was some game on, and it went into overtime, and when Claude got home he was so drunk he could hardly walk. The next day we were heading to the lake, and he was pretty hung over. Isn't that right, dear?"

Claude grinned. "I was begging that morning, that's for sure."

"So Claude's driving along, and all of a sudden, we see this guy come sprinting out of the trees as fast as he can down the road. And right after him come two huge buffalo, charging hard as can be, raising up dust just like you see in the movies.

"Well, me and Jamie, we don't say a word. Then after about five minutes, Claude says, real quiet, 'Did I just see two buffalo chasing a guy down the street?' We all started cracking up. Claude thought he'd hallucinated the whole thing."

"I did," Claude said. "That isn't something you see every day."

"What were they doing there?" Connie said.

"Don't know," Joan said. "Maybe part of a hamburger experiment at the university. But there wasn't any mistaking them. They were buffalo. And they sure seemed mad at that guy they were chasing."

Claude rolled his window down a few inches and lit a cigarette. Although he made an effort to keep the smoke from filling the car, Jamie cracked her window too. The four listened as the radio announcer gave the holiday weekend traffic report.

"Traffic reporter," Claude said. "Now there's a job I couldn't do. I'd be too busy yelling at people from the copter."

He held his cigarette like a microphone and deepened his voice. "Traffic is backed up on 95 north this morning because some asshole is doing 45 in the high speed lane. Looks like a gray Saturn, license plate QS-311 —hey, if you're listening QS-311, you've just won your choice of a lifetime supply of bus passes or a thousand-pill jar of amphetamines. Come on, buddy, move that sled."

The others in the car laughed.

"This is Claude Amognes of the Idiot Patrol Copter, reminding everyone that, folks, if you're gonna get in the fast lane, go fast. Over and out."

Again everyone laughed.

"The job I could never do is flight attendant," Jamie said. "I couldn't peddle that junk about the flotation device. I'd apologize, and tell people the only reason I have to pretend a flotation device will save them if the plane goes down is that my bosses are too cheap to give everyone the one thing that could really help: a parachute. Then I'd say real loud, so the pilots could hear: 'Am I misinformed about the parachute? Do my bosses really expect me to believe that parachutes cause more freefall deaths than they prevent?'"

"Sure, the parachute will get you to the water," Claude said, still speaking into his cigarette microphone, "but what will you do when you hit the ocean and don't have anything to float on? Got you there."

Joan laughed loudest. She sat sideways in the front bucket seat so she could see the three others, and occasionally slapped the headrest beside her as she convulsed. Connie laughed too, but without her sister's zeal.

"I guess I couldn't work in a nursing home, either," Claude said. "I mean, changing a baby is one thing —they're so cute and little, what can they really do? But the idea of a hundred and sixty pound octogenarian grunting into his Depends —that one I'll leave to someone else."

"That's gross," Joan said, as Jamie chortled in the back.

Before long the quartet reached its exit, and Claude pulled off the highway. He swung into town to pick up the cabin key from the owner, Armand Fecteau, and headed up Route 5 for the half-hour drive to the lake.

"So Claude," Connie said, "how's everything at Rhode Island Electric?"

"It sucks. The place has really gone to hell."

"Oh?" Connie said. "How so?"

"If I could retire, I'd do it in a heartbeat, but I've got another twenty years in that rathole. Some days I don't know how I make it. Management walks all over us, and the union doesn't do a thing to stop them. It's all screw the working stiff. The bosses bust balls on everyone they don't like and lay easy on their pets. It would make my father sick, rest his soul. We break our backs and get squat to show for it."

"Now Claude, it can't be that bad," Connie said.

Joan tightened her face and gave a miniscule head shake to her sister. It was too late.

"It is that bad," Claude yelled. "It's our union. It's supposed to be for us. It's not supposed to be about a few guys who cozy up to management and get everything they want and to hell with everyone else. You leave your shoe untied nowadays and you're getting a written warning and a lecture from the boss, while the union guy who's supposed to protect you is sitting there smiling and nodding his head. We need a union to save us from our union.

"And my boss is the worst of them all. He used to climb poles, play softball, just like us, but then he got the calling, and lordy lordy, now's he's converted to the other side. Doesn't know shit one about being a manager, so he comes off extra tough so the dumb ones think he's got everything under control. God forbid someone smiles at work. Oral warning. Someone tells a joke. Written warning. Someone's hardhat is tilted two degrees. He's a skunk. He deserted his union brothers for a few extra bucks and can't look anyone in the face because of it, at least those of us who were around then, and he's out to get anyone who refuses to bow down and kiss his holy ass, especially me, because of who my father was and because he knows I'll never forget that he scabfinked on the brothers he should have stood by forever."

Jamie, Joan, and Connie spent the next few minutes gazing out the windows. Claude realized he'd gone too heavy.

"So that's how it is at Rhode Island Electric," he said, smiling a little, using the rear-view mirror to make eye contact with Connie.

Soon they turned onto a dirt drive, a root-stricken, quarter mile trail Claude negotiated slowly. Near the end of the drive, the heavy woods gave way to a large open space, populated by just enough pine trees to keep the ground thinly carpeted with pine needles and most of the area shaded even on the sunniest days. The open area lay on top of a ridge surrounding the lake, and had several practical uses, including parking lot, whiffle ball diamond, and basketball court, though it was difficult to dribble near the baskets because of the soft ground and thick roots.

From the ridge, one could see the roof of the cabin, built into the ridge, and the lake beyond. The property sported a gray wooden patio with a red rail and a brick and mortar barbecue pit. Between the cottage and the patio a cement stairway, painted yellow by the owner, Armand Fecteau, descended from the ridge to the dock. Because of the steep drop from the ridge to the water, on its lake side the brown cabin rested on a twelve-foot high foundation, which Armand also painted yellow. Viewed from the water, the yellow wall screamed for attention amid the earthtone background of scrub and pine and made the cabin easy to spot even from a considerable distance.

Claude unlocked the door and helped his wife, daughter, and sister-in-law transfer the weekend's provisions from the car to the cottage. The back door opened to an L-shaped space housing the kitchen and living room. Two small bedrooms, one containing a bathroom, lay off the kitchen, and a third bedroom, used by Claude and Joan because it afforded more privacy, lay off the living room. Through a thick red door a porch, as wide as the cottage, with tall windows, a built-in day bed, and an assortment of easy chairs and sofas, overlooked the lake. The Amognes preferred the porch to any other room in the cabin.

The cottage had no telephone, no shower or bathtub, and no indoor heat, though the gas stove warmed the place well enough if Joan baked three or four pies and kept the porch door closed. A small gray table and four metal chairs with red vinyl seats stood in the center of the kitchen area, while the living room section boasted a ratty green couch and a scuffed-up rocking chair with an orange seat cushion. On the walls hung wooden plaques inscribed with scatalogical humor and downeast witticisms about lake-in-the-woods living.

#

Claude first came to the cottage as a boy. Armand Fecteau, a UUW official from a utility in Maine, met Jackie Amognes at a national convention and offered him the cabin at a reasonable rate for two weeks every summer. Back when Claude was nine, there were few cabins and many loons on what was considered a large, peaceful lake. Now there were few undeveloped lots and no loons. On summer weekends, motorboats and jet skiers crowded the lake, and parties echoed over the water late into the night. Residents who summered there for the tranquility had long since sold and left.

Not that Jackie Amognes or Armand Fecteau treated the place like a monastery. In those days, Armand also owned a cottage two lots down, and if Jackie and Gail weren't visiting Armand and Blanche, Armand and Blanche were visiting Jackie and Gail. Most nights they played cards for pennies and nickels, drinking as they played, laughing, listening to scratchy records until one or two in the morning, interrupting the games on the warmest midnights to shed their clothes and hop in the lake, sometimes as a nightcap, sometimes to refresh themselves for a few more hours at the porch table. At Jackie's funeral, Gail told Armand the two weeks she and her husband spent at the lake were always his favorite days of the year.

Claude remembered nights at the lake less fondly than his parents did. For him, nights consisted of watching other people play cards, listening to baseball alone in his room, or going to the other cabin and sitting through whatever television programs Armand's two daughters, one Claude's age and one four years older, had on the dial. For him, daytime was the fun time, the time he could swim, take boat rides, or go fishing.

In fact, Claude traced his lifelong love of fishing back to his very first year at the lake. Jackie met Armand at a convention in April, and arrived home from the convention not only with news of a new vacation spot but also with a fishing pole for his boy. From April until the day they left for Maine, Claude practiced fishing in the back yard, hooking flowers, leaves, and the back of his own head twice, but even the occasional self-catch didn't dissuade him from casting and reeling and casting and reeling again. When they got to the lake, Claude spent the first two hours running around, trying out the water and the tire swing, bouncing on his bed and teasing spiders in the bathroom. But once the Amognes had settled in, Jackie told Claude to come to the dock and bring his fishing pole. He strapped a bulky orange life preserver around Claude and lifted him into the metal rowboat, put in the poles and a pail of worms, climbed in himself, and rowed toward the center of the lake.

"Go ahead, Claude," Jackie said, "see if you can get the worm on the hook."

Claude picked a nightcrawler from pail and stabbed the hook through it. Jackie laughed.

"No, no," he said, "you have to rip the worm in half, then slide it onto the hook so there isn't any metal showing. That way the fish can't see any hook. They only see worm, and my does it look yummy. Here, let me show you."

Jackie took the worm from Claude's hook, tore it in two, and crammed the hook into its innards.

"See? It isn't hard. And make sure you leave part of the worm off the end of the hook. That way, it'll wriggle around a little and the fish will be more likely to see it."

Claude butchered his first attempt, but Jackie encouraged him to try again. Claude tossed the worm mush into the water, and as he reached into the pail to extract another crawler he heard a minute splash.

"Hear that?" Jackie said. "Hear that? That worm wasn't in the water two seconds and a fish jumped up and grabbed it. Oh boy, they're going to be biting today."

Sure enough, within five minutes after Claude's line hit the lake a fish bit. Claude jerked the reel a little too hard and the fish got away, but Claude rebaited quickly and got his line back in the water. His father got the next bite. As the line clicked away, Jackie looked to his son and winked.

"Reel him in, dad."

"I will. But first I want to make sure he's hooked."

When he was sure, Jackie cranked, slowly at first, then faster. As the line wound thick on the reel and the small bass came into view a few yards away, Jackie put both hands on the grip and yanked the fish out of the water, ripping it clean into the air and smack in the middle of the boat. The bass flipped around the boat as Claude and Jackie laughed. At last Jackie caught the fish and held it up to Claude.

"Sometimes you can get the hook out easy, see, but sometimes you have to rip it through the fish's lip. Don't worry, though, it doesn't hurt him."

The hook removed, Jackie handed the bass to Claude.

"Just a little one," he said. "Whaddya think, five inches, maybe six? Hardly worth the bother. Throw it in the tub and let's get on to the next one."

Claude did, and before long had his own bite. He turned the reel, but when he went to heave, Claude pulled too hard and stumbled backward as the fish flew over the boat. With the hook firmly imbedded, however, Claude simply turned toward the other side of the craft and reeled the bugger in again. This time he reached over the side and got it with the net, then suddenly looked to his father to see if he'd done something wrong, but Jackie nodded his approval and Claude lifted the net and dumped the fish on the floor of the boat.

"I think he swallowed my hook," Claude said.

"So cut him open and get it. You've got a knife. Use it."

Claude did, with Jackie guiding his cuts. He retrieved the hook, rebaited it, set the dead fish in the tub, and cast again. Father and son fished the entire afternoon, returning to the cabin with smiles on their faces.

"Mom," Claude shouted as he dashed onto the patio, "we caught seventeen fish. One of them was huge, it had to be a grandfather, dad said. I'm gonna go dig for more worms so we can go fishing again tomorrow."

Claude ran off, and Gail turned her attention to her husband, climbing the cement stairs with a large metal tub.

"We had a good day," he beamed. "Look at all these fish."

"My word," Gail said. "How in the world are we going to eat all those?"

"Well," Jackie said, "cook the big ones, and use the little ones for fertilizer."

Gail knew there was no way in hell she was saving a dozen dead fish for two weeks so she could haul them to Rhode Island to fertilize her garden, but she said nothing. She asked Jackie to pick out the best ones and leave them near the sink so she could prepare them for a fry, which he did. At supper, Jackie announced they were only eating the fish Claude had caught, and Claude spent the entire meal telling his mother, and reminding his father, of the details of the adventure.

The next day, Claude rose early to finish digging for worms. At noon, when he'd filled a large paper cup with nightcrawlers, he returned to the cabin.

"Are we going fishing again today, dad?"

"Not today, Claude."

"Why not?"

"I've got to go with Armand and meet some of the men from his union."

"What's so important about that?"

"Well, Claude, when you're in a union with someone, it's like having a brother. You've got to treat them as if they were your own flesh and blood. If you had a brother, you wouldn't let him down, would you? Of course you wouldn't. And it's the same way with me. I can't let my union brothers down. They need me, so I have to be there for them. Like I said, you have to treat them as if they were your own flesh and blood.

"Don't worry, we'll go fishing first thing tomorrow morning."

A rap came on the screen door in the kitchen. "Hey Jackie," Armand said, showing his French-Canadian roots by emphasizing the second part of Jackie's name over the first. "You ready?"

"I got the booze," Jackie said. "You got the cards?"

Armand held up a deck. "Deuces never looses. Lez go."

Claude watched them walk down the cement steps and cross by the Johnson's boathouse to the Fecteaus' other dock. He saw them climb into Armand's big powerboat, saw Armand step out, and saw Armand cup his hands near his mouth.

"Hey Blanche," he heard Armand call. "Throw me down the stairs, the boat keys."

The next morning, Claude jumped out of bed at seven to go fishing. He checked on his father at eight, at nine, and at ten, but still Jackie slept. At eleven, Gail told Claude to wait on the porch. She went into the bedroom and closed the door behind her, and when she re-emerged closed the door again.

"Your father was out a little late last night and had a little too much to drink," she said. "I don't think he's up for fishing. But come on, I'll go with you."

Claude ran for his cup of nightcrawlers and struggled into his life preserver.

"All set," he said.

"Good," his mother said. "What do you say we fish with tackle today instead of these worms?"

"What's tackle?"

Gail lifted a small metal box from beneath the boat seat. "Fake worms. They're just as good as real ones."

Claude agreed, though it took some cajoling to get him to free his cupful of live worms. In the end Gail convinced him that if he set the worms free, they would eat and get fatter, and then he'd catch bigger fish once he dug them up again.

Gail rowed a few hundred yards and stopped.

"Not here, mom. Farther out."

"But there'll be good fish here."

"No, no. We've got to go out there."

Gail gave in, and rowed toward the center of the lake. When they arrived at an acceptable site, she tied a lure to her son's line.

"All set," she said. "Cast away."

"What about you?"

"I'll set my lure in a minute."

"But we have to do it together."

"All right," she said. "Give me a second here."

Claude did, and soon mother and son had lures in the water. But unlike Claude's first fishing excursion, no fish bit. After a half an hour, Claude began inventing nibbles.

"Be patient, dear," Gail said. "You'll catch something soon enough."

As she spoke, her line ticked a little.

"See? It looks like I've got one."

"All right!" Claude yelled. "Pull him in."

"Nope. First you have to tug, just a little, to make sure the hook is in its mouth. There. Now I can let it run. Once it tires itself out some, I can bring it in."

Ten minutes later, Gail leaned over the side of the boat and netted a small trout. She reached through the netting and with a quick pull removed the hook from the fish's mouth. She lifted the net and smiled to her son, then dropped the net to the water and the fish swam free.

"What are you doing?" Claude screamed. "He's getting away! What are you doing!"

"Honey, he's too small to keep. The tiny ones, you have to let them go."

"Dad didn't let them go," Claude mumbled.

Gail heard him, but said nothing. A few minutes later, she hooked another one.

"Ooh, Claude," she said, "I think this one's a biggie. Here, come take my pole."

"But it's yours."

"I know, but I'll help you bring him in. Here, take it."

Claude obeyed his mother, but since it was her pole he didn't feel right about it. He didn't like it when she stopped him from yanking. He didn't like it when she told him to only crank when the line felt loose. But when the trout came into view, he forgot it all and leapt to the side of the boat.

"Look at the size of that one!" he shouted. "It's the biggest fish in the lake!"

"It's a big one, all right," Gail said.

"Let me do the net this time," Claude said.

"All right, but be careful. Take it slow. You don't want to hurt it."

Claude scooped the fish from the water and plopped it on the bottom of the boat.

"Claude! No!"

Gail grabbed the net and set it atop the trout. When the fish wriggled she slid the frame beneath it, lifted it over the side of the boat, and held it in the water.

"Now take the lure out," she said, "but be careful. Grab the fish firm, and get the hook by pulling it straight back."

Claude removed the hook, and when his mother held the net high even managed a smile.

"It's a beauty," Gail said. "Here, take the net. You caught him, you should be the one to let him go."

"Let him go? The hugest fish in the lake? We just caught him, why would we let him go?"

"Honey, we couldn't eat all the fish you caught the other day. Plus we've got steak for dinner tonight. We're having steak, potatoes, and a nice salad. Killing this fish doesn't make any sense. There's no reason for it. And just think, if we throw it back maybe someone else can get a thrill from catching it tomorrow."

She offered the net again to her son but he turned away. She lowered the net and the fish swam away.

When Claude saw the empty net he slammed her pole to the floor of the boat. "This stinks," he said. "I wanna go home. Now."

Gail rowed her son to the cabin, and found Jackie awake. Although Claude remained outside, digging worms proper with his trowel and pail, he soon heard his father's familiar holler.

"What are you trying to teach that boy, anyway? There are thousands of fish in that lake; nobody's going to miss a dozen or two. It doesn't make sense to go fishing if the goal is to come home without any fish. You don't have to be Einstein to figure that out. You go fishing to catch fish. Teaching him to fish is part of teaching him to be a man, at least it's supposed to be. Isn't it? You want your son to be a man, don't you?"

From a distance, Claude never heard his mother's side of these exchanges.

"No he doesn't," Jackie yelled. "A real man doesn't come to the edge of a conquest and quit. A real man comes to the edge of a conquest and conquers."

Claude dug where he'd buried his worms.

"Well excuse me. I had a little too much to drink with the boys. Was I supposed to ignore Armand, the man who got us this cabin to begin with? Is that what I should have done?"

Claude only found thin worms. He wondered if the big ones were hiding from him.

"Well yes, of course that's what you should have done. Of course you did the right thing. But Jesus, Gail...Oh, all right! All right!"

Jackie burst through the back entrance, bounding up the little stairway as the spring whipped the screen door shut behind him.

"Claude!"

"Yeah, dad?"

"Look, I wound up staying later with Armand and his brothers than I expected, and having a little more to drink than I thought I would, and losing a lot more at the poker table than I'd hoped, and, well I won't go into it but for chrissakes when you get to be drinking age you'll know what I mean. Tomorrow you get yourself a bucketful of nightcrawlers and we'll go fishing again first thing in the morning, just you and me, and we'll catch everything we can, so that at the end of the day we'll have a pile of fish so high they'll be able to see it all the way from Portland. Whaddya think, is it a deal?"

Claude's face broke into a wide smile. "It's a deal."

#

As he grew older, Claude spent less time watching his parents play cards and more time by himself, fishing, listening to the radio, or playing one-person games of baseball, in which he pitched a tennis ball against the wall of an old shed a few hundred yards behind the Fecteaus' other cabin; a light bulb hanging from the shed's frame allowed him to play after dark, which he did whenever the Red Sox had an off day or played in the afternoon. Once he turned twelve his parents let him fish on his own as long as he kept the boat near the cabin. When he hit fourteen they let him fish wherever he wanted so long as he returned before dusk.

During the summer between Claude's junior and senior years in high school, just after he'd gotten his drivers license, Claude worked up the nerve to ask Marie Fecteau to a movie, but she laughed and said she'd rather die than be seen with him at a movie theater, so for twelve long days Claude did little but fish at the far end of the lake and hide in his bedroom. The next year, he asked his parents to let him stay in Rhode Island instead of going to the lake. They reluctantly agreed.

When Jackie died, Gail didn't want to go to the lake by herself, and told Claude and Joan to take the cabin instead. Although Joan loved the idea of bringing Jamie to Maine every summer, Claude refused the offer. The following year, with his father's death not so fresh in his mind, Claude reconsidered and called Armand to ask for the two weeks in August, but they'd long been scooped up, at the full rate, by someone else. However, Armand said he had some rowdy people in the Memorial Day slot who always left the place a mess, and he couldn't stand them, particularly the wife, so he told Claude he'd tell them not to come back and Claude and Joan could have the cabin each Memorial Day weekend if they wanted it. They said they did.

### Chapter 8

Once everything had been transferred from the car to the cabin, Claude and Jamie changed into their bathing suits and went swimming. Joan and Connie made a pot of coffee, loaded the firepit with charcoal, and set some lawn chairs on the patio.

"This place is beautiful," Connie said.

Although the day was warm, both women wore pants. Joan rarely wore shorts, or went swimming, because she was ashamed of her fat thighs and the bright blue veins that ran up and down her legs. Connie maintained more of the figure she and her sister shared as young women, though her backside had widened considerably since her husband's death. Connie was taller than Joan, and let her hair go gray, whereas Joan relied on monthly salon appointments to remain a brunette.

Connie sipped some coffee, then set her mug on the rail. "What was up with Claude and work? Is everything all right?"

"The usual stuff," Joan said. "Claude thinks because he's in a union he doesn't have to work. His boss thinks that every time he catches Claude goofing off he has to yell louder than the time before."

"If you collect a paycheck, you should put in a good day's work," Connie said.

"I know," Joan said. "But it's not all Claude's fault. His boss doesn't know anything about being a manager. He's always in meetings, and really doesn't even know what's going on in his own department."

"According to Claude."

"According to Claude," Joan said. "But I've heard the same thing from Frank Dombrowski and Scotty Williams when they've come over. Claude's been in trouble before, and he usually seems to know when enough is enough. He can get by when he has to. But I wish he'd get a new boss, because if he did I think he'd really be all right."

"He must have some seniority at the company," Connie said. "Can't he bid to another position?"

"Not really. To do any of the big-paying jobs, the ones where you work with electricity, you have to pass a test, and Claude can't pass it. I bet he's taken it a dozen times. The only other jobs are clerk, meter reader and janitor. Well, you know Claude's not the paperwork type, so clerk's out, plus it's the lowest-paying position in the whole company—fourteen dollars an hour, or something. We both know why he'll never be a meter reader again. And janitor, well Claude was too proud to be a janitor. Me, I could have cared less, it was more money so go ahead and take it is the way I saw it. But Claude stood up to his father and caused a big rift."

"Lou thought that was going to be a big turnaround for Claude. He thought that was an important moment in his life."

Joan finished her coffee. She reached into her purse and pulled out a cigarette. "Forgive me. I haven't been able to quit these entirely. I'm down to three or four a day, but I just can't get down to zero. Here, switch seats with me."

The sisters traded places and the wind blew Joan's cigarette smoke away from Connie.

"I guess it was an important moment in his life," Joan said. "just not the way nobody thought it would be. What Claude did really hurt Jackie. It wasn't Jackie's fault Claude got bit by the fleas, and it wasn't Jackie's fault Claude started calling in sick about every other day. He heard the whispers, and when that janitor position opened up, Jackie didn't do anything wrong, technically, he just went to the two other people who were interested and asked them to withdraw their bids so Claude would get it, and they agreed. Just a guy asking a favor, that's all. Gail said when Claude threatened to quit rather than become a janitor, Jackie was in a tough spot."

"He should have let Claude quit."

"You didn't know Jackie. He pulled the strings and got Claude in stores, but it wasn't easy. He had to call in a lot of favors and bend a lot of rules. It was really the beginning of the end for him."

"Was the beginning of the end any prettier than the end of the end?"

Joan laughed. "A little. But not much."

"That time at Jamie's birthday party, that was awful. Completely obnoxious. I mean at a wedding or a ballgame I could understand it, but at a little girl's birthday party you don't expect the grandfather to be knocking down drink after drink and starting shouting matches with anyone who says hello. The weird thing was, I was having such a nice chat with your mother-in-law when all that erupted."

"Yeah, Gail got to be an expert at making the peace," Joan said. "She really deserved better. Especially after Jackie got voted out as president, she had a rough time. She said the union was everything Jackie lived for. He hated going back to underground lines, climbing into manholes all day and working all slouched over in the damp and the dark, with rats running around everywhere. He kept trying to mount comebacks in the union, but could never get enough support, and eventually running and losing and running and losing became too hard for him, so he just climbed inside a bottle and stayed there."

"Like that's any more dignified."

"Plus Jackie really couldn't afford to retire when he did. He was only 56. But by then he was so far out of the union loop he couldn't wait to get out. When he retired, me and Claude insisted on paying Gail for watching Jamie —you know, to help out —but even then I bet Jackie drank half of what we gave them."

Joan dropped her cigarette to the floor of the wooden patio and crunched it with the toe of her shoe. She slapped her thighs and stood up. "I brought some banana bread. Want some?"

Connie nodded. Joan took the two empty coffee mugs. When she returned, she carried a tray with two full mugs and four slices of banana bread. After she set the tray down, she stretched, and looked out over the water, watching Claude and Jamie float and twist in two large inner tubes, Claude flopped stomach down on his and Jamie leaning back in hers, dipping her hair in the water and hoarding whatever rays she could get from the intermittent sun. Joan sat. She stirred her coffee.

"Gail was so sweet," she said. "Always a smile. Always said the perfect thing when I was feeling blue or Claude was in a mood. Always knew how to get Jamie to do her homework, or make friends with a girl who was teasing her, or spruce up her outfit so the other kids would think it was cool. She could look at Jamie's face and know the problem without even asking."

"Well, aside from you she probably knew Jamie as well as anyone," Connie said. "Even Claude."

"What do you mean?" Joan said. "Claude and Jamie are together constantly."

"I know," Connie said. "But I wonder if he really knows her. Sometimes it seems the only things they do together are things Claude wants to do. I can't remember once when I saw him doing something Jamie would like but he wouldn't."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Joan said. "They play cards together, and Jamie likes that. They fish together. They watch a lot of movies together."

"See what I mean?"

Joan shrugged.

"Maybe I'm wrong," Connie said, "but even if I am you have to admit that Jamie was closer to you and to Gail than to Claude. I mean, Gail practically raised her from the day she was born."

"I always thought that was so unfair," Joan said. "Women today have all this maternity leave, and bonding leave, and extra sick pay, and we had nothing. I wanted to stay home with Jamie, but with the way Claude was at work, I didn't dare. I was working at Schimmel's then, so no work, no money. When Jamie was three weeks old and we had nothing left in the bank, I dropped her off at Gail's and right back in I went."

"Remember when Claude couldn't figure out how to put Jamie's diaper on?"

"Or when he finally learned how to put it on, but then got so interested in a ball game that he didn't change her? I come home from working overtime and Jamie's screaming bloody murder. He's sitting there watching t.v. and says 'I think something's wrong with the baby. I fed her two bottles, so she can't be hungry.' I pick her up and she's dripping —she wet herself right through the diaper. After that I said Gail gets her from the time I hand her over until the time I take her back. Gail was a nurse you know. Before she met Jackie."

"I never knew she worked."

"She didn't," Joan said. "After she was married, that is. Jackie wouldn't allow it. Gail went along, but I think she was bored to death sitting home all day. It's too bad, because Gail always seemed so good at everything she did."

"You'd think some of that would've rubbed off on Claude," Connie said.

Joan smiled. "I know. It's funny, more of it rubbed off on Jamie. Taking care of Jamie really brought the life back into Gail."

A breeze rustled the pine branches far overhead. A chipmunk sniffed around the base of the firepit.

Connie sat up in her chair. Her face lit up. "Hey, I always meant to ask you: did you sleep with Claude after he got bit by the fleas?"

"No way! He was gross. He had welts all over him."

"Could you tell the welts from the zits?"

The two sisters howled. As the laughter gave way and trickled to giggles, Connie looked up at the sun breaking through the clouds.

"What was it about Claude that did it for you?"

Joan twisted her head an inch as her eyebrows shot up. She looked at her sister, who continued to gaze into the sky, then relaxed her eyebrows and stared at the patio floor. She put an elbow on her knee and rested her chin in her palm.

"I don't know," Joan said. "You had Lou, and Teddy, geez he was only sixteen or so but he had girls climbing all over him. Mom and dad always made such a fuss about things you did, you were so grown up they said, and about things Teddy did, he was always so cute the way he'd roll his eyes when they'd ask him and his girlfriend to ham it up for the camera, but me, they never looked twice at anything I did. Claude paid attention to me. Back then he'd ask me how I felt about all sorts of things, and it was nice. We talked about everything. He was an only child and didn't have anyone to talk to, and I really didn't have anyone to talk to either, so it worked out. Mom and dad never liked Claude, but in a lot of ways he was there for me when they weren't. We just kind of came together, and we've been together ever since."

Connie looked over, nodded and smiled. She sipped her coffee.

"Oops," Joan said. "Here they come."

"What's for lunch?" Jamie said as she bounded barefoot onto the patio.

"Let's put on some hot dogs and burgers," her mother said.

They cooked the food and ate it, and Claude and Jamie went to play mini-golf, and Joan and Connie chatted the afternoon away.

At 4:00, Claude and Jamie returned, and announced they were going fishing. However, when Claude looked for his net, he realized he'd forgotten it, and couldn't find another net among the junk in the storage area behind the big yellow wall. He and Jamie hopped in the Buick again and drove to town to buy a new one.

Upon their return, Joan had a dinner of steak, potato chips, and salad waiting for them. They ate on the built-in picnic table on the patio, and when they were done Claude gathered his fishing gear, set the rowboat into the water, and hooked up the small outboard motor.

"We'll be back in a couple hours," he said to Joan.

Jamie donned her lifejacket and floppy fishing hat and climbed aboard. Claude started the motor, and the pair putted off to the most remote part of the lake, not far from where it was fed by a narrow river.

"How's this?" Claude said.

"Looks great."

Claude cut the motor, and he and his daughter tossed their lines into the lake.

### Chapter 9

The water was cool where it also was dark. Buzzing sounds made the brighter water fearful to swim, and one couldn't ever completely relax there, but the brighter water also contained food, so if one wanted a full stomach one endured the hazards —real or perceived —and swam toward the light.

May fly season was at its peak. Most of the time the tiny bugs were rare to encounter, but for brief stretches after the ice cleared a banquet of the flies materialized on top of the lake. Once drowned, they were too small to sink very deep, and in death rolled slowly beneath the surface until they were spotted and eaten.

Now that spawning season had passed, eating was the only thing left. This wasn't the ocean, where sailfish leapt and porpoises frolicked in the wakes of giant liners. It wasn't even a large lake, which might have bona fide schools. Here, there was no socializing or parrying rivals for territory, just eating. Whatever other activity existed, the dominant function remained the pursuit and capture of food.

This day food was sparse. The buzzing pervaded everything, loudly, from all directions. Sharp jets of water pierced the depths, knocking all in its path momentarily askew. Only as the bright water began to darken did the jets and buzzing subside, and only then did fish scouring the lake bottom raise their eyes upward in search of a soggy piece of bread or an insect in the final spasms of life.

What intrigue, then, when a large trout caught what appeared to be the death dance of a bright, colorful bug. The trout circled. The insect darted away, then floated motionless. The trout approached, and when the moment of critical nearness arrived, it dashed forward, swallowed the bug, and with a series of powerful tail strokes fled the scene.

It was indeed a big bug, very filling, with a long tail that was difficult to swallow. As it had done countless times after capturing a good meal, the trout meandered at a satisfied pace.

Without notice, the world the trout had come to know, the actions natural to a lake trout and the expected effects of those actions, changed dramatically. Although no predator could be seen, or heard, or the tiny waves of its mammalled feet felt, the trout was under attack. The bug with the tail that couldn't be swallowed was biting the trout's stomach, biting it hard, and trying to rip the stomach back through the fish's mouth.

Strokes that once propelled the fish forward now did not. Survival by escape—the only response to danger the trout had ever practiced —became, instead, survival by any means. Though still restrained from moving freely by the long tail, the fish turned and swam in the opposite direction.

It worked for a moment, but after a few yards, the predator attacked again. The trout pointed itself toward the lake floor and with exaggerated full-body contortions strove to break loose of its tormentor, but after a gut-wrenching bite to its innards, the fish found itself pointed, and moving, toward the bright water. Unable to swim backward, and unwilling to swim toward the surface, the fish flailed for freedom.

A blast of unfamiliar sensations halted the flailing. Intense light blinded the trout. Its gills strained to breathe and it was overcome by uncomfortable heat. Everything began to spin. A shrill noise rose and retreated, and rose again, and something hard struck the fish on its side.

With all its energy the trout flapped and bucked and twisted. A gill landed in water —though not much water —and the fish stopped writhing for a moment. A large spot of black, as big as the trout itself, emerged from the brightness and pressed the fish out of its natural shape.

Escape failed, and now hope for survival was fading too. In the water, the trout knew how to catch food, and how to spawn, and how to avoid bigger fish. In this environment, it knew no defense. A great power, impossible to understand, had thrust the trout into a place so different, and so painful, that the exhausted fish simply submitted, and no longer struggled to live the life it had always known.

The pressing eased and the bug took another hard bite. Suddenly, the coolness of the lake slapped the trout's body. The shock of the slap caused the fish to swallow—at last—the tail of the bug. The ability to breathe, and to see, returned. As the trout pulled water through its gills, it flipped a side fin, and the move propelled it in the expected direction. It tried a second time, with the same result. For a few seconds the fish attempted small movements only, but then, full of oxygen, restored of vision, and once again mobile, the trout darted as fast as it could to the crisp, dark, familiar water at the bottom of the lake.

#

As the sun began to dip behind the trees, mosquitoes joined the black flies and Claude and Jamie decided to head back while there was still plenty of light. When they rounded a bend in lake and saw the great yellow wall in the distance, Claude turned a knob and the motor stalled.

"Let's row from here," he said.

Jamie agreed. As she slid from the front seat to the middle, she wrestled the oar from the floor of the boat and set it in the lock. When Claude had done the same on the other side, they both leaned forward, dipped their oars in the water, and stroked. They set a casual pace.

Within a half hour, they approached their dock. They were pleased with the time they made, especially since they hadn't really exerted themselves.

"Says something about that Chinese motor, don't it?" Claude said.

Claude caught the dock, and Jamie climbed out. She took the poles, nets, and boxes from the front of the boat, and when she finished provided an arm to help her father step out. She then took the rope and led the empty boat along the dock to the shore. There, Claude grabbed the back end of the small aluminum craft and dragged it onto the shore. He rolled the boat over, so the propeller blades wouldn't touch the ground, and set it down.

Claude and Jamie headed up the cement stairs to the porch, where Joan and Connie had retreated to avoid mosquitoes.

"Catch anything?" Joan said with a smile as Claude and Jamie entered.

"Daddy caught a big trout. It swallowed his fly, and daddy wanted to slice him open to get it, but I asked him not to, so he cut the line and set him free. I had a couple nibbles, but didn't catch anything." "Oh well," Joan said. "Tomorrow's another day."

"'Tis indeed," Claude said.

#

Sunday it rained hard. Jamie broke out the board games, and the four spent the afternoon rolling dice and playing cards and listening to music on the radio. At night they took in a movie.

When Monday brought no relief from the rain, the Amognes packed early. Jamie and Connie took quick baths in the lake, while Joan opted for washing her hair in the sink and Claude skipped cleansing altogether. After the traditional Memorial Day lobster dinner, they tidied up, gave the toilet a scrub, and drove home.

### Chapter 10

Evolution, and evolution alone, explained the Rhode Island Electric bargaining table, for from that table emerged odd creatures, with bizarre features difficult to describe, with broader purposes about which a bystander could only speculate, yet which nonetheless fit the common ground union and management, each struggling to protect its niche, had come to share. Each side had what it had. To get something new, it had to offer something in return, even if the request alone made perfect business sense, even if the return something was of dubious value to the company at large, even if one offering or the other had to be twisted to comical proportions to become acceptable.

Rhode Island Electric's three bonus programs were borne of this process. The first, the earnings goal, made the most sense. Each year, the company set three profit levels and five targets in areas it deemed important: safety, attendance, customer satisfaction, regulatory compliance, and percentage of jobs completed on schedule. Depending on the location and the job, goals could be measured individually, by district, or both. The Capital District's jobs-on-schedule goal, for instance, was met if the district completed assignments on schedule 94 percent of the time during the contract year. However, an employee with a perfect job completion record automatically made the goal, even if his district didn't, while an employee with a completion rate lower than 85 percent automatically missed the goal, even if his district made it. Other goals had similar measurement criteria. The higher the earnings level, and the more goals made, the higher the bonus.

The second bonus, the guaranteed lump sum, came from the Jackie Amognes era, people remembered, though nobody seemed to recall what the union had given up to get it. Among union ranks, nobody cared, since the only criteria for earning the bonus was to be a member of the UUW on July 17, the first day of the new contract year.

The third bonus, the performance based bonus, was the newest, negotiated in the Jim Shepard era. The notion of the guaranteed lump sum never sat well with Rhode Island politicians, who scoffed at the idea of paying employees a percentage of money they hadn't yet earned for doing nothing more than remaining alive. In the industry, too, pay-for-performance schemes remained a popular trend at the time, so in management's pre-negotiation strategy sessions, top brass pounded away at the need to link employee bonuses to on-the-job results. Over the objections of a handful of younger executives who contended the union would never buy it, top brass prevailed, and management resolved to win a performance based bonus clause in the next contract.

On the first day of negotiations, that resolve crunched like a katydid under a Cadillac's wheels. Even the stern men from the UUW's national headquarters laughed at that one. The union did not want money linked to performance—not then, not now, not ever —and did not want to give management any tool it could use to ratchet up on-the-job expectations, however slowly, in coming years. But management shrugged off the initial embarrassment and kept fighting. Top brass wanted a pay-for-performance bonus, and the negotiation team knew it could not emerge from the table without one.

As July 17 drew nearer and progress on a new agreement remained stalled, pressure on management's negotiation team to come up with a spin for its performance based bonus proposal increased. At last it emerged from caucus and reprimanded the union leaders for failing to recognize the true value of the proposed program: improved communication. The company's intent, it said, had never been to micromanage production, but to increase the amount of communication employees had with direct supervisors, which both sides agreed was abysmal. The union listened. But any program, the UUW insisted, must rank all jobs on equal footing. It must factor out the specific duties of each position, and, as a result, must rate employees in general categories like teamwork and reliability. It must forbid supervisors from stating anything in quantified terms, and from discussing any actual performance measure, such as the number of streetlights an individual set compared to the department average or the number of meters an employee missed reading over the course of the contract year. Management's negotiators claimed the program was to be mainly an exercise in communication, and in the final wording of the contract the union held them to it.

On July 17 that year, Rhode Island Electric president Harrington Munson made the cover of the state's daily newspaper. "The linking of bonuses to individual performance in our new contract," the story quoted Munson as saying, "is a landmark achievement, one unprecedented in the utility industry across the nation. We are proud to be, once again, a proactive leader on the cutting edge of new ways to increase efficiency, and are pleased that we will continue to deliver to our loyal customers the highest quality service for the best possible price." For a month Munson traveled the country, briefing other executives about his company's accomplishment, meeting with senators, patting backs, shaking hands, and getting himself on the cover of every trade magazine money could buy.

A year later, management considered begging out of the performance appraisal process altogether. The entire process turned into an administrative nightmare. The union balked at the language defining the categories. Supervisors argued with the people trying to train them. The forms that tracked employee achievement confused everyone and were filled out wrong about a third of the time. Worse, the amount of face time between employees and supervisors that first year increased only by the amount of time it took the supervisor to read the appraisal to the worker. And nobody at the negotiation table had recognized the conflict between the new appraisal process and the already-existing positive discipline policy: giving an employee the lowest grade on the appraisal could only be justified if the employee already had a positive discipline warning, and that was hard to do. Worse, positive discipline only had three categories, but the appraisal had seven: dependability, teamwork, work practices, compliance, work precision, work completeness, and awareness of costs. To give an employee an overall rating of "did not meet expectations," a supervisor had to document, for all practical purposes, that the individual was unemployable. In fact, in the seven years the appraisal process had been in place, only one person received a "did not meet expectations" rating, and even that came with an asterisk: when the supervisor tried to find the employee to give him the appraisal, he learned the fellow had quit four days earlier.

"I hate the whole thing," Schulke told anyone who'd listen. "It creates a shitload of paperwork, you can't discuss anyone's actual performance, and even Claude Amognes can pass, so it serves no purpose except to give more free money to the union."

Two things kept the program alive. One, management figured since it had a foot in the door, it might as well hold the door open on the odd chance that, on some far-away tomorrow, some drastic change in circumstance might allow it to revisit the subject of meaningful performance management. Two, after seven years of crowing its merits, Munson refused to admit the program was anything but the crowning achievement in his tenure as president.

#

As Claude punched in the Tuesday after Memorial Day, he noticed both doors to the stores department office were closed. He peeked through the glass and saw Schulke sitting with Scotty. None of the forklifts had been moved from the parking area. No yellow lights twirled, meaning nobody sat in the cockpit of the crane.

Darezzo rounded the corner with a can of soda and a cold pop tart.

"Is it Review Day?" Claude said.

Darezzo nodded.

"Hmmm," Claude said. "Last year it was in June. Why so early this year?"

"Don't ask me."

When Claude's turn came, he sat across from Schulke and listened. Schulke read Claude's ratings: three ones (the lowest score), three twos, a three, and no fours. Claude did not react. Schulke next reviewed the comments beside each rating and asked if Claude had any questions. Claude said nothing. Schulke then asked Claude if he had any ideas that might improve the way the department functioned in the coming year. Claude said nothing. Schulke asked Claude if he'd sign the appraisal to show he'd been read the comments. Claude picked up the paper and left without speaking.

In short, Claude followed the party line. Each member of the stores department went in, sat down, said nothing, signed nothing, and left. One after another after another. The same happened in overhead lines, in underground lines, in substation maintenance, in telecommunications, in building maintenance. With the exception of customer service and meter reading, which each had large female populations, the UUW taboo against participating in the performance appraisal process held.

Once Schulke had handed out all the appraisals, the members of the stores department gathered at break to go over them. They pulled two tables together and sat down with their coffee and snacks.

"Everyone here?" Darezzo said.

"Nick's not," Scotty said. "He must still be in with Schulke."

"Who needs him?," Warren said. "John, what did you get?"

"Threes across the board. Reliability: 'John is one of the more reliable members of the department. I can always count on him to be there when work needs to be done."

Frank swallowed a bite of donut. "Reliability," he said. "Reliability: 'Frank is one of the more reliable members of the department. I can always count on him to be there when work needs to be done.'"

Elton stood. "Elton is one of the more reliable members of the department," he read. "I can always count on him to be there when work needs to be done."

Everyone laughed.

"Same here," Scotty said.

"Me too," Darezzo said. "Hey Bugsy, Schulke hates you. What did you get?"

"I got a two instead of a three," Claude said, "so Schulke had to give me a custom job. Reliability: 'Claude could be among the reliable members of the department more often. I need to be able to count on him more often when work needs to be done.'"

Frank shook his head. "What a boob. He writes the same thing every year. Doesn't he know we're onto him?"

Scotty nudged Frank with an elbow. "He doesn't care. If he wanted to write the truth on these things, he'd actually have to know what's going on."

"Okay," Warren said, "somebody give me 'awareness of costs.'"

"I got a three," a smiling Claude said to a mock cheer. "The comment says, 'Participates in recycling efforts. Reuses material.' Anyone get the same?"

All hands at the table rose, and again everyone laughed. As they did, Nick joined the group from the rear, pulled up a chair, and sat.

"Hey Nick," John said. "Read us what you got for dependability."

Nick felt his upper molars with the tip of his tongue. "I didn't get an appraisal."

For a brief count, nobody moved. Eyes sought other eyes, and nods went unnodded as everyone around the table understood.

"I see," John said. "I get it. You didn't get an appraisal because you've got some other kind of bonus coming to you this year."

Nick looked John in the eye, but said nothing.

"Is that true?" Frank said.

"Yeah, Frank, it's true."

At once, seven men rose from the table, taking their drinks and snacks with them. The three on the far side of the table, Scotty, John, and Elton, turned and sat at the table near the soda machine. The other four, Claude, Frank, Warren, and Darezzo, turned and sat at the table near the trash cans.

Nick sat all alone. Nobody faced him, and although conversation resumed at the other two tables, it was in low tones meant to keep him from listening. Other people in the cafeteria stared. When Nick's eyes met any of theirs, they turned away.

"Hey, Frank," Nick said, selecting the person he thought would be most reasonable about the situation.

Frank did not turn around. Nick stood, bought a soda and a candy bar, and returned to stores. Once he'd left, the two tables turned toward each other.

"How about that?" Darezzo said.

Claude shook his head and stared at the table. John slumped over his can of soda. Scotty heaved an audible sigh, pushed his coffee cup away from him, and drummed his fingers on the table.

"I guess another one bites the dust," Scotty said.

"I didn't think Nick would do it," John said. "Why would he want to leave the union just like that? I mean, we're not so bad. What's wrong with us?"

Warren broke into a wide smile. "Look at you guys," he said. "A guy bolts, and you all wallow around with long faces. You just don't get it, do you? This isn't a time to mope about. This is a time to stand with our middle fingers held high, a time to show everyone what happens to scum who disrespect their union. Our union keeps this company going. We need to make an example of that bastard, not to punish him, but to show everyone else that if you try this, here's what you're gonna get, and not from just one or two of us, but from all of us united. We're a brotherhood, aren't we? And brothers stick together, don't they? And when a brother betrays you, you don't stand for it, do you?"

"No," Claude said.

"So who's with me?" Warren said.

Claude and Darezzo called out their allegiance, but the others simply nodded or shrugged. People collected their trash, picked up their appraisal sheets, and as a group returned to work.

### Chapter 11

When Nick returned from lunch that afternoon, he found the contents of his locker strewn about the far corner of the stores department. Two pieces of padlock lay at the foot of the locker. Pictures of his family had been torn to little pieces. His can of shaving cream sat on the wooden bench, crushed, its contents sprayed over the other stuff in his locker. The leather of a foamed-up baseball glove had been cut, and a broken gold chain hung from a hook on the back wall of the locker. A pair of snips, apparently those used to cut the lock, baseball glove, and chain, were jammed like a spike through the locker's thin metal door.

As Schulke surveyed the scene with Nick, his lip tightened. With a hard tug he pulled the snips from the locker door, raised them as if to slam them to the floor, and gently lowered them to the bench as the muscles in his arms relaxed.

"Mr. Clarke will hear about this," Schulke said. "Rest assured, Nick, I won't let this go."

Nick nodded, and Schulke put a hand on his shoulder. Nick bent down, picked up the baseball glove, and shook loose some of the white stuffing. "Got this from my dad my freshman year in high school," he said. "Lot of outs recorded by this baby. Sort of hate to lose it. Not like this."

"Let's clean up as best we can," Schulke said. "Then I want you to go home. I'll grant you the personal time so you don't have to use vacation."

"Thanks, Tom."

"Don't mention it. And I'll find out who did this and deal with him."

They put the contents of the locker into a garbage bag and wiped away the shaving cream with a rag. When they finished, Schulke slapped Nick once on the back and shook his hand.

"See you soon," Schulke said.

Nick said good-bye. With the bag slung over his shoulder he walked toward the bays, nodding at Scotty as he passed. As he approached the dock, Darezzo, Claude, and Warren turned their backs to him. Nick walked past them, then stopped, turned about, and stepped up to Claude and Warren, who still faced the other direction and didn't sense his approach. He leaned in close, nearly brushing their backs with his shoulder.

"Don't fuck up," he whispered. "The first time you load a truck with an inch less wire than I order, I'm dropping the hammer hard, you dig? See you round, assholes."

#

In the human resources department, Schulke sat in a chair next to a closed door like a child sent to the principal's office. Although he could hear a television in the office behind the door, he'd been told the manager of human resources, G. Morris Clarke, was busy and had left instructions not to be disturbed. After a half hour, Schulke went to the cafeteria and got a soda. When he returned to the chair, he sat for another twenty minutes before the door opened and a fortyish woman, Brianna Mickleson, emerged. She passed Schulke without looking at him, and walked straight for the department secretary.

"This was great," she said in a low voice, handing the secretary a videotape. "Now I'd better get back to work."

Brianna ducked into her office, which had a glass front, and the secretary dialed the boss.

"Mr. Clarke?" she said. "Tom Schulke to see you. Should I send him in?" After a pause, she nodded to Schulke to go in.

Nobody at the company knew what the "G" in G. Morris Clarke stood for, but everyone figured it had to be something hideous for Clarke to opt for Morris. Clarke stood 5-7, with a pot belly and a graying beard that came in so sparsely he had to grow it extra long to cover the thinner areas. Like Schulke, Clarke was bald, but unlike Schulke, whose white head receded smoothly, Clarke had a bulbous cranium that pushed forward above his eyebrows, as if half a football helmet had been inserted beneath the skin. His scalp also had a tint of birthmark purple.

Two years earlier, the manager of auxiliary services—telecom-munications, stores, and the garage—resigned, but rather than replace him, the company pocketed his salary and redrew the organization chart so the line from auxiliary services rose to Clarke. At first, Clarke was more than happy to let Feeney and his operations team handle the day-to-day issues in auxiliary services, but when Clarke saw Feeney use the new authority to wrangle a louder voice in company discussions, Clarke went to Munson and cried foul. Munson stood behind his human resource manager, and cautioned his operations manager to be more careful in the future about overstepping his bounds.

Clarke walked behind his large oak desk and sat in his maroon high-backed leather chair.

"What is it, Tom?" he said, waving Schulke to sit. "And keep it quick. I've got a meeting in ten minutes."

"Incident with Nick Dubois," Schulke said. "The union guys broke into his locker and ruined what was there. They cut up a baseball glove he had since high school and a bunch of workout clothes he kept inside. They also ruined a cross he had on a chain. They're trying to send a message to Nick, Mr. Clarke, and I think we need to respond with a strong message of our own."

"Do you know who did it?"

"I have a few suspects," Schulke said. "That sort of stunt isn't Frank Dombrowski's style, or Scotty Williams's, or John Carrollton's. I'd guess it was Warren Taylor, Dave Darezzo, or Claude Amognes, if not all three."

"What did those guys have to say for themselves?" Clarke said.

Schulke stared across the desk. He broke into a smile and started to speak, then thought better of it and changed to a serious expression. "I haven't asked them about it yet," he said. "I guess I should have, but I figured they'd just deny it anyway, so I came up with something else."

"A denial can tell you a lot," Clarke said, "so don't be so quick to dismiss them. But go ahead, what's your something else?"

"Well you know we've been losing wire," Schulke said. "I thought maybe we could install a system of cameras in stores like we have in the parking lots and at the front gate. That way, the next time something like this happens, we can check the tape to see who did it. The cameras would also serve as a deterrent, you know, that once everyone knew they were there whoever's been stealing the wire will wise up."

Clarke stroked his beard.

"I know cameras are expensive," Schulke said, "but I think it's the right way to go."

"How's the recycling account looking?"

"It's ahead of where we expected it to be at this point," Schulke said, "but I had that money earmarked for another computer. Right now the invoices are stacking up because we're short a terminal."

Clarke reached across his desk and pulled a pad toward him. With a felt-tipped pen, he signed his name on the top two sheets of the pad, tore them off, and handed them to Schulke.

"I don't have time for this," Clarke said. "Fill in the numbers to order four cameras. Have building maintenance set them up when they arrive —check that, have Jeb buy them from someone local, so we don't have to wait for them to be shipped. When you get back to stores, figure out where you want each camera to go and let Jeb know. Use the second sheet to request two computers from information services. Tell them I want the computers installed after everyone leaves tonight. Tomorrow you give your crew hell, and let them know you've spoken to me. Do your best to put the fear of god into them, and if anyone tips off who trashed Nick's locker, let me know."

Clarke checked his watch. "I gotta go."

### Chapter 12

The next morning, Schulke arrived late. He walked across the parking lot into an unoccupied bay, climbed to the cement landing, and told Scotty to gather everyone for a department meeting.

It was 10:15, long past the morning rush, well before lunch, and slower than usual because there'd been no deliveries.

The stores department rarely held impromptu meetings. The men attended monthly safety meetings, and occasional company-wide meetings, but those took place in the auditorium on the third floor of the main building. Warren and Elton dragged the chairs from the office and sat down. Scotty took a seat and saved the fourth for Frank. John settled in on a pile of boxes, and Darezzo parked his forklift near the office and stayed right in his seat. Claude folded his arms and leaned against the trash compactor.

"What's this about?" Scotty said.

"Let's wait until Frank gets here," Schulke said. "Some things around here have to change."

"Elton's underwear, for starters," Darezzo said.

The men laughed, and a smiling Elton flipped a casual middle finger over his shoulder toward the forklift.

Frank unhitched himself from the cockpit and climbed down the ladder. In a moment he appeared around the corner of the office and sat in the empty chair.

"As many of you know," Schulke said, "yesterday some individual or group of individuals broke into Nick's locker and destroyed the contents. I assume this act of vandalism has something to do with Nick's promotion to supervisor in overhead lines, though that promotion has not yet been announced officially."

"He scabbed us like you, eh Mr. Schulke, sir?" Claude said.

Schulke glared at Claude. "Clever, Claude. But not so smart. Just like the people who broke into Nick's locker, not so smart. I have a good idea who did this, and believe me, those involved are going to pay, and pay big."

"Hey boss," Frank said, "lighten up. This shit's been going on for fifty years. Nobody's been hurt."

"Our reputation's been hurt," Schulke said, "and a reputation is an important thing. People in this company think we're a bunch of goof-offs, and aside from the mailroom everyone thinks the stockroom is the cushiest place at Rhode Island Electric."

Everyone tried to stifle their laughs.

"We're going to change that reputation," Schulke said. "Our function is important, and we will work hard to carry it out. After yesterday's incident I paid a visit to human resources, where Mr. Clarke authorized a number of very important changes to our department."

He turned his gaze from the middle of the group to Claude at the compactor. "I don't want the sloppy efforts or reckless acts of a few to ruin the reputation of the department as a whole."

Claude smirked. Scotty and Frank looked over their shoulders to Claude, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged. Scotty and Frank turned back toward the boss.

"First," Schulke said, "you may have noticed the two new computers in the office."

"What computers?" Darezzo said.

"The new computers that information services installed last night."

"Oh, the ones the unicorns are using."

Schulke marched past the seated group, confirmed the absence of the new computers, and marched back before the group.

"That's information services for you," he said. "Anyway, the computers will be arriving soon, and everyone will be required to use them."

"Aw boss," Frank said, "even me?"

"Even you."

"You will all receive e-mail addresses," Schulke continued. "If you have questions about an order, or about any stockroom-related issues, you can e-mail the correct supervisor and get your answer. During down time, more people will be able to enter things into the system so the paperwork doesn't stack up. If you find yourself with nothing to do, grab a pile of papers and get cracking. The goal is to use the computers to help us attain one hundred percent accuracy in everything we do."

Darezzo put a fist to his mouth and snorted, and his union brothers laughed. Schulke ignored them.

"Second," Schulke said, "hard hats will be worn by all members of the department when the crane is in operation. Anyone walking with a bare head will be subject to discipline."

Although Schulke was the only bald member of the department, nobody followed up his straight line.

"Third, the time rack is to be cleaned out. Get rid of those betting slips, and put those work orders where they belong so they can be entered. Scotty, I'm putting you in charge of seeing the rack stays in good order."

"Ok, boss," Scotty said.

"Fourth," Schulke said, "I'm sure you're aware that there have been thefts of company wire from out in the yard. Nobody is accusing any of you of stealing anything, but, naturally, any time something is stolen it reflects poorly on us. In the next few days, maintenance is installing a network of cameras to survey everything in the department and as much of the storage yard as possible."

Schulke stepped from the front of the group and moved in among them. He pointed to the high ceiling above the bays.

"They'll put two cameras up there," he said, "one to look through the windows to watch the yard and another to cover the bay area. There will be two other cameras installed in the middle of the department, one to watch the transformers and regulators, and another to monitor the exit to the roof."

Frank, Scotty, and Warren glanced over to Claude. The nest was exposed. Schulke paused, and fought off a smile. He returned to the front of the group.

"Gentlemen," he said softly, "as a onetime member of the union, I know the attitude that can infect you if you aren't careful. 'I can do what I want and the union will protect me,' is how some of you feel. I've been in your shoes. But, gentlemen, I also know it doesn't have to be that way. This isn't about the union. This is about pride in what we do. We don't have much pride now, but we're going to get it, and soon. Mr. Clarke and I will take whatever steps necessary to restore the reputation of this department. If there needs to be a brief turbulent period where we weed out the slackers from the real workers and the rabble rousers from those of you who are decent people, then so be it. But in the end, we are going to have a department of people who are competent, who are honest, who work hard, and who give every one of us a good name. And that's the way it is going to be."

Schulke reached into his satchel and removed a piece of paper. He dragged a medium-sized box to the front of the group, flipped it over, and sat down.

"Now," Schulke said, "a minute ago I said I had a good idea who destroyed Nick's locker yesterday. I don't think I'll name any names—not yet, anyway—but perhaps if we take a close look at the company record we'll see something that will shed some light on our vandalizers. Let's take a moment to review the positive discipline status of each person in the department."

"Hold on there, chief," John said. "Those are confidential, aren't they?"

"Confidential?" Schulke said. "You mean like performance appraisals are confidential?"

"Tom, you shouldn't read anything to do with positive discipline," Scotty said.

"Too bad," Schulke said. "Warren Taylor, oral warning for attendance. Dave Darezzo, oral warning for performance. Claude Amognes. Written warning for attendance, written warning for conduct, written warning for performance."

Claude leaned back against the compactor and scowled. He felt everyone's eyes upon him but looked at no one but Schulke.

"I didn't break no locker," Claude said.

"I never said you did," Schulke replied. "I simply read from the record. The union knows about each positive discipline incident, I believe, so I didn't reveal any secrets. I just read a complete, accurate account of what's on file. It was complete, wasn't it? I trust I didn't miss anyone, did I?"

"You missed me," Frank said in a loud voice as he stood up.

"You don't have any warnings," Schulke said.

"I know, but I'm gonna earn myself one right now."

Claude stood straight, and the others froze to listen to Frank.

"I don't like you singling out Bugsy and blaming him for everything that's wrong in this department," Frank said. "He don't make things easy for you, but you don't make things easy for him neither. You could do a lot better in terms of smoothing things out, and I'm telling you a good supervisor would try that direction before going all out to get one of his employees fired." "This isn't the place for this discussion," Schulke said.

"Well it wasn't the place to read Bugsy's warnings, but that didn't stop you. You got some nerve saying you came from the union and you're really one of us. Where the hell do you get off? When we need a boss, you're in some damn meeting, and when we need a buddy, you're too busy pretending to run the department to even notice. You're not one of us. You're a stinking turncoat, and that's not a whisper behind your back, Tom. I'm saying it loud so you can hear it straight from the horse's mouth."

"I don't see a point to any of this," Schulke yelled as he rose from the box.

"Well here it is, then: You want a department that works together and looks out for each other, and you're going to get it, but not that rah-rah shit you were peddling a minute ago. We're going to look out for our own, us against them, and you don't gotta be no brain surgeon to know us don't include you. Bugsy is going to stay clean for a full year until his warnings clear, and we're going to help make sure it happens. And let me tell you, if you're planning to boot his ass out the door, you'd better get him with something major, because if you try to bust him out of here on some trumped-up, Mickey Mouse charges, you're going to have a fight on your hands from Local 7917."

It was Schulke's turn to speak, but he didn't know what to say. He opted for diplomacy.

"I'm certainly not out to get anyone," he said. "It is my hope that all the warnings I listed will clear, and that in the future there will be no warnings of any kind for the members of our department."

He dropped his chin low and looked at the men from the tops of his eyes.

"But if rules are not followed, and production is not up to speed, then there will be repercussions for the individuals involved, whether it pleases the union or not. That is the way it is going to be. Meeting adjourned. Back to work."

Schulke lifted his satchel and went into the office. After a collective exhale, the union group lingered for a moment and swapped comments about the meeting. Warren and Darezzo patted Claude on the shoulder and told him to hang in there. John and Elton bypassed Claude and returned to work.

#

By 2:30, when the trucks began rolling in, word was around. Claude became a mini-celebrity, interviewed by each new person he encountered. He explained that being who he is, he's just come to expect management coming after him. He said his dad would have been proud of the way the guys stuck together while Schulke was on the attack. He told people it was now clear that Schulke had been plotting against him. Because of it, he said, he had a real good chance of getting his warnings rescinded, a real good chance.

Across the department, Scotty briefed Junior on the day's events while Elton unloaded refuse from truck 317.

"I'm worried about Bugsy," Scotty said. "He's got writtens across the board now, and Schulke's waiting for him with the noose. I wish I thought Bugsy could go a whole year without screwing up, but I don't think he can. I think his days are numbered."

"You're making too much out of this," Junior said. "Bugsy doesn't have to stay clean for a year, he only has to watch his performance for a year. His conduct warning should clear in a few months, and the other one a month or two after that. Don't worry, the union's not going to let him get fired."

"I don't know," Scotty said. "Shepard's not exactly Bugsy's best pal. And what about the cameras? Bugsy's the only one of us who hangs out in the nest. I mean, we usually can't get a budget for staplers, and now they spend a grand or two for cameras? If that's not a sign they're out to get him, I don't know what is."

"Trust me, man, you're paranoid. Nobody gives a shit about money around here. We waste it on whatever we want, then go to the legislature and cry that we need another rate hike. You know that."

"True."

"And we've definitely had thefts from the yard," Junior said. "Everyone knows that. I don't think the cameras have anything to do with Bugsy, I think management's just sick of losing wire right from under its nose and is pissed off they don't know who trashed Nick's locker. Plus, I mean, if you know Bugsy's taking naps in the nest when he should be working, why install a camera? Just charge up the stairs the next time he's missing and catch him red-handed."

Scotty conceded the point, and Elton finished unloading the truck as Jeff appeared with the next day's work order. Jeff handed the paper to Junior and said he'd be right back.

"I just think it was strange that Schulke read Claude's warnings," Scotty said.

"Nah," Junior said. "Those two have been battling forever. It's nothing. Don't you think so, Mac?"

"I think Schulke's an idiot," Elton said. "He had the traps laid. If he keeps his cards close to his vest, all he has to do is wait for Bugsy to trip himself up. But instead, he tips Bugsy off. How dumb is that?"

"Sounds like you want Bugsy to get trapped," Junior said.

"Couldn't happen to a nicer guy," Elton said. "I bust my butt all day, and that bum has seniority over me? He's a total goof-off, and the ten minutes a day he isn't a goof-off he's a total fuck-up. Good riddance is what I say, and don't think I'm the only one with that opinion."

"Hey Elton," Scotty said. "Can you get the spools of 477? Junior and I will load the rest."

Elton agreed, and took a flatbed dolly over to the shelves of wire. Junior recognized the ruse.

"Elton's an ass," Junior said.

"Not everyone's in Bugsy's corner," Scotty said. "I think that's part of the reason Frank stood up today. Sure, he wanted Schulke to hear what he had to say, but I think he was sending a message to the other guys too, telling them, hey, don't go undermining Bugsy unless you want to deal with me. I tell you Frank sure sounded good, and I think Schulke bought the whole thing."

"I wish I'd been there."

"Actually, it was even better when he was telling me about it at lunch. Typical Frank. In one breath he's telling me how he beats Schulke, and in the next he's telling me how he'd have beaten himself if he were Schulke. Said if he was Schulke, he'd have said, 'Oh yeah, Dombrowski? All right then, let's see some brotherhood. All those who support Claude Amognes one hundred percent, step over here. All those who want me to can him this minute, step over there.'"

"Ouch," Junior said.

"I know," Scotty said.

"Well," Junior said, "I like Bugsy, and I hope everything turns out all right for him."

"Me too," Scotty said.

#

A little after 4 p.m., with everyone in the department gone, Schulke flipped the switch to bring down the bay doors. He left through the side exit, using his key to lower the metal grate, and took the elevator up to human resources.

The department seemed empty. Schulke wandered toward Clarke's office and put an ear to the door. When he heard laughter behind it, he knocked.

"Who is it?" Clarke called.

"Tom Schulke."

Twenty seconds passed before Clarke opened the door and ushered Schulke in. Brianna Mickleson sat in one of the three chairs opposite Clarke's desk, her legs crossed and a smirk reigning on her face. She had black hair, cropped short, and fingernails trimmed like a man's. She wore black slacks, shoes without heels, and a light green sweater, and although married with three children, she didn't wear a wedding ring. Officially, Mickleson handled benefits, just one rep among several in human resources, but everyone knew she had Clarke's confidence like no one else, and as a result served as de facto number two in the department despite her relatively young age and obvious lack of attributes. She certainly wasn't bright—union leaders took to calling her "the idiot" behind her back, and it wasn't long before members of management followed suit—she had no people skills, and although trim she wasn't all that pretty, which wasn't supposed to be a factor in anyone's rise to power but in truth never hurt any ambitious young woman at Rhode Island Electric. She did, however, know benefits, and she was, everyone assumed, one heck of a behind-your-back politicker. What she lacked in brains she made up in mean.

Clarke sat in his maroon chair and motioned Schulke to sit too.

"Make it fast," Clarke said. "Our health plan just sent an incorrect mailing to all our employees, wrong co-pays, wrong deductibles, wrong everything. The union is bullshit. They negotiated five dollar co-pays, and think we're doing this on purpose. Just what I need."

Clarke flung both his hands in the air, then laid an arm across his middle and touched the knuckles of his other hand to his lips. "Now what do you got?"

"My meeting with the union guys," Schulke said. "You know, Nick's locker?"

"Ok," Clarke said. "Shoot."

"Well everything was going well," Schulke said, "but then Frank Dombrowski stood up and undercut the whole thing. He said he didn't like me singling out Claude Amognes, and that he and the other members of the union were going to support Claude and see that he doesn't get fired."

Clarke looked at Mickleson. Mickleson shrugged. They both looked back to Schulke.

"This is what you got?" Clarke said. "Frank Dombrowski spoke out, and you're scrambling to me for a there-there?"

"Well, Mr. Clarke, I...I just want to know what you want me to do."

"I want you to keep this off my desk, Tom, that's what I want you to do. Settle it however you can, but don't let it turn into a union issue. I've got the union screaming about health care. I've got the union screaming about Gino Carbone. Please, I don't need them screaming about anything else. I gave you the cameras, I gave you the computers. I expect the cameras and computers to resolve your issues. Good night."

Schulke didn't stand immediately, but neither Clarke nor Mickleson spoke, so he rose to leave. When he did, he heard Mickleson whisper "tell him about Gino."

"Oh yeah, Tom," Clarke said. "Wait a minute."

Schulke held the doorknob and turned around.

"About Gino," Clarke said. "The union filed a grievance over his termination, and our lawyers think the arbiter will rule in his favor. Feeney won't take him back, so if he wins the grievance, I'm putting him with you."

"With me? That asshole?"

"Feeney doesn't want him."

"Neither do I."

"Look," Clarke said, "with Dubois going to management, you've got an open spot. Because of what Gino did, we think we're on solid ground if we argue he can't ever work with electricity again. But the union's never gonna go for assigning him to meter reading or customer service, where he'd have to take a ten-dollar-an-hour cut in pay. With you, he'd only lose three bucks an hour. That's reasonable. Gino gets a little bit of a financial punishment—not to mention the embarrassment of going from the line department to stores—but he gets his job back, so he's happy. Shepard's happy. Feeney's happy. I'm happy. If the union wins the grievance, that's the way we're gonna go."

Schulke walked out. Instead of slamming the door like he wanted to, Schulke left it wide open.

### Chapter 13

As usual, Claude arrived home to an empty house. He took off his boots in the doorway, selected a beer from the fridge, and lit a cigarette. He walked to the family room and turned on the television.

Claude had no interest in watching the tube, however. He really wanted to talk about what happened at work. Jamie would be home from practice soon, but it wasn't a topic he wished to discuss with her. He could call one of the guys from work, but he'd already heard what most of them had to say, and besides, none were likely to give him the fresh perspective he sought.

He thought about his father. What advice would his father give? Claude could picture him.

"Schulke," Jackie would say with a shake of his head. "Typical kraut, doing what he's told without the slightest idea what the hell it is. You shoulda listened to me and avoided that department altogether, become a janitor until you could pass the test and go on to line school. Management always puts its washouts in stores. Where else can they put them? You can't put them where somebody could get electrocuted, and you can't put them someplace important, like customer service. It's the mailroom or stores. I told Munson to his face to toss that bastard Schulke on the scrap heap, to his face! But he didn't listen. He never listened, not to anyone who knew what the Christ was going on, anyway, just to those snotheads, half of 'em sons of golf buddies, who thought they knew everything about handling a workforce because one time they chewed out a maid for doing a sloppy job with the good silver."

Claude looked over to a framed photo of his parents, taken by Jamie a few months before Jackie's death. Jamie clicked the shutter just as Jackie's eyes met Gail's, before the anger in his face had subsided, before he'd read the calm warning—in the face of his wife and in the touch of her hand on his arm—that it was time to step back from whatever argument he was pursuing. But as Claude stared at the photo, the second part of Jackie's advice, the part about how to outmaneuver Schulke, the part he needed now, never came.

As Claude sat in his recliner looking at television, an unformed thought discomforted him. That he couldn't grasp it and verbalize it didn't matter, because if he ever did he would deny it anyway, but the fact he did not have a best friend nagged his soul. As a youth, he had many. When for whatever reason one partner-in-crime drifted away, another soon emerged to replace him. But in his twenties, and particularly after he married, Claude found it increasingly difficult to meet people who shared his viewpoint and forge lasting bonds with them. He had friends, to be sure, but the relationships seemed limited to certain situations—work, fishing, softball, drinking—and strained when carried beyond their frames of reference.

By default Joan filled the role of primary confidant.

Trouble was, Claude didn't share real problems with her very often. For years he had his father. For a period he had no one.

After all, Joan was a wife, not a friend. In the early years of their marriage, Claude treated Joan like his father treated his mother. A husband had authority over all household decisions, though he could cede some if he desired, and the wife held a job or didn't hold a job as he commanded. A husband didn't cook, except to barbecue, and didn't clean. He handled all carpentry, auto repair, exterior painting, and snow removal, and until he had teenage children also mowed the lawn and took out the garbage. A wife confided in her husband and sought his advice, but a husband was not obliged to reciprocate.

In the early years, Claude played his father well enough, but Joan didn't fare so well as his mother. Although they had traits in common, Gail had intellectual and social abilities beyond Joan's reach, and perhaps because of her abilities, Gail possessed a quiet confidence that helped her maintain a positive, level-headed demeanor even in the face of Jackie's orotundity. Claude found this quality conspicuously absent in Joan.

Claude wouldn't call himself a thinker, but he did believe there was a learning element to relationships, and thought the fact he never had a serious girlfriend before Joan—nor Joan a real boyfriend before him—played a hand in their marriage. Some people develop good relationships only after a string of failures. With each new partner, the mistakes of the past are erased, while the successes are carried over. But with Joan, mistakes weren't erased, they lingered in the haze of history, sometimes a sheath of verbal arrows Joan could fire into Claude to win an argument, sometimes a collection of mental stuffed animals to hold close when the argument was lost and Joan was all alone.

From the picture of Jackie, Claude's eyes meandered over to the clock. Jamie would be home soon. He wouldn't say a word. He shook his head to confirm his plan, and heard the front door open and Jamie call hello. Jamie entered the family room and punched her father in the shoulder.

"What's up?" she said.

"Not much. How was school?" "Same old. Whatcha watching?"

He tossed her the remote control. "Your call."

Jamie tossed it back. "I've got homework to do. Let me go change, then we can play one game of cribbage, then back upstairs I go."

"All right," Claude said. "After supper, you want to go to the video store with me and pick out a video?"

"No can do," Jamie said. "Mega-homework."

She went to change. From the pace of her feet on the stairs, Claude decided she wasn't carrying many books, and therefore couldn't have as much homework as she believed. He concluded they'd be watching a movie after all.

An hour later Joan struggled through the door with two bags of groceries. Jamie rumbled down the stairs to greet her.

"You should've gotten plastic bags," Jamie said. "They're easier to carry."

Joan showed Jamie what to leave out for dinner, then plopped in her chair at the kitchen table as Jamie put the remaining items in the cupboard or refrigerator. Joan kicked off her shoes. One slid toward the garbage pail. The other flipped upside down, leaving an inch-high heel pointing to the ceiling.

"What a day," Joan said. "Must be a full moon."

"A lot of people buying home appliances?" Jamie said.

"It was crazy. 'I want I want I want' is all I heard. One lady wanted a curling iron, and had a newspaper ad that had to be a year old. I kept telling her we don't stock that brand any more—that's why they were on sale to begin with —but she kept telling me her husband cut the ad out for her and told her it was only a few weeks old. I felt like saying, 'Duh, lady, that's what husbands do.' She wanted me to special order one for her at the price in the ad. I said, sorry, I can't do it, so she threw a screaming fit right there in the middle of the department. In front of everyone."

"What did you do?"

"I waited for Mr. Abeles to come over, and let him deal with it."

Joan peeled some potatoes and set them to boil, and tossed four pork chops into a big frying pan on the stove. Jamie set the table, then opened a can of peas and put them in the microwave. She poured lemonade for herself and her mother, and placed an unopened beer near her father's plate.

A few minutes later, Joan called Claude to eat. The three sat down at the table in the small kitchen.

"How was your day?" Joan said to her husband.

"Good day," Claude said with a mouth full of pork chop. "Schulke tried to drop the hammer, and us union guys shoved it right back in his face."

"What do you mean?" Joan said.

Claude swallowed, and loaded his fork with mashed potato.

"Schulke read my warnings to everyone in the group, and told us a couple of new rules that were obviously meant for me."

Joan stopped eating. "What do you mean meant for you? Are you in trouble? Are they going to get rid of you?"

"They're not going to get rid of me. Jesus, woman. That's what all this is about."

Jamie looked down at her plate. Joan sipped some lemonade.

"Schulke read my warnings, trying to be all tough and everything. Then Frank stood up and said Schulke had a lot of damn nerve singling me out, when I was as good a worker as anyone in the department, and that he'd better not try to frame me in some Mickey Mouse scheme or the union would see that his ass was busted all the way down to janitor."

"So you're telling me you're in a union again?" Jamie said with a smirk.

"I know," Claude said. "Can you believe it? I'm gonna go see Jim Shepard tomorrow. Schulke admitted he's out to get me, so I think I can get some of my other warnings cleared off the board."

"Oh, that is good news," Joan said.

"Well I'll raise a toast," Jamie said. "Here's to no warning."

The Amognes touched glasses and beer bottles, and finished their supper.

### Chapter 14

Tom Schulke lived in a modest cape in a town called Cranston. The white house had red trim and a red front door, a maple tree in the small front yard, and a black mailbox with a metal guard to protect it from drunken teenagers with baseball bats. A chain-link fence defined the sides of the property, and also the back, but not the front, where a small curb separated the lawn from the street. Paint peels curled from the garage door, exposing the wood beneath it, and blue window boxes held mildewed dirt but no flowers. A cement birdbath lay on its side beneath the maple tree, surrounded by dandelions and uneven, above-the-ankle grass.

Schulke pushed open the front door, laid his jacket and satchel on the rocking chair in the living room, and headed for the bar he built between the kitchen and the dining room. Something smelled good. When he rounded the corner from the living room he saw his wife Winnie unloading white cardboard boxes from a large paper bag as she drank a gin and tonic. On the bar stood a bottle of Scotch and an empty glass.

"Don't mind if I do," Schulke said. "It was some day."

He poured a Scotch and soda, stirred it once, and took a big gulp. Without replacing the cap on the soda bottle, he moved to the other side of the bar and slipped his free hand around Winnie's narrow waist. Neither spilled a drop as they met for a kiss, even though Winnie had to rise to her toes to reach her husband's mouth.

"What made you decide on Chinese?" Schulke said.

"No reason. Don't you want ice in that?"

"Nope. How was your day?"

"Nuts," Winnie said. "The computers snarled up about ten o'clock, and I had five press releases to get out. Then Mr. Lennon came down and said we received a grant to expand the neo-natal unit, so I spent the rest of the day calling around to see if I could get coverage. None of the television stations were interested, which isn't going to go over well when Mr. Lennon sits down to watch the news tonight."

She raised her glass. "Let's hope when that S.O.B. has his first heart attack, he winds up in our emergency room."

Schulke laughed. He touched his glass to hers, took a quick sip of his drink, and sat down with her to eat, spooning generous helpings of pork fried rice and lo mein onto his paper plate, along with seven chicken fingers, but avoiding the broccoli-and-something dish altogether. Winnie loaded her plate, but before beginning went to the bar and mixed herself another drink, replacing the cap on the tonic water bottle but leaving the cap to the soda bottle as it lay. After she settled back in her chair, she noticed her husband staring into his plate as he moved his fork from the food to his mouth and back.

"You all right, dear?" Winnie said. "You look a little blue."

"We had our big locker meeting at work," Schulke said. "Frank Dombrowski stood up and basically told me to shove it right in front of everyone. If it was anyone else I would've hollered right back, but with Frank you can't do that. He knows when he's holding a trump card, and he knew he could say whatever he wanted and his union leaders would back him up, and human resources would back up his union leaders. It sucks. I should be the guy management is backing with shit like this, but it never happens. Someone breaks into a guy's locker, destroys everything in there, destroys the locker itself, and I'm powerless to do anything about it. At a lot of companies, heads would roll after something like this, but Clarke, he won't even investigate."

"Last night you said he gave you new cameras and a computer."

"That doesn't help me now. I went to see him at the end of the day, hoping he'd give me some advice about how to handle the situation, and all I got was 'Tom, keep it off my desk.' Big dope. He's supposed to be the manager of human resources, supposed to know something about dealing with people, and he treats the people beneath him like dirt. He should be working for me, helping me with anything I come to him about, but instead he's just concerned with giving the union whatever it wants and kissing ass upstairs. You know what he said to me today?"

Winnie chewed an oversized forkful of lo mein and swallowed it, then reached for her drink and washed down the remnants. "No, dear, what?"

"He said if Gino Carbone wins his grievance, he's putting him in stores."

"Who's Gino Carbone?"

"Gino's the guy who caused that big explosion. I told you about it."

"Two guys with third-degree burns?"

"That's the one. Well think about it: this fucker ignored every safety rule in the book, caused a flash, mouthed off to the operations manager, and we can't even fire him, he goes to an arbiter and wins his job back. What message does that send to the union? It tells them, don't worry about safety, because the company can't punish you even if you do something wrong. So what happens is the union guys start to strut around, doing all kinds of stupid, unsafe things just to show everyone that they can flaunt the man's rules any time they want, and you watch, someday somebody's going to get killed, and then everyone at the company will run around saying, 'Oh my god, how can this happen? How is something like this possible?' When all the while if they set real standards and stood behind them, accidents wouldn't happen."

Schulke rose to pour another Scotch and soda. He drank half of it, topped it off again and returned to the table.

"So now I'm going to be stuck with Gino," he said.

"What's wrong with that?" Winnie said.

"I don't want him. He's a dink."

"Well speak up."

"It won't do me any good. If he wins his grievance, he's mine. Clarke has to make sure Feeney is happy and the union is happy and Munson is happy. Who cares if Tom Schulke's happy? Shit, I say anything and I'm a nuisance, a big bother. I get all the troublemakers, everyone else's headaches, but not a word of thanks for getting production out of them, getting them to work even a little, and not an ounce of support when one of them gives me lip. It's a pisser."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Call 'em like I see 'em," he said, "just like I always do. Those guys are paid to work, and when they don't, it's my job to chew them out. If I catch them once too often, out they go. Hand them their severance pay, wave good-bye, and wait for the next bum to stroll in, take his place, and start the big charade all over again."

Winnie finished eating and pushed her plate away. Schulke stuffed a full chicken finger in his mouth, and talked as he chewed it.

"Know what else I'm going to do?"

"No," Winnie said. "What?"

"I'm going to knock down another drink and see if I can't get beneath that blouse of yours."

### Chapter 15

The next day Schulke had an off-site, all-morning meeting, so Claude told Scotty he was going to see Jim Shepard and would be back in twenty minutes.

He was back in five. Upon returning, Claude walked straight to a computer and entered invoices.

Scotty was curious, so he called Shepard from the phone near the bays.

"Hi Jim, this is Scotty. Bugsy just got back, and he looks upset. Is everything all right?"

"Fine in my corner," Shepard said. "But Mr. Bugsy may not be too chipper for a while."

"Why? What happened?"

"Nothing happened. That ballsy bastard came over and asked me if I could get his warnings rescinded. He said it was obvious now that Schulke was out to get him, and his warnings were no good."

"So?"

"So I laughed in his face. Those warnings are no good, he says —what dream world is he living in? I told him he's damn lucky he's not already in the unemployment line, and unless he thinks Frank Dombrowski was struck by lightning and is suddenly lord almighty, he ought to keep the lip to a minimum and concentrate on doing his job. You know what he says to me next?"

"No, what?"

"He says, 'Watch it, Jim, the rank and file are behind me on this."

"So what did you say?"

"I didn't say nothing at first. I couldn't believe he was serious. When I saw he was, I said, look, your father's time has come and gone. We don't protect lazy bums anymore, just because they hold one of our union cards. You get a lot from the company, and from the union, and the only thing you owe in return is a good day's work. Guys who give an honest effort, I go to the mat for them. Lazy bums? Hey, if the letter of the law finds, them guilty, then off they go, sayanara, nice knowing you. And as far as the rank and file being behind you? Well, if you mess up again, maybe you're right, maybe a wave of solidarity will burst from the stores department with such power that the company has no choice but to bow down to its awesomeness. But it isn't bloody likely. I think it's more likely that the next time you screw up you'll be trampled by a stampede of brethren running to tell Schulke about it. So make sure you're wearing your hardhat, ok?"

"Harsh."

"Too bad," Shepard said. "I'm not going to be intimidated by Claude Amognes. Besides, he's better off knowing the real score than believing that fantasy tale he sold himself. Isn't that right?"

Scotty agreed, and hung up. He thought it was an opportune time for some friendly support and started toward Claude, but after a few steps he reconsidered, feeling it best not to risk setting Claude off, and instead returned to work and let him be.

After lunch, a shipment of safety equipment lay on the dock waiting to be put away. Claude loaded it onto a flatbed dolly and pulled it beyond the office to the storage cabinets, where small items like goggles and work gloves were kept. He worked alone, cataloguing each piece as he removed it from the box, and making sure it went in the correct drawer, in the back, so the older stock would be used first. The bottom drawer of the cabinet held earplugs, and as Claude counted the tiny boxes of earplugs he was about to put there, he heard Frank lean on the warning buzzer.

He looked over his shoulder, and sure enough, there was Schulke, marching toward him at full steam, with his jaw clenched so tight the muscles on the top of his cheekbones twitched.

That's it, Claude thought. God fucking dammit, that's it. I've had it. I'm going to knock his fucking block off, hell be damned. Come on, you fucking bastard. Take a swing at me, 'cause I'm going to knock your goddam fucking pisass shitbrained block off.

Claude dropped a pack of earplugs to the cement floor and climbed to his feet to face Schulke. "I'm working, for Christ's sake!"

Schulke took three more steps, as if he hadn't heard Claude yell, then stopped suddenly. A momentary look of confusion ran across his face. He started forward again, stopped again, and turned to Claude.

"Where the hell's Warren?" he said.

Claude stepped back. "Um, I haven't seen him."

"I know," Schulke shouted. "He's not here. I want to know where the hell he is."

Schulke continued out the back door. Claude fell to the dusty floor and folded his arms over his knees. He felt drained. He sat for a minute and stared, seeing with an unfocused eye the blurs and shadows of the shelves across the aisle. In a minute, he blinked, saw clearly again, and rolled to his hands and knees to fill the bottom shelf with the remaining boxes of earplugs.

#

At home that night, Claude waited up for Joan to return from Bingo, and around 10 o'clock heard her come through the front door and go to the kitchen. He snuck from the family room, crept up behind her, and startled her by sliding his arms around her waist. He pulled her close and kissed the back of her head.

"What's got into you?" she said.

"Nothing. How was Bingo?"

Joan turned to face her husband, who released her, and extracted a $20 bill from the front pocket of her slacks. With a wide grin, she waved it in front of Claude's eyes.

"Twenty big ones," she said. "Tonight I'm the diagonal queen."

They both smiled, and she put the twenty away.

"How'd it go at work?" she said. "Did they wipe away your warnings?"

"No," Claude said, "and they're not going to. I went to see Jim Shepard, and he told me my father's time had come and gone. He said he wasn't going to protect me."

Joan noticed Claude's non-plussed tone. "That's too bad," she said. "You'll have to go a year then, I guess. Can you make it?"

"I think so."

### Chapter 16

When Jamie Amognes and Betty Allen stepped off the city bus at College Square, they still had thirty minutes before they had to report to a Mrs. Ferguson at the state high school softball tournament, where they'd been hired to work the concession stands for the 4 p.m. and 6 p.m. games. Betty wanted a falafel, and tried to convince Jamie to get one too, but Jamie declined and said she'd meet Betty at the softball stadium in half an hour.

Betty started the three-block journey to the falafel stand, while Jamie walked to an intersection and headed down Adams Street. As she went she paused to look in the display windows of a vintage clothing store, a skateboard shop, an internet cafe, and the College Square Compact Disc Emporium, but didn't linger long at any of the four. A few blocks later the small shops and student hangouts gave way to a residential neighborhood in which the city's oldest buildings had been preserved in near-Colonial form. The way narrowed and changed from pavement to cobblestone. Thin trees, spaced evenly along the sidewalk on both sides of the street, provided shade, and the wooden houses, modest today but glorious in their time, each had a historical marker by the front door indicating the year the house was built, the first owner, and which famous people, if any, had lived there throughout the years. A house built in 1671 flew an American flag with thirteen stars. Seven doors down on the opposite side of the street a house built in 1722 flew the white anchor and hope flag of Rhode Island. At the end of the stretch of Colonial homes, Jamie turned left and entered the small art district, pausing to check out the student sculptures adorning the telephone poles, a wire pegasus here, a sheet-metal African mask there. On the side of a brick seven story building, neon lights formed the shape of a person standing on the ledge of a fourth-story window. When the lights of the shape on the fourth story clicked off, another set of lights, a floor lower, showed the outline of a person in a swan dive. The animated sequence continued until the form hit the street (complete with splat rays), rebounded in tuck position as if coming off a trampoline, and concluded with the resurrected figure standing tall on a third-story landing with arms raised in Olympic-like glory. The lights on the final figure held for thirty seconds, then the entire display went dark, and the falling sequence began again.

Jamie checked her watch and saw she had to be at the stadium in fifteen minutes. She turned and started back up the hill toward the oldest part of campus, walking quickly, passing the museums and faculty buildings without a second look. When she reached the summit of the hill, however, she stopped and pressed her face against the black iron gate she'd heard opened only twice each year, once to let the new freshmen in and once to let the graduating seniors out. Beyond the gates lay a well-manicured quad, lined by brick buildings that indeed had patches of ivy on their walls, though not many, a quad dotted with people reading alone on blankets or talking in small groups even though the bulk of the student body had left for the summer. A young man looked up from his book, caught Jamie's eye, and smiled before returning to his reading. Jamie smiled back, but wasn't sure the young man had seen it, so she remained in the same position, hands gripping the gate high over her head, cheeks against the cool iron, until she realized what she must look like to someone inside and stepped back. She chuckled to herself and resumed her trek to the stadium, but after five steps stopped, returned to the gate, and spent a few more seconds watching the activity on the quad. At last, she turned and scurried toward the softball field.

At the stadium, Mrs. Ferguson handed Jamie and Betty their cash drawers and stood by until they'd counted the money to make sure it matched the figure taped on the side.

"You girls think West will make the tourney next year?" Mrs. Ferguson said.

"Doubtful," Betty said. "My drawer is good."

"Mine too," Jamie said.

"I'll be in the press box if you need me," Mrs. Ferguson said. "I'll come back near the end of the second game to help you cash out and give you your money."

From the little wooden hut that served as concession stand, neither Jamie nor Betty could see the field, but they followed the score by listening for the between-inning updates over the public address system. Although the stand had a grill, a popcorn popper, a coffeemaker, and a hot dog boiler, Mrs. Ferguson expected a small crowd and decided not to use them, leaving Jamie and Betty the fairly simple task of dispensing canned soda, candy bars, and bags of potato chips. By the fifth inning of the first game, they'd only had six customers.

"This is a pretty easy gig," Betty said. "Who worked it with you last year?"

"Jenna," Jamie said. "She ate more than we sold."

"Can you believe in two more weeks we're going to be done with finals?" Betty said. "And then we'll be seniors. Seniors in high school. Have you finished Mr. Anderson's project yet?"

"I haven't even started."

"Who are you going to interview?"

"I'm going to interview a friend of my aunt's who works at a bank," Jamie said. "Then I'm going to interview a woman from my mom's department store, then I'm going to interview my dad."

"Your dad?"

"Sure, Mr. Anderson said we could interview one relative."

"I know," Betty said, "but it's a project about work. Your dad hates his job."

Jamie hopped up and sat on the counter. "It's either that or some stranger. Besides, it's not like I have to make any of it up myself. I just have to ask the questions and write what he says. If he says anything embarrassing, I'll leave it out. Mr. Anderson's not going to sit there with the tape and read along word for word."

"He might, you know. Don't forget, he wants one of us to be the next Stud Terkle."

Jamie and Betty both laughed.

"The gayest teacher on the faculty," Betty said, "and his favorite writer is a guy named Stud. Or Studs. Whatever. Stud this and Stud that. I wish he could stop looking at Jimmy Rosen for five seconds whenever he talks about Stud."

Another wave of laughter overtook the two girls until someone approached the stand and they had to reign in their giggles. For the rest of the evening, they chatted around the intermittent customers. In the sixth inning of the second game, Mrs. Ferguson showed up, counted their money with them, checked the stock, and paid them for their four hours of work. As Mrs. Ferguson locked the little hut, Betty's father ambled around the corner to take them home.

#

The following Saturday a June breeze rocked Claude in his hammock. Although he'd thought about going fishing, Jamie said she needed to do her school interview with him that morning so she'd have time to transcribe the tape and finish the paper before deadline. Late the previous night, though, Manny Vazquez called to ask Jamie if she'd be willing to watch three year-old Valeria and ten month-old Bernardo while he took his wife to brunch for her birthday. The Vazquezes, who lived down the street from the Amognes, paid better than any of Jamie's other babysitting clients, so Jamie rarely said no when they asked her, but their generosity had a flip side, because they felt as long as they were willing to pay—and they always were—there was never a need to hustle home. Most of the time Jamie didn't mind, because once the kids fell asleep she felt the Vazquezes were paying her to just to stay awake and watch television, but this day she wished they were slightly less affluent and a lot more concerned about cost overruns with the babysitter.

Claude swayed in the hammock and watched the clouds meander through the blue sky. He wondered if clouds always travel in the same direction, and first decided it couldn't be so, but then figured they must at least flow the same way on the same day, since he couldn't ever remember seeing a cloud float overhead, stop, and reverse direction, and wondered if, in the history of the world, it had ever happened, but then, after considering the puzzle in those terms, changed his mind and decided it happens every time the wind blows in a different direction, which it does frequently, meaning clouds do move in one direction and then about face, even though he couldn't recall seeing it in person. For the next twenty minutes, he searched the sky for backtracking clouds. He didn't find any.

He looked over to his wife. How was she passing the time? There she sat at the picnic table, not reading, not listening to music, not anything. Was she daydreaming? It didn't seem so, Claude thought, but she had to be. She had to be.

Claude put his hands under the back of his head and cued up his favorite daydream. In it, he wins 100 million dollars. He and Jamie live on a sunny island, and he has beautiful blondes all around him, and handsome men court Jamie, but she's not interested in any of them, and every time Joan's image pops into the reverie, he starts a sequence leading to her death in a car crash, poor thing, and sees himself crying over her grave, but tells himself life must go on and in the next scene is back to guilt-free partying with scantily-clad blondes.

At noon the portable phone rang and Joan answered it. She rose from the picnic table and walked toward Claude.

"It's Jamie," she said.

Jamie explained to her father that while the Vazquezes were eating at the restaurant, someone smashed into their car in the parking lot. The damage wasn't too bad, but a police report had to be filed, the car had to be towed to an auto body shop, and a new car had to be rented, so the Vazquezes didn't expect to be home until around two. Jamie apologized and said she'd be home as soon as she could.

"That's ok, Princess," Claude said. "But if Vazquez calls again, tell him to quit the dillying and get everything straightened out. I've got an important interview to give to the world."

Jamie laughed. Claude clicked the off button and tossed the phone to the ground before returning his attention to the sky.

#

At 2:30 Jamie strode around the corner of the house and called hello to her parents. With a big smile, Joan jumped up and rushed her daughter for a hug. Claude, who'd fallen asleep in the hammock, lifted the cap from his eyes. As he disentangled himself from the netting, he slipped in a puddle of spilled beer and kicked the small pile of empty cans beneath the hammock.

"Hi Princess," he said in a groggy near-whisper.

"Hi daddy," Jamie said. "Ready for our interview?"

"I reckon."

"Let me run upstairs and get my notes and the tape recorder," Jamie said. "I'll meet you in the family room."

"Are you hungry, dear?" Joan said.

"No," Jamie said. "I ate."

"I'll have a sandwich," Claude said. "What have you got?"

"Turkey, roast beef, ham. Peanut butter and jelly."

"Roast beef," Claude said.

"Coming up."

When Jamie shuffled into the family room, she dropped to her hands and knees and plugged the old-fashioned portable tape recorder into the open outlet beneath the table. She hit the play button to see if the tape moved, and it did, so she clicked it off and climbed to her feet. Claude slapped a deck of cards onto the table.

"Cut 'em and I'll deal," he said.

"Not now, daddy. I've got to get this interview done."

"Aw, come on, one game won't hurt. We've got all night."

"It takes forever to transcribe a half hour tape."

"So transcribe half of it."

Claude began to deal.

"Look, I lost half the day because of the Vazquezes," Jamie said. "I'm not playing cards. I want to get this interview done so I can get to work on the paper."

"Work, shmurk," Claude said. "One game."

Joan entered the room with Claude's sandwich, a pile of potato chips, and a can of beer. As Joan moved to set the meal down, Jamie reached over and intercepted the can of beer. With her free hand she swept the cards on the table onto the floor, grabbed the remainder of the deck, and set it near the leg of her chair. She stared at Claude, inviting him to make the next move.

"All right," Claude said at last. "The interview."

Jamie asked Joan to leave them alone, and Joan did, announcing she was going to the kitchen to make cranberry bread for Sunday morning. Jamie broke into a smile. Claude forced a corner of his mouth to rise. Jamie pointed a small microphone toward her father.

"Well Mr. Amognes," Jamie said with a grin, "tell me about your first job."

"What do you want to know?"

"What type of job it was it?" she said. "Who was it with? How did you like it?"

Claude gave an exaggerated stroke of his chin. "Ok," he said, "my first job was on the mowing crew of the parks and rec department when I was sixteen. City union."

"How did you like it?"

"It was great. The first week I was there I rode the mower like a devil, cutting one lawn and moving right on to the next. I bet I mowed most of the park myself that first week. Then some old buck pulled me aside and gave me the what-for. Told me it hadn't rained. If it hadn't rained the grass don't grow. If the grass don't grow, you don't mow it. Said come here and have a beer, so that's what I did. When it rained we didn't mow, but the next day we'd mow a little if it wasn't too hot, then do some more the day after and some more the day after that."

"What did your boss think of that?" Jamie said.

"Oh he was a hollerer, he was," Claude said. "The first time he yelled at me I jumped up and ran for my mower like there was no tomorrow. And once he left the guys said if I ever did that again they'd kill me. Let him holler, they said. Because they were seasonal the wait to join the union was only two weeks, and once you were in you had to commit murder to get fired. Literally. Some guys would just lay on the grass, and if the boss told them to do anything, they'd just flip him the bird, they didn't care, he couldn't do nothing. Seven bucks an hour, and back then that was a ton of money. It was great."

"What did you learn from that first job?"

"I learned I love beer."

Jamie smiled, and turned the page on her legal pad. "Let's move on to your next job. That was at Rhode Island Electric, right?"

"Yup, as a meter reader. Good money, good exercise. If a dog growled at you you just maced him."

"That's horrible," Jamie said.

"They get over it. Of course, nowadays meter reading isn't what it used to be. In my day, we had sixty or seventy meter readers, all on the road eight hours a day and sometimes weekends too, but now they're all getting replaced by computers. Now one guy in a truck can drive around all day with some gizmo that reads meters without him even having to stop. It's terrible."

"What's so terrible about it?"

"Well, it's going to wipe a whole job off the face of the earth," Claude said. "No more meter readers. With all the money the company is willing to spend on these fancy meters, they could pay twice the number of meter readers they have now and then some. But you know the worst thing? They're making the current meter readers install the new system throughout the state. It's like making them dig their own grave before executing them. Thanks for helping us get rich; now we're never going to see you again. Goodbye."

Claude chewed a large bite of sandwich and motioned for the unopened beer. Jamie slid it toward him.

"Which is more important," Jamie said, "your company, or your union?"

"Definitely the union," Claude said. "No doubt about it."

"But how can that be?" Jamie said.

"What do you mean?"

"Without the company, there are no jobs. Without jobs, what good is a union?"

Claude gulped a third of his beer, boomed a belch, and wiped his mouth with his backhand.

"You don't need a company to have a union, honey. Lots of unions stand alone. The members go to the union hall, and wherever there's work, that's where they're sent."

Jamie decided not to argue, since the path seem headed in the wrong direction. Mr. Anderson had instructed Jamie's class to avoid freelancing, so each interviewee would cover the same ground, and with that in mind Jamie returned to the questions written on the pad.

"In your current job, what's a perfect day?" she said.

"No boss, no deliveries, no work."

As she learned in class, Jamie remained silent to encourage the interviewee to continue speaking. He didn't.

"Ok, then," she said, "what was your most satisfying moment at your current job?"

Again Claude stroked his chin. "When the company put in a new payroll system and confused my social security number with one of the vice-presidents'. My pay was three times what it should have been, and it took them two weeks to notice. They tried to get the money back, but the union threatened a grievance and the company let me keep the money. Remember our trip to Florida? That's what paid for it."

"But it wasn't your money," Jamie said.

"It is the company's responsibility to pay its employees," Claude said as if reading from a script. "It is not the job of a union worker to oversee the payroll process. What was really great was I called in sick from a pay phone on the beach. Waves crashing on the sand, cars rumbling up the strip, and I'm like, 'Yeah, I've got a touch of the flu. Doubt I'll be in all week.'"

Jamie picked up a pencil and put a check mark on the pad. "And what was your most disappointing moment on your current job."

Claude's face went blank. "Nothing," he said. "It's been roses from day one."

"Come on, daddy," Jamie said with a smile. "You complain about work all the time."

"My most disappointing moment, then," Claude said, "was the day I looked at my paycheck and found they'd corrected their error."

"Seriously, daddy."

"Seriously."

"I'm a junior in high school," Jamie said. "You can share an on-the-job disappointment with me. I know you've had run-ins with the boss, I know you've fought with your union brothers. It's ok. Everyone has some kind of disappointment at work."

Claude thrust his bottom lip up and furrowed his eyebrows toward his nose. Joke answers popped into his head, but he didn't want to upset his daughter. She might yell, or cry. He sipped his beer, and set it on the table.

"I guess my most disappointing moment at work was the day your grandfather was voted out as union president," he said. "He was a good leader. He could out-argue anyone. Since then, our union's gone to hell, and believe me, it's hard to show up there day after day and deal with idiot after idiot. You come in and bust your butt and the boss doesn't notice, so you say screw it, why hustle when nobody gives a shit, and then bang, the boss catches you goofing off and two seconds later is smacking you with a written warning. A guy bolts the union to join management and half the union brothers don't care, they're just sitting around thinking how they can suck up to the guy before he goes so when he's a boss he'll take it easy on them. Everyone goofs off —it's only natural —but pets don't get written up when they get caught, pets do whatever they want and nothing happens to them. Since your grandfather got voted out, the place has fallen apart, no doubt about that, absolutely fallen apart. Some days I wish I could walk away and never go back."

"Why don't you?"

Claude glanced to the ceiling as he pondered the question. "Well, I wouldn't desert my union brothers," he said at last. "The ones who still care, anyway. And besides, I need to make money, don't I?"

Jamie smiled. "Naw, you don't have to work if you don't want to. You don't have to make money. If you lose your job, I'll become the family breadwinner."

"Oh yeah, and how are you going to earn $25 an hour?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "Maybe I could become a Pretty Woman. It worked for Julia Roberts. I bet I could make four or five hundred dollars a day easy."

Claude turned to Joan's spot on the couch for a 'Don't talk like that,' but the couch was empty.

"You're no whore, and you're never going to be, and don't ever let me hear anything like that come from your mouth again."

Again Jamie smiled. As the two locked eyes, Claude exaggerated his scowl. Jamie tapped an index finger twice on the table.

"All right, then maybe I could earn $25 an hour scratching my ass on a forklift, sassing off to the boss, messing up every order I handle, and swaggering like a dolt the whole time I'm doing it. Sound better?"

Claude picked up the cards and fired them onto the floor. He knocked over his chair as he left the room.

Jamie held the microphone to her own mouth. "Interview concluded."

#

Joan heard Claude go out the front door and peeked through the window in time to see him start his truck and pull out of the driveway. She assumed he was headed for a bar and returned to making cranberry bread.

In fact, Claude did not go to a bar. He drove to a little park on one end of Blackstone Boulevard and sat on a bench. Children played in a trickling fountain. Young couples sunbathed on blankets. Joggers stretched before hitting the running trail.

For two hours Claude slouched on the same bench. People came and went, but he didn't notice. Thoughts ran through his head, but not the usual thoughts, of women and winning money. Different thoughts. Thoughts about his daughter. Thoughts about warnings. Thoughts about management and babysitting and Jamie's senior prom a year hence and about her graduation not long after that. Thoughts about Schulke and Shepard.

After two hours of resting his head against the low back of a park bench, Claude sat up straight. He smiled. He nodded to himself. When he stood to return home, he even whistled.

### Chapter 17

On Monday Claude arrived at the stores department at 6:25, earlier than anyone. Although he turned on the lights and unlocked the office, he left the bay grates down. Scotty arrived next. Without yelling a "who's there" or even peeking into the office, Scotty went to a small table near the back door, where he pencilled changes to an old entry-level posting. With Nick's departure all but official, the union would soon begin accepting bids to replace him, and Scotty wanted to get a head start on the posting so it would be ready when the go-ahead came. Nick's actual replacement would come from within the stores department through automatic progression, leaving an open spot at the bottom of the roster to be filled by the bidder with the most company seniority, and as shop steward Scotty was responsible for updating the posting, putting it on the bulletin board, making sure it came down at the end of the tenth business day, unlocking and emptying the bid box, and arranging the slips in order of seniority to see who would be awarded the job. Technically, announcement of the award came from the department supervisor, but in practice the supervisor was last to know. Because Scotty had scheduled vacation time in three weeks, he hoped the posting would go up in a day or two so he'd be around to take down the posting and arrange the slips. After handling so many thankless tasks as shop steward in stores, Scotty didn't want one of the fun ones to pass him by.

Frank and John showed up next, but after punching in they headed for the cafeteria. Claude entered invoices into the computer. He heard footsteps on the cement and looked around the corner to see who it was, but when he caught a glimpse of Elton he returned to his seat and the stack of invoices. At two minutes before seven Claude heard more footsteps, and tried to figure out whose they were. If they were Schulke's, he wanted to stay at the computer. A loud punch of the time clock told Claude it wasn't the boss, confirmed for sure when Warren poked his head through the door.

"Darezzo call in?" Warren said.

"Nope, and I've been here since 6:25. Punch him in."

A clock punch later, Claude's index fingers tapped wildly at the keyboard, but Warren didn't return. Darezzo breezed through the office at 7:15 to see if Schulke'd been after him, and Frank popped in to chat a minute with Claude before heading to the crane, but neither stayed long. Schulke didn't appear at all.

At 9, Scotty leaned through the door and called Claude for break.

"Pick me up a coffee, will you?" Claude said.

"You sure?" Scotty said.

"Yeah. I'm almost done here. Whipped off almost the whole pile just today. No sense stopping now. Cream and sugar."

While the gang was at break a truck pulled into one of the bays, and with nobody in sight the driver tooted his horn, bringing Claude from the office.

"Good morning," Claude called as he strode toward the dock. "What are you bringing us?"

"Two boxes of longscrews. Special order."

"Yeah, we're running low," Claude said.

After signing for the order, Claude loaded the two fifty-pound boxes onto a dolly, wheeled them toward a green cabinet in the back, opened the cabinet door, and slid the dolly from beneath the boxes. With his pocket knife he sliced the brown tape at both ends of the box, then folded up the knife up and returned it to his pocket. He rummaged through the styrofoam peanuts for the first packet of longscrews, but when he turned toward the cabinet he saw someone had put cheater clips where the longscrews belonged. He dropped to his knees and pulled eight packs of cheater clips from the cabinet. At the very bottom, he found a packet of longscrews, which he pulled out too. Claude stacked the new packets of longscrews in the cabinet, placing the old packet on top, then gathered the clips in his arms and took them to the next aisle to store them where they belonged.

Break came and went and the guys returned to the department and Claude finished the coffee, his second of the morning, without seeing Schulke. When he'd done every invoice in the pile, he went through the new delivery of mail, putting Schulke's big stack on his chair, placing the much-thinner stack for his co-workers into the correct mail cubbies, and culling the invoices, arranging the dozen or so sheets of paper in alphabetical order so his computer work would move a little easier. Before he started entering the invoices, however, he needed to make a trip to the men's room. As he headed for the toilet, he winked at Darezzo and Warren as they lounged near the empty loading dock.

From the other end of the building, where he'd tagged a pair of regulators requested by substation, Elton walked to the office and, unaware of where Claude had been working, sat in front of the computer to play a game of solitaire. Before he loaded the game onto the screen, though, Schulke walked into the office through the other door. After he dropped his satchel on his desk and hung his jacket on the rack, Schulke paused a minute to stare at the inbox near Elton.

"Hey," Schulke said, "nice job on that stack of invoices. It's good to see someone around here who gives a shit. Good work, Elton."

"Thanks boss," Elton said.

A moment later, Claude returned, said good morning to Schulke, and gave a thumb to Elton to get out of his chair.

"I was working here," Claude said.

Elton sniffed. As he stood up, he rolled his eyes toward Schulke, who smiled and nodded in agreement.

Claude said good morning to Schulke and Schulke waved in return. Once he settled into the chair in front of the computer, Claude started in on the remaining invoices. As he typed, Scotty came into the office, posting in hand, and picked up the phone next to Claude.

"Hi Jim," he said after dialing, "this is Scotty. Yeah, any word on the posting to replace Nick? I've changed the dates and updated it to reflect the new recycling policy, so it's all ready to go...I don't know...He hasn't been around here in a couple days, but I don't know if that means he's started in overhead. I guess he could've started, I just haven't seen him...Well, I'm going on vacation in three weeks, so I'd like to get this up and down before then, if possible...Sure...Okay, good...Okay, good...All right, if I don't hear from you, I'll put it on the board before noon. Take it easy. Bye."

Scotty sat at the computer next to Claude and popped a disk into the slot. He called up a file containing the roster postings—one-page job descriptions announcing an open position —and began making corrections. Schulke looked at the backs of the two heads. He stood up, started to speak, sat down, and started to speak again. He realized the longer he waited the more unnatural he comments would seem.

"Was that Shepard?" Schulke said at last, eyes pinned to desk as if he were busy with something else.

Scotty turned around. "Yeah. He's going to check with Feeney to see if Nick's started his new job yet."

"Has Shepard spoken to Mr. Clarke?"

"Why would he do that?"

"I don't know, just wondering," Schulke said. "I do know that Nick hasn't started in overhead yet, so you might want to hold off on that posting."

"Is Nick coming back here?" Scotty said.

"Well, no, I gave him vacation time," Schulke said. "So, officially, he's still with us."

Claude overheard the conversation and stopped typing. He and Scotty looked at each other and wrinkled their brows.

"Nick gave you two weeks notice, right?" Scotty said.

"Um, I think so," Schulke said.

"You think so? Did he or didn't he?"

"He did."

"Then what's the problem? We can put up the posting. It stays on the board for ten business days. By the time it comes down, Nick will be in overhead and the new person can start here as soon as he's released by his own department."

As both Scotty and Claude watched, Schulke's eyes wandered the floor as he nodded his head slowly. At last Schulke stood, though he didn't immediately walk anywhere.

"Ok," he said. "That's fine, I suppose. That's fine. Put the posting up unless you hear different from Shepard. That's fine. Ok, I've got a meeting to run to. I'll be back."

After he left, Scotty turned to Claude. "Something's up."

### Chapter 18

The day after her last exam of the semester, Jamie worked a new pair of black panty hose onto her feet, pulled them up over her legs to her waist, and slipped a black dress over her head. Although it was a size five, the dress hung a little loose, but after twisting in front of the mirror for a few seconds, Jamie decided it was fine. It had no buttons, no lace, no fancy stitching, no plunges one way or the other, just a simple dress hemmed above the knee, with sleeves halfway to the elbow and a zipper in the back, a piece of black cloth cut to the shape of an adolescent girl and nothing more. Perfect.

Jamie fired a brush through her hair, first the right hemisphere and then the left, and slid into a pair of black pumps. After taking inventory of her small purse, she rumbled down the stairs. Since it was nice out, she wouldn't need a coat.

She walked the quarter mile to the bus stop and waited for the number four heading downtown, where she could switch to the number six. The six took her to the worst part of the city, past buildings burned but not rebuilt, past street corner gatherings of men already drinking beer at 10 a.m. on a weekday, past rimless backboards atop rusty poles in grassless, empty parks.

At Grehoski Street, Jamie stepped from the bus in front of a large brick building, a one-time factory converted for use by the white-collar service industry. A glass entryway led to a small atrium, which led to the building proper. Jamie stepped up to a list of occupants and ran her finger from the top until she found "Dixwell Center, second floor."

The Dixwell Center coordinated work assignments for people with mental or physical disabilities. Each business day, a small fleet of Dixwell vans picked up clients from the region's group homes and brought them to the center, where they were split into groups and given jobs to do. The jobs, usually menial, came from local companies with either a desire to support a worthwhile community endeavor or a desire to get grunt work done for as little as half the minimum wage, a standard approved by the state legislature. Most of the 128 clients were thrilled to earn $150 a week. All but five lived in state-operated group homes, where room, board, and a small allowance were provided by Rhode Island taxpayers. Those who didn't live in group homes came from fairly well-to-do families who declined to institutionalize them but were happy to enroll them in a program that built self-esteem, kept them occupied during the day, and at week's end handed them a little money to spend.

Rather than wait for the elevator Jamie took the nearest stairs to the second floor. She arrived at a glass door marked Dixwell Center, pushed it open, and approached the receptionist.

"Hi, I'm Jamie Amognes," she said. "I have an appointment with Mrs. Tagaki."

"Yes, Ms. Amognes, eleven o'clock," the twenty-something gentleman in blue jeans and a polo shirt said. "You're a little early, but please have a seat. I'll let her know you're here."

Before Jamie could nestle into a good magazine, a thin, dark-haired woman in blue jeans and a blue, lightweight sweater emerged from a nearby office.

"Jamie Amognes? I'm Evelyn Tagaki."

Jamie stood, and they shook hands. "I'm a little early, Mrs. Tagaki," Jamie said.

"Call me Evelyn," the woman said, "and don't worry, we never have a problem with anyone prone to be early."

She smiled, and led Jamie into the office. It was small. A mayoral proclamation hanging behind the desk made October 2, 1988, Dixwell Center Day in Greater Providence. A dozen certificates and photos of people shaking hands also adorned the walls, and as Evelyn sat down Jamie turned full circle to check them out.

"Please, have a seat," Evelyn said. "Now, I understand from Roxanne Allen that you're someone we can count on. Is that true?"

Jamie nodded, and Evelyn smiled.

"Good. Our staffers here are excellent, and if you ever have a situation you don't feel you can handle, all you need to do is turn to one of them. You'll see that once you start. None of our clients are dangerous, but some do have behaviors, so it's important to keep calm and use good judgement. We'll show you a few tricks that help, but really it's your own personality that'll determine how well you do. Most people either love the job from day one or hate it completely."

Once Evelyn gave Jamie an overview of the center, she took Jamie on a tour of the two floors used by Dixwell. The bottom floor housed the main work area, a one-room space clustered with round tables and small plastic chairs. As they went from group to group, Evelyn introduced Jamie to each job coach, who in turn introduced Jamie to the clients in the group, who in turn introduced themselves to Jamie. At the third group, one of the female clients looked at Jamie through thick eyeglasses and tugged her dress.

"Are you going to work here?" the client said.

"I don't know," Jamie said. "I hope so."

Evelyn leaned down to be close to the client's face. "We haven't gotten to that point yet, but I think there's a good chance you'll be seeing Jamie around here this summer. Would you like that?"

"Yes," the client said. "I want her to work with us."

"Well maybe she will," Evelyn said. "Why don't you tell her what you're doing, so she'll know all about it. But first, you have to tell her your name, silly."

"My name is Virginia," the client said. "This is the plastic bag we use. We put six of these screws into the bag, and six of the nuts into the bag. Then we put two of the blue plastic caps into the bag, two of the green plastic caps into the bag, and two of the black plastic caps into the bag. These are important parts of building a bike. If we don't do our jobs right, little kids can't ride their bikes. That's why they have us do it, to do it right. Then, see this little red line here on top of the bag? If you squeeze it like this, all along the top, it closes the bag. Then you do the next one."

Virginia smiled and both Evelyn and the coach clapped. At the conclusion of the tour, Evelyn and Jamie returned to Evelyn's office, where Evelyn offered Jamie the job.

"My apologies if you expected a formal interview and a line of other applicants trying to beat you to the job," Evelyn said. "The truth is, we only have two candidates for two positions, but Roxanne Allen and I have known each other for years, way back to when we were fresh out of college working in our first group home, and she says you and Betty have been best friends since grade school and that you're a fine young woman, and that's really all the recommendation I need. Most high school students would rather take the extra dollar-fifty an hour to work at the mall and socialize with their friends, so when we find someone who doesn't mind minimum wage, and who seems compassionate about the people we serve, we don't futz around. If you want the job, you can start tomorrow."

Jamie began to speak, but Evelyn held up a hand.

"My apologies again," she said. "Take a few days for yourself. If you want the job, you can start Monday."

"I'll take it," Jamie said.

"Good," Evelyn said. "We start at 8:30, with a half-hour lunch, and end at 4:30, which isn't too bad. Like we talked about, you'll provide support to the job coaches, helping them with a particular client task or covering for them when they need to do paperwork or attend a meeting. The first week we'll run you through a series of short training programs, and then we'll toss you right in. In a month or so, we'll get you into some coaching, you know, showing the clients how to do an assignment if it's new and supervising them in short stretches, but we'll be careful not to give you too much too soon. Sound good? And feel free to wear whatever you're comfortable in; as you can see we're pretty informal around here."

Evelyn opened a cabinet drawer and pulled out a packet of forms. As she reached to put the packet in front of Jamie, she stopped, and put them on her desk instead.

"Let's fill these out later," Evelyn said. "First I have someone I want you to meet."

She left the office, and returned a minute later with a young man about Jamie's age, thin, with curly black hair and a not-coming-in-too-well goatee. He wore a stud in one ear.

Evelyn escorted him right up to Jamie, who stood from her chair. "Peter Greeley, Jamie Amognes. Jamie, Peter. You're our two summer employees."

Jamie and Peter shook hands. Evelyn took two yellow slips from her desk drawer and gave them to Peter.

"You guys go have lunch on me," Evelyn said. "Talk, get to know each other. You'll spend a lot of time together over the coming weeks, and I'm sure you'll have a lot of fun. When you're done eating, come back here and you can fill out the darn forms. But don't get used to the free lunches, because with state budgets the way they are, we can't really afford them."

"Ok," Peter said. "We'll be back in a half hour."

He walked from Evelyn's office through the outer lobby, took a left, and headed down the hall toward the cafeteria. Jamie followed. At the lunch line someone stepped between them, but once Peter had selected his meal and given the yellow slip to the cashier, he stood to the side and waited for Jamie. They sat across from each other at a small table. Peter smiled. Jamie returned it.

"Okay," Peter said. "Nothing like getting thrown in together, is there?"

"I know," Jamie said with a smile.

Peter picked up his sandwich, and Jamie picked up hers. They looked at each other as they chewed. Peter swigged his soda.

"Have you worked here before?" he said.

"No," Jamie said. "My best friend's mother suggested it to me. I'm looking forward to it."

"So am I," Peter said. "It sure beats all the other jobs I've done in the summer."

"What have you done?"

Peter put down his sandwich. "Let's see...lawnmower, paperboy, gas pumper, burger flipper, beanpicker, stockboy, house painter, and lumberjack."

"Lumberjack?"

Peter smiled. "Well, all I did was drag away wood that other people had cut. We were clearing space for a new housing development."

"You've done a lot with your summers," Jamie said. "Until this job, all I've ever done is baby sit and do a job here and a job there. Do you go to school?"

"Central. I'm a senior this year."

"Me too. Except I'm at West. We played Central in softball. Do you play sports?"

"I don't have time," Peter said. "I work four nights a week and all day Saturday at the mall."

"And this job too?"

"Yup."

Jamie nodded, but didn't know what to say next, so she ate her ham salad sandwich and looked around the cafeteria at people at other tables. She snuck a glance at Peter and saw him doing the same. When Peter finished the last bite of his sandwich, he pulled the unopened bag of potato chips off his tray.

"I'll save these for later. You don't mind?"

Why on earth would I mind? Jamie thought.

"Um, no," she said.

Then Jamie noticed Peter didn't quite know what to do with the chips, as if he'd just realized he was doomed to carry them around the rest of the day, so she placed her sandwich on her tray, checked her lap for crumbs, and took a few final sips of her drink.

"I'm not very hungry, really. Do you want to go back?"

Peter nodded. They dumped their trash and returned to the office. Evelyn shook hands with them, gave them pens and a pile of papers, and left. Jamie finished her forms first, but dawdled over the final few signatures to give Peter time to catch up. When she thought he might have noticed she was lingering on purpose, she rose, smiled, shook his hand, and wished him a nice week. He smiled, then returned to the paperwork.

Instead of returning home, Jamie took a bus to College Square and spent the rest of the afternoon smiling at strangers and wandering the university campus in her simple black dress.

### Chapter 19

Two weeks after promising himself to reform at work, Claude still arrived before 6:30 each morning. As invoices came in, he entered them. Claude unloaded deliveries he didn't have to, matched items perfectly when loading the line trucks, and avoided the nest altogether.

It had also been two weeks since Scotty prepared the posting to replace Nick. Clarke had wanted to wait until the arbiter's decision before negotiating Gino's return, because even though he expected the decision to go against the company, the arbiter's wording in the final document might give him leverage to use against Shepard. When Schulke rushed to human resources to tell Clarke about the posting, Clarke shooed him away, but later the same morning Shepard barged in to complain that he still hadn't received approval to put up the posting, and would file a grievance if he didn't get it by three o'clock. It wasn't fair, he argued, to deny the successful bidder even a day's increase. Clarke countered that any award could be made retroactively, as they'd done a million times, and asked Shepard to delay the posting a few more days. Shepard balked, saying what Clarke suggested was not the norm, and asking what the union would get in return for such a concession. As soon as he'd spoken the words, though, he saw the motive: Gino. This was all about Gino's grievance. Clarke was stalling until the arbiter ruled, and he expected the union to win. At that point Shepard began talking. Clarke couldn't stop him, and Clarke couldn't get away, and within twenty minutes Shepard talked Clarke into an agreement. Gino's grievance was withdrawn before it was heard, and he became the newest member of the stores department.

Although senior members of the meter reading department groused, as did a janitor or two, the move did not cause a major stir among members of the UUW, least of all in stores. John Carrollton moved up into Nick's spot on the roster, everyone behind John also moved up a notch, and Gino came in on the bottom. At first Gino was insulted by the proposition to put him in stores, but he warmed to it soon enough, given that he would get almost the same pay without having to set poles or string wires. His first official act as a member of the department was to put in for two weeks of newly-reinstated vacation time, a request Schulke denied. Gino went to Shepard, who went to Clarke, who overruled Schulke, and Gino got his vacation.

"Tell me that didn't go straight up Schulke's ass," Warren said as he, Claude, and Scotty ate lunch in the cafeteria. "That's what he gets for expecting Gino to be humble. Gino doesn't care. He's going to show you who's boss. When you can beat him, you beat him. Until then, he owns you."

"I don't know why Schulke's so pissed about this," Scotty said. "This stuff happens all the time. When an agreement suits both sides, it sticks, and if it conflicts with the contract, so what? What's the contract but an agreement between union and management? Shit like this, it's just another card in the game. Those meter readers were dumb to mouth off. All it can lead to is pissing off the wrong people, and when that happens they're sure to turn their backs the next time you need a helping hand yourself."

"Schulke acts like no management guy ever got the same break," Claude said with a mouthful of ham sandwich. "He forgets about the Seamus O'Learys of the world."

"Who's he?" Warren said.

"Shameless?" Scotty said. "Before your time. An engineer. A real beaut. Got caught in his company truck in the company parking lot by the company security camera having sex with one of the college co-op students. She got fired, he didn't. Company brass didn't even tell his wife. Got caught weightlifting in the gym when he was supposed to be supervising a substation project near the train yard. Got caught driving a company vehicle to an outdoor rock concert with his two little kids rattling around in the back."

"And he was stoned, too" Claude said, "but nobody ever found out about that. Vinny from the garage was with him before he got caught."

"And let's see, there was the restaurant bit," Scotty said. "During a storm one time Feeney gave $50 in meal money to Shameless and each person on his team. At dinner, Shameless says, look, give me the cash, and I'll put the entire bill on my credit card, so everyone does, then he goes and submits the credit card receipt with his monthly expense report so he can get the money twice. Feeney blows a gasket, and calls the restaurant for a copy of the itemized bill, and damned if they don't still have it. A copy shows up in the mail, and guess what?"

"Two hundred dollars worth of alcohol on the bill," Claude said.

Warren wrinkled his brow. "You're kidding."

"Nope," Scotty said. "Absolutely true. They're supposed to be putting the lights back on during a blizzard, but instead they're all getting hammered. I heard he did get positive discipline for that one, at least."

Warren finished his lunch and pushed his plate toward the center of the table. Scotty set his elbows on the table and clasped his hands together. Claude leaned back and rested his hands on his belly.

"This is all the same guy?" Warren said.

"He had political connections, I think," Scotty said, "though nothing major. Mostly, it was his personality that kept saving him, because everyone who met him thought he was the nicest guy—until they saw firsthand what a chronic shyster he was. But he sure was a smooth talker. He could charm his way out of just about anything."

"And Scotty missed the best story of all," Claude said.

Scotty glanced over. "Which one?"

Claude pointed a finger toward the ceiling. At first Warren and Scotty stared at him, but before long Scotty laughed.

"You're right," Scotty said. "You're right, I did miss the best one. Get this, Warren. The engineering department instituted a rule that each team leader had to work one Sunday a month until the Hartan Street project was finished. Well, Shamie had season tickets to the Patriots, and he sees the new schedule is gonna cost him four games. So he walks up to the third floor and marches straight past Munson's secretary—Marianne, at the time —and into Munson's office. No appointment, no call, nothing, just walks in and starts talking, like buddy to buddy even though Munson's never seen him before, telling Munson about the tickets and sort of winking that, you know, Munson should give the order to make everything right. According to Marianne, Munson doesn't say a word, he just stares with his mouth open. Finally, Shameless finishes his spiel, and gives it a 'so, whaddya say?' Munson looks at him, then goes, 'here's what I say: I'm not your damn supervisor. I'm president of this company. The next time you set foot in this office, you're fired. Turn and walk away without speaking. Good day.'"

Warren smiled and turned to Claude. "Is that true?"

"Every word," Claude said. "Ask Marianne."

"Wow, this O'Leary, he must've been really something."

"Nope," Scotty said. "Just another employee at Rhode Island Electric."

#

After lunch, Warren, Scotty, and Claude took a cigarette walk around the perimeter of the parking lot before returning to stores. When they pushed through the plastic swaying in the breeze in front of the first bay, they saw Elton and Darezzo each sitting on a large crate on the loading dock, with a smaller crate between them. Loose change and dollar bills lay atop the center crate.

"What are you guys up to?" Scotty said.

"A little dice," Darezzo said. "Wanna play?"

"What's this stuff you're sitting on?" Scotty said. "Those cutouts just come in?"

Elton tossed the dice and pumped his fist when they landed on seven. "Williams, you're a genius," he said. "How could the department ever function without you?"

"Funny," Scotty said. "Now let's put this stuff away before the trucks start coming."

"No need to," Darezzo said. "Our little brown-noser will do it for us. Ain't that right Bugsy? We can play dice all day, and Who-You-Blown Amognes will make sure everything goes where it ought to be. Unless Schulke's gone for the day, of course."

"Or has a stuck zipper," Elton said.

Elton and Darezzo laughed. Warren hopped onto one of the boxes.

"You guys are too much," Claude said without passion.

"What, you think we didn't notice?" Elton said. "Doing invoices, helping with other people's deliveries, punching in early, but don't get me wrong, Bugsy boy, I think it's great. Really terrific. Because after all these years, now I'll get to sit around and do nothing while you do the work. It's a nice change, I'd say, long overdue. Now seriously, how about getting these cutouts logged in the book and stored on the shelves? Chop chop. Time's a-wasting."

Claude clenched his fists. He slid the knuckles of his right hand from his elbow up under the sleeve of his tee shirt, stretching the cotton as he considered his response.

"Fuck you," he said at last. "I'm no brown-noser."

"Oh please," Elton said. "You got your tongue so far up Schulke's ass you can taste his lunch. What are you doing it for? Feeney's not going to pick an idiot like you for a supervisor's job—you can't even pass the test to be a lineman, let alone know enough to supervise one."

"One more fucking word out of you and I'll break your face," Claude said, waving a fist. "Go ahead and try me, asshole."

"Go ahead and hit me," Elton said. "Pound away. You're such a pet, Schulke probably won't even write you up."

Scotty stepped toward Claude, threw his arms around him, and forced him toward the office. "That's enough," he said. "You're not baiting Bugsy into anything he'll regret. Sorry, not today. Play all the dice you want, knock yourself out, we'll be in the office."

Claude kept an eye on Elton even as Scotty moved him through the office door, watching Darezzo and Elton smile like lottery winners and wave goodbye just before Scotty flipped the door shut with his foot. John saw Scotty push Claude into the office and asked what was going on.

"A little razz from Darezzo and MacGibbon," Scotty said.

"You mean about Bugsy becoming an ass-kisser?" John said.

Claude wheeled his head around but Scotty still had Claude's shirt in his hands. Sweat beaded on Claude's temples, and his cheeks flushed toward red.

"Just hold it, buddy," Scotty said to Claude. "Have a seat and cool down, while John goes to unload those cutouts."

"I'm not unloading squat," John said.

"Yes you are," Scotty said. "Git."

Something in Scotty's tone produced the desired effect, as John moved toward the loading dock without a word. Although Scotty sat with Claude for the next few minutes, neither spoke. With his fists still clenched, Claude stared at the floor beneath the desk, until Scotty stood up and patted him on the shoulder.

"Just relax, man," Scotty said. "Wait here a minute. I'll be right back. Promise me you won't go anywhere, ok?"

Claude nodded, then flung his head back, interlocked his fingers behind his neck, and put his feet on the desk. With the bright sun backlighting the dim aisle, Scotty seemed to disappear even before reached the exit, though Claude could make out his featureless form glancing up to the crane parked near the iron ladder on the back wall. When Scotty stepped into the sunlight, he looked to his right, then turned to his left and walked out of sight.

The door behind Claude opened and someone shuffled in, but Claude didn't want trouble so he kept his stare at the back exit. A few seconds later Claude heard the person clear his throat, so he looked over his shoulder. It was Schulke.

"Forgive me for interrupting your moment of solitude," Schulke said, "but I might remind you we're in the middle of a workday."

Claude snapped his feet off the desk. He stood up. A strange urge came over him, the urge to salute, and although he didn't, the sensation broke his anger. A smile began to form on his lips.

"Oh yeah, real funny," Schulke said. "Everything's a joke to you, isn't it? You can sit here with your feet on the desk when there's work to be done and not give a shit when the boss comes in. You don't even have to turn around, because even if the boss says something, no matter, the union will protect you, or so you think, because you're the son of Jackie Amognes, late great president of the UUW. Well let me remind you, Mr. Amognes the Younger, that you have writtens across the board. Call me silly, but I'd think someone in your shoes might put a little effort into his job, might quit lollygagging all the time and actually try to make a contribution to this department. You'd think that, wouldn't you? But no, it's been weeks since your performance warning and you haven't made an ounce of effort to improve. Not one ounce. Well, I'm not going to write you up this time, Claude, but believe me, my patience is wearing thin, and rest assured this is the very last break I intend to give you. The very last one."

As Claude stared into Schulke's eyes, his own watered up. Although he expected anger to surge through his veins, it didn't, and the two men faced each other for nearly a minute, one expecting a response, the other devoid of the will to speak. Schulke apparently resolved to stand firm, because he continued his boxer-like gaze even as Claude's eyes welled. At last, Claude snorted, lowered his head, and left through the door behind him.

He started toward the bays, but saw Frank wagging a finger at Darezzo, John, and Elton as Scotty stood to the side with his arms folded. Wonder what that's about, Claude thought. He'd had his fill of harsh words, so he wanted no part of whatever lecture Frank was delivering. He looked up to the nest, then to the office where Schulke sat, then toward the bathrooms. With the back of his hand, he wiped his forehead, and as skin came away from skin, he snapped his wrist in a get-lost motion toward the office and headed toward a pile of empty cardboard boxes near the trash compactor.

For the next twenty minutes, he ground box after box into the noisy machine and pictured himself playing cribbage with Jamie. After he finished, he moved equipment to the dock and daydreamed about a game of toss with Jamie. When the trucks came in, he unloaded refuse from the trucks as they came in and thought back to the first fish Jamie ever caught.

### Chapter 20

At the Dixwell Center, Apple Team's assignment for the day was to assemble hospitality boxes for an upcoming charity golf tournament. Although Debra, Joshua, and Earl worked a steady pace, Millicent almost matched their production by herself. She folded a little white towel, once, twice, three times, and placed it in the upper left corner of the box printed with the club logo. She put two matchbook-like packages of golf tees, one atop the other, in the lower left corner, a ballmark repair kit in the top right corner, a sleeve of balls in the lower right corner, and a dime-sized ballmarker in the middle. She closed the box without disturbing the contents and placed it on a pile to the right of her chair. Next box, next towel. Next packages of tees, next repair kit, next sleeve, next marker. Close the top, put it on the pile. At seven boxes start a new pile. Box, towel, tees, kit, sleeve, marker. Box, towel, tees, kit, sleeve, marker. Hour after hour, day after day, without ever making a mistake.

No wonder every important job went to Millicent's team. No wonder businesspeople being wooed into providing work for the center met Millicent first. Millicent the Magnificent, Jamie called her.

Although Jamie liked all the Apple Team members, Millicent reigned as her favorite. For weeks Jamie couldn't decide what about Millicent touched her so, until one day she caught Millicent rolling her eyes as one of the members of another team acted up. With that, Jamie realized the truth: Millicent was bright enough to understand she'd been labeled a dummy and placed among dummies. Although in conversation and behavior and I.Q. she fit in better with the staffers than with the lower-functioning clients, the clients, not the staffers, were her peers. She wasn't like the other clients, yet where they were herded she was herded too. She wasn't one of them, but she was one of them, the wrong them, and she was just smart enough to know it.

Earl, on the other hand, annoyed Jamie the most. A thin, hazel-eyed man of 50 with an I.Q. just under normal, Earl rated among the center's best performers, though his attention-getting behaviors cut his production. Although at the center there was no such thing as a typical background for one of the clients, Earl's story didn't stand out as particularly shocking. The day he was born, Earl's mother had a few too many drinks at a local bar, and when her fellow patrons pressed her for the name of the baby's father, she decided since she'd soon need a ride to the hospital anyway she'd go the practical route and point to someone with a new truck, underestimating the rage an extended index finger can provoke at such moments. She also neglected to anticipate the single punch that broke her jaw and left her writhing in the floor slush of a smoky bar on a wintery January afternoon. Because of her blood alcohol level, doctors in the delivery room refused to sedate her, so she spent the next six hours trying to scream without moving her mouth, praying for someone to kill her, and cursing the creature ripping its way through her womb. For the better part of a year she made an attempt at motherhood, though the boy's non-stop wailing drove her back to the bottle, and when Earl still hadn't walked by his first birthday, his mother began asking houseguests if he looked a little slow. When they agreed he did, she signed him over to the state, which placed him in an underfunded home alongside children with cerebral palsy and autism, children with Down syndrome and encephalitis, children who'd nearly drowned or had slipped off the jungle gym and cracked open their heads on the asphalt below. At that home, Earl learned the art of being retarded. His mother never visited him, and to the employees of the home he was just another boy to discipline, so in Earl's entire stay not a single person noticed the cunning with which he used bizarre behavior to get his way. When Earl reached eighteen, he graduated to the state's group home system, and although for the first time social workers noted the correct extent of his abilities, they also agreed he was too far gone, that, yes, with a different upbringing he might have led something resembling a normal life, but, no, even though he was close to normal he was nonetheless retarded, and certainly did not have the capacity to undo all he'd learned over the years and function on his own in society.

But with a few words of encouragement and an authority figure to keep him focused, Earl succeeded. Jobs that would bore a normal-I.Q. person to the brink of suicide provided just the right challenge for Earl. He earned his pay. He was a good worker.

Peter Greeley approached the Apple Team table. When Jamie saw him she stood and stepped into the open floor. Peter had an eye doctor's appointment the next day, and Jamie had agreed to watch his team for part of the morning while it finished an alumni newsletter mailing for North High School. Peter showed Jamie which stickers went with which zip codes, how to bundle papers headed for the same region, and how to log each bundle so the postage would be correctly billed.

When Jamie returned to Apple Team, Millicent darted her eyes once to her left. "Earl's putting too many tees in each box," the thinnish woman with the oddly-shaped head said.

Jamie turned toward the accused, who scooped three cardboard boxes from the table and concealed them close to his chest. He glanced up at Jamie, and seeing she was looking his way covered his eyes with one hand and shook his head wildly. Jamie waited. When Earl stopped, he looked up, and Jamie smiled at him.

"Mind if I look?" Jamie said.

"No," Earl screeched. "No, no, no. You can't see them. Please, Jamie, please. Please don't look at my boxes."

Again Jamie smiled. Earl dropped his face to his hands and bawled. Jamie sat in the empty chair next to him.

"Just put them aside," Jamie said. "I won't look in them, I promise, but put them over here in case we run out of tees at the end. The rest of the afternoon I want you to put two packets of tees in each box, okay, because that way all the golfers will have enough when they go play. I won't look at these boxes, Earl. But at the end of the day I'll check the last boxes you do to make sure they each have two packets of tees, and as long as they do everything will be all right. All right?"

Earl agreed. Work continued.

#

Jamie had been on board a month when Evelyn Tagaki sent word she wanted to see her. Jamie wondered why. Apple Team seemed to be doing well, though it did take a half day longer than expected to do its last job. Jamie paced. She heard Evelyn bark at a van driver who failed to pick up a new client, and grasped the bottom of her shirt in her left fist. At last Evelyn hung up.

"Ah, Jamie, come in, come in," Evelyn said.

"Is everything all right?" Jamie said in a low voice. "Am I in trouble?"

"Gracious no," Evelyn said. "It's just that you've been here a month and I haven't had time to sit with you. I don't like to go that long, but sometimes I just can't help it. Have a seat, have a seat."

Jamie sat. She relaxed the fist, but continued to wear a concerned look.

"From all reports I get, you're doing great," Evelyn said. "On time, here every day, good rapport with the clients. I heard you stayed with Eleanor when her parents were late picking her up, and that's terrific. We appreciate it. Apple Team has done great under your watch, and the coaches are already comfortable getting their paperwork done within earshot of the group when you're around. I understand last week you helped Debra take her medication, which for now is a no-no. At some point we'll get you med certified, but until then it's too great a risk, because even though I know you can handle it, there's no sense taking any chances."

"It's just that Debra..."

"No need to explain," Evelyn said. She leaned toward Jamie and whispered. "I would've done the same thing if I'd been in your shoes."

They both smiled.

"Thanks too for helping out when other job coaches are called away. I understand you watched Peter Greeley's group when he had a doctor's appointment. Peter said his team finished two hours early that day."

Jamie blushed. She looked at the floor and broke into a smile. Again Evelyn leaned forward.

"I agree with you," Evelyn said. "He's a cutie, that Peter. Why don't you ask him out? He sure seems to like you."

"Me? No. You think? He's not interested in me. He is cute, though. And very nice. He's a nice guy. You think he likes me? I don't see how he could."

Evelyn smiled. "What questions do you have for me?"

"What do you mean?" Jamie said.

"I don't know, have you come across anything you're curious about, or is there anything I can do to make your job easier?

"I don't think so."

"What's your favorite thing about the center?"

Jamie put her knuckles to her lips. "I think I like seeing how excited the clients get when they do well. I never thought they'd have so much ability, and have such personalities. I never came in contact with handicapped people until I started working here."

"And what would you do differently?"

"I don't know," Jamie said.

"Well if you see something," Evelyn said, "jot it down and leave it for me. People think I know it all, but you're actually out there working with the clients, so many times you know better than I do what things work well and what things need improving. You're doing a wonderful job here at the Dixwell Center and we're very happy to have you. If you need anything, let me know, and I promise not to let a whole month go by before we do this type of review again. Now go have some lunch."

Jamie thanked Evelyn and left. At the end of the day she scoured the center for clients who'd been forgotten, but didn't find any, so she waved good-night to everyone she passed in the hall and whistled Beatles tunes on her way to the bus stop.

### Chapter 21

Frank Dombrowski's birthday bash, held the last day of August though he was born the first of September, fell on a Thursday. As they did every year, Ted and Maury, the owners of the Dub, sprang for a Frank-related memento to help mark the occasion, which without fail drew a capacity crowd. This year's brainstorming session, however, yielded a batch of lousy ideas. Stumped, Maury plucked a dart from the bar and spiked it back into the wood. The flight fell off, and when Maury picked it up, Ted grabbed his wrist. How about flights with Frank's picture on them? They called and ordered ten dozen. Thursday morning, Ted and Maury, working clockwise from the door, put the Frank flights on every dart sticking from the woodwork.

Each member of the stores department came to the bash, save Schulke, who wasn't invited, and John Carrollton, who didn't go for that sort of thing, and several members of the company's line, substation, and meter departments also attended. Some guys went straight home after work, dropped off their cars, and arranged to be driven to the Dub for the festivities, since the Dub owners made sure Phil, the backup bartender with the old station wagon, arrived at 11 o'clock to cart home any overzealous partiers.

Frank held a ceremony to endow the flights with mystical powers, then announced his invincibility at darts—by virtue of the magic flights—and challenged overhead lines to serve him its best representative. Many wagers were made, and much money was lost by Frank's supporters when Dan Thompson skunked him. But the mood remained festive. Frank regained some honor by defeating Junior in a wiener-eating contest, and the stores department won three of four drinking games concocted by Ted and Maury. Claude won a bottle of Wild Turkey in a raffle, and was a flaccid composition of beer, bourbon, and human elements when Phil handed him to Joan on the Amognes doorstep a little after midnight.

The next morning, activity in the stores department crawled at a hangover pace. The only quick motion occurred when someone standing under the crane realized he was risking a half-digested wiener and beer shower if Frank couldn't hold his stomach.

Claude in particular worked with languor. Headache, queasiness, and exhaustion diminished his enthusiasm for continuing the fine turnaround he'd made at work, plus he took solace in the fact he no longer held the number one spot in Schulke's doghouse, an honor now owned by Warren Taylor, whose afternoon AWOL in June earned him a written warning, and whose three-day disappearing act in August—he left before lunch on Tuesday and didn't return until Fridayˆearned him a decision-making leave. One more mistake, in any category, meant the door.

Though most people at Rhode Island Electric avoided social ties with Warren, Claude liked him, and the two fished together two or three times a summer. After high school, Warren attended college for a couple semesters, but, claiming disillusionment, dropped out and drifted around the country for as long as he could find friends to take him in. Once his friends had all been tapped, he returned home to the only free bed still available.

In fact, Warren only took the company meter reading exam to get his parents off his back, but had the dual misfortune of a) scoring well, and b) being in a pub when Mickleson called his house with the job offer. His mother sobbed five minutes of thank yous to Mickleson on the phone, so when his parents gave him the message at dinner that night, there was little Warren could do but accept the position. Before long, though, he realized reading electric meters was about the easiest way he'd ever earn a decent paycheck.

Two weeks before his sixth anniversary at the company, however, Warren blacked out at the wheel of a company vehicle, he maintained, and caused an accident with a driver education car that left a high school girl paralyzed from the waist down. The company doctors found no physical reason for the episode, but to be on the safe side prohibited Warren on medical grounds from driving company trucks in the future. That ended his days as a meter reader, and he landed in the stores department. Once in stores, he realized he'd been wrong about reading meters; stores was even easier.

Perhaps the bond between Warren and Claude formed because of their shared passion for unions. Warren read everything he could on the history of labor, and frequently cited obscure incidents from the past when discussing the current state of the organized workforce in America. When a union in Rhode Island went on strike and asked for support, Warren joined the picket line, waving an appropriate custom-made sign nailed to a baseball bat, working by day and picketing nights and weekends.

Though he never held a position in his own union, Warren knew the UUW contract from first letter to final period. People often asked his advice, and rarely pursued grievances which, in Warren's view, would not succeed, although even in those instances Warren was quick to point out the pain-in-the-ass factor grievances placed on management, and sometimes recommended sure-to-lose grievances on that basis alone.

This day, Warren noticed Claude's condition and offered to cover for him if he wanted to go lie down in the Sharon Room, an empty, dirty space on the now-abandoned second floor of the company garage. The room derived its name from a former employee who, legend had it, signed her name in the floor dust each time she treated a coworker to a lunchtime special there.

"Go ahead," Warren said. "It's a little before 9 o'clock now. Take this invoice for engine parts. If Schulke asks for you, I'll say you went next door to the garage to check an order. I'll come get you, and you just show him the invoice. If he doesn't ask, I'll punch you out at 9:45, and you can punch yourself back in at 10 o'clock."

In better health, Claude would have refused the offer, but his body begged him to accept, so he trusted Warren despite the risk. He went to the Sharon Room, spread out on some flattened boxes, and fell asleep. At five minutes to ten, he woke up and saw Warren standing over him.

"Nap's over, Bugsy," Warren said.

"Schulke looking for me?"

"No, but it's almost ten so you'd better get back."

Later that morning, Claude returned the favor by treating Warren to lunch. Warren ordered chop suey, while Claude opted for hot soup and cold soda. They discussed the sorry state of the UUW.

"The problem with Shepard," Warren said, "is he doesn't trust his own eyes. If he looked closely at how the top brass acts when there's a blizzard or a hurricane, he'd realize how much power there is in a work stoppage. When I was a kid, I used to admire electric company workers for their sense of duty. Didn't matter how nasty the weather was, there they were, trying to restore power. I only learned why after I came here."

"Because when the power's off," Claude said, "the meters ain't running."

"And the company isn't making any money," Warren said. "Rhode Island Electric brings in millions of dollars a year. Divide all that money by 365, and you see that even a single day of earnings is a pretty nice chunk of change."

Claude finished the noodles in his soup, and lifted the bowl to drink the broth.

"I think if we showed management we were willing to walk," Warren continued, "we'd be able to bargain for all kinds of improvements."

"True," Claude said as he returned his bowl to the table. "But we could never get a strike vote. Too much dissension. And that's from bad leadership. When my dad ran the show, he was able to get everyone on the same page, so when he threatened a strike, management knew it wasn't just talk, that it was gonna happen if he gave the word. In those days, I bet even a lot of management people wouldn't have crossed the lines. Now, you couldn't get half the workforce to strike past two paychecks."

Warren agreed. In 1974, he noted, the nation had 424 strikes among companies with at least 1,000 workers. In 1995, there were only 31.

"Nobody wants to strike," Warren said. "They think they have it so great. Meanwhile, the company president makes 25 times the average union salary, and gets a million-dollar bonus if he sells the company. Can you imagine? A million dollars. If Shepard had any brains, he'd tie our wages to the president's compensation package, so we could all benefit from Munson's greed."

"Never happen," Claude said.

"I know. But wouldn't it be great if we could pull it off?"

They finished their lunch break, and on the way back to the department made plans to go deep-sea fishing the weekend after Labor Day.

### Chapter 22

Evelyn Tagaki set aside the last hour at the Dixwell Center Friday for a send-off party for Jamie and Peter Greeley. Staff members and clients ate cake, drank soda, and took the opportunity to shake hands with Jamie and Peter and wish them well. Throughout the hour, Jamie noticed she could feel inside her own chest. It wasn't a gurgle, though it seemed fluid and juicy. It wasn't a pain, though it lingered like one. It wasn't a tightness, but it was. With school starting Tuesday, Jamie wouldn't see Peter again unless she said something that day, and although she planned to pull him aside just before the day ended, so she wouldn't have to struggle through a whole work day if the pull-aside didn't go well, she neglected to consider Evelyn Tagaki's kind heart. Now, Evelyn's heart collided with Jamie's, and Jamie feared she might not speak with Peter.

She was right. Although Jamie spent the hour smiling at him, slapping his shoulder when he made a joke, hugging him for the camera, and even holding his hand in a singing circle of clients and staff members, she couldn't talk to Peter for the ears around them. The party ended, and as Jamie and Peter walked in opposite directions to load clients onto vans, they waved good-bye. It was Friday. Once Peter loaded his van, he had to hustle off to his other job at the mall. Jamie knew it.

She also knew she was getting to that mall, some way, somehow. Her mother would take her, but would also follow her every step unless Jamie told her the true mission, which Jamie hesitated to do. She'd inevitably get a "So, how'd it go?" from Joan, and if Peter laughed in her face she'd have to explain, or come up with a good lie, which she didn't relish. No, better to report the successes and keep the failures tucked within.

#

On the lower level of the mall, Jamie worked up her courage. When at last she walked into the clothing store where Peter worked, she saw Peter using a long metal rod to hang leather coats on a high rack. She sifted through men's sportcoats near the front entrance as if she hadn't seen him. After the last leather jacket hung straight, Peter set the long rod down.

"Jamie!" he called upon looking up.

She feigned surprise, but knew Peter was probably onto her. She didn't care.

"I'm so glad to see you," Peter said. "I tried to sneak you off today to ask you something, but never got a chance."

"It was nice of Evelyn to think of us."

He smiled. "Do you want to work here?"

Jamie didn't answer. Her expression turned blank. _That's what he wanted to ask me?_

"I mean, we have an opening coming up," Peter said. "I already told my boss what a good worker you are, and said if he likes you he can save whatever it would cost to put an ad in the paper. Plus, with an ad who knows what you're going to get? It's three nights a week, and the pay is two dollars over minimum wage."

Jamie's cold look began to warm. "What nights?"

"I don't know, but I figure we'd be working together at least twice a week. If you want, I can bring Alex out and you can talk to him right now. It's pretty easy stuff. What do you say?"

"Um, great, I guess."

Jamie expected Peter to move, but he didn't. He wore a slight smile as he looked at her. He took a deep breath.

"Also, will you go to a movie with me sometime?

### Chapter 23

Warren promised to make all the arrangements for the deep sea fishing trip, and Tuesday after Labor Day called Claude over to give him the details.

"It's all set for Saturday," Warren said. "We should be in Charlestown for 7 o'clock. I'll pick you up at six."

"You live between here and Charlestown," Claude said. "Why don't I pick you up?"

"Well, I'm not sure I'll be home Friday night," Warren said. "It'll be better if I pick you up."

"You dog, you, living bachelor life to the max. How much will it be?"

"What do you mean?"

Claude sent a light backhand slap toward Warren's shoulder.

"The fishing excursion, what's it going to cost?"

"I figure about $40 each. A friend of mine has a fishing boat and owes me a favor. He has deep sea gear, and agreed to take us out if we paid for the gas for the day. Private tour, just the three of us."

"Will he have beer?"

"We'll have to bring our own," Warren said. "And lunch, too, if you want to eat something."

Of course I want to eat something, Claude thought.

The last time he'd fished on the ocean with Warren, they'd used Tim's Deep Sea Tours, out of Point Judith, and Claude expected them to go with Tim's again. For $65, Tim served lunch, cleaned the fish himself, and took photos of the catch. He sold cans of beer for $1 each. He usually had a full boat, which Claude liked, since half the fun of pulling a monster from the surf was reveling in the oohs and aahs of the other fishers. Now there might not be any.

Plus, Tim was a pro. One time two summers ago, Claude hooked a fish that gave him a terrific fight. After an extended battle, the fish quit, but even so, cranking it out of the water, to Claude, felt like reeling an anvil up a waterfall. At last Claude ratcheted the limp fish from the sea, but as he leaned over the rail to grab its tail, the fish wriggled. A gunshot rang out, and the exploding fish splattered on Claude.

Before Claude grasped what had happened, Tim put a hand on his shoulder.

"Sorry about that," he said. "I was waiting here with the baseball bat, but when you reached for it I used the pistol. We don't see many of these out here."

He reached over the rail and slid his hand down the line. The remnants of fish twisted, and Claude and the small group of onlookers gasped as a set of powerful jaws, clenched, with dagger-like teeth, spun into view.

"He wasn't dead," Tim said. "If you'd grabbed him he'd have taken off your hand."

No, Claude didn't mind paying for the right fishing experience. Like the five-handicap golfer who sniffs at the scruffy nine-hole course he grew up playing, Claude was well past his boyish days of sitting on a footbridge snagging sunfish from a tiny brook. As an avid, if unaccomplished, angler, he obeyed certain standards, and Warren's "favor from a friend" smacked of the type of amateur foolishness Claude would sooner avoid.

The weather report called for sunny skies but cool, fall-like weather. Claude put on a mesh shirt, a thick wool sweater, blue jeans, wool socks, and his new sneakers. He took a water-resistant pullover from the closet and tossed it over the chair near the front door. After fixing himself some coffee, he went back to the bedroom and filled a duffel bag with his Rhode Island Electric rain gear, a pair of sweat pants, some old work gloves, tanning lotion, and an extra pack of cigarettes. He assumed essentials like poles, nets, and bait would be provided, but rummaged through his tackle box for his favorite fishing knife and a handful of accessories he kept specifically for trips to the deep sea. Finally, he tucked two ham and cheese subs and a bag of pretzels into the bag and zipped it shut.

When Warren did not arrive promptly at six, Claude smirked to himself. Lucky bastard, he thought as he sipped coffee. Next thing he knew, Claude pictured himself winning $100 million, but before he made it to the sunny island, Warren tooted his horn from the front of the house.

Claude put his coffee mug down, extinguished a nearly-spent cigarette, and donned his sunglasses even though it wasn't yet bright outside. He paused for a mental check of the items he needed, and, satisfied he had it all, grabbed his jacket and duffel bag and headed out the door.

"Hey ho," he called when he saw Warren by the open trunk. "Who's ready for some fishing?"

Warren smiled and pointed out two cases of beer in the trunk. Claude set his bag in, and Warren closed the trunk.

The car was a two-door Grand Marquis, at least 15 years old, faded blue with a rumble in its tailpipe and a torn vinyl top. All four wheels were hubcap-challenged. The passenger door had a large dent in it, and opened only after a hard jerk, and the driver's side rear view mirror had no glass. Newspapers, fast food bags, and empty coffee cups littered the back seat.

Claude didn't understand why a guy with no wife, no kids, and no mortgage would drive such a hunk of shit. Warren earned the same $22.17 an hour Claude did, and, like Claude, pulled in another $5,000 or so a year in union-mandated bonuses. Without Joan, or Jamie, or the house, Claude wouldn't hesitate to sink a week's pay each month into a snazzy babemobile.

Neither man bothered with his seat belt. Before he started the engine, though, Warren asked Claude about the money. He figured $40 for the gas, and $15 for one of the cases of beer. Claude gave him $60 and told him not to worry about the change.

An hour later, Warren wheeled the Grand Marquis off Route 1 toward the ocean. Claude wasn't aware of any marina in the area they were headed, and was surprised when Warren stopped the car in the parking lot of a restaurant across the street from a beach.

"Your friend docks here?" Claude said.

"Oh no," Warren said. "There aren't any docks here. We have to go to meet him."

Ah, Claude thought, now I get it. He once drove by a yacht club in Marblehead, Massachusetts, and recalled watching high school kids in little speedboats shuttle rich people to their boats. When he and Warren climbed over the grassy ridge, Claude expected to see a small bay dotted with boats of all sizes, like in Marblehead, and nervous old men shouting "slow down" to wide-grinned teenagers buzzing between the floating obstacles.

Instead, Claude saw a beach. He scanned the water for a fishing boat, but didn't see one. Warren, carrying the beer plus his own shoulder bag, led Claude behind a grassy dune to a turned-over wooden rowboat, set his load on the sand, and flipped the boat over. Spiders scurried up the sides of the boat and disappeared from view. Warren reached into a deposit of seaweed and lifted two oars, formerly blue but now faded to gray, with pieces of leather nailed to the handles and crevices running from the leather all the way down to the blades. Claude imagined the splinters he'd get if he ran his hand the length of an oar.

"Are you serious?" Claude said.

"Sure. Ken's got an extra anchor. Don't worry, I've done this a zillion times."

Claude helped Warren carry the boat, oars, duffel bags, and beer to the water's edge. The pair climbed in, and each took an oar.

In ten minutes, after they'd rowed a fair distance, Warren pulled in his oar and opened a beer.

"Here's to a good day's catch," he said.

Before long a red and white wooden vessel, low to the water, chugged toward them. When it neared to within fifty feet, Claude heard the engine stop, and the boat swung in a full circle before the bow gently bopped the drifting rowboat.

"Ahoy there, maties," came a call from the boat. "Top of the morning to you."

From the wheelhouse emerged a tall, thin man with salt-and-pepper hair wearing blue jeans and, despite the cool temperature, a short-sleeved t-shirt with blue and white horizontal stripes. The egg-shaped rims of his sunglasses extended low enough to touch each side of his bushy moustache. One of his white canvas sneakers was torn, and a pinkie toe showed itself through the hole. Claude placed the man in his early fifties.

The man climbed down a ladder on the side of the boat and extended a hand to Claude.

"Ken Hale," he said. "Nice to see you. Welcome to the _Lady Gray_."

Claude returned the greeting and introduced himself.

"Good morning, Mr. Taylor," Ken said to Warren. "Nice to see you. Toss me what you've got in the boat and we'll head out to catch us some fishies."

Warren handed him the duffel bags and beer, which Ken passed to Claude, who set them on the deck. Ken asked Claude to hand him the small anchor near the cabin door, and passed it to Warren. When Warren tied a clumsy clove hitch, Ken hopped into the rowboat to add a half hitch, then leapt back to the ladder and helped haul Warren up over the rail.

Ken led the pair into the wheelhouse, where they put the beer into coolers of ice. He showed Claude where he stored the life vests and other emergency equipment and where to find the fishing gear. He gave Claude an above-deck tour and oral history of the _Lady Gray_ , then brought him back to the wheelhouse and cracked open beers for them both.

"Thank you," Claude said. "This is a nice boat. I appreciate you taking us out. I hope we aren't costing you a day's work."

"You aren't," Ken said. "I only fish two or three days a week. It's really a sideline for me. It's not my main source of income."

Claude was curious but didn't ask. Three rifles hung on a rack on the cabin wall, next to a set of licenses and permits.

"Hartwick Kensington Hale IV," Claude read. "Is that you?"

"It is indeed," Ken said. "Isn't that an awful thing to do to a child? Kensington was my great-great-grandmother's maiden name, and Hartwick was her mother's maiden name. My dad was Hartwick Hale, investment banker. They called me Little Hartwick until I was twelve. Every time I told them how much I hated the name Hartwick, I got a lecture on how fine it is, and what a fine tradition it comes from, and how wonderful it is to be a Hale. One day I told them I didn't care what they wanted, I was calling myself Tony and they'd have to get used to it. My parents about had twin coronaries—Tony was an Italian name, they said—and finally consented to call me Ken. I'd have it legally changed, but I'm too lazy."

"So where are we going?" Claude said.

"I know a pretty good place. Hope you're as excited as I am, Claude."

"Call him Bugsy," Warren said.

"Bugsy? All right, Bugsy it is. Anyway, I hope you're primed for a good day of fishing."

Warren and Claude responded at the same time, Warren to say he was primed for a good day of fishing and Claude to say Ken could call him Claude instead of Bugsy, but Warren's statement was both first and louder, so Claude allowed himself to be cut off. He didn't return to it. Ken started the engine and pointed the craft toward the rising sun.

"Blackback flounder should be striking now," Ken said. "It isn't dawn or dusk, but I'm sure we can entice one or two into a mid-morning snack down near the ocean floor. I have some mussels and crawlers in that little cooler if you want to go for blackbacks. I've also got some shrimp and crab bits if you want to go for porgies. It's been a good summer for porgies."

"Can we go for anything bigger?" Claude said.

"Sure," Ken said. "I've got two rods loaded with 40-pound test and 8/0 Sproat hooks. Cod and pollack aren't peaking quite yet, but feel free to go for them if you'd like."

"Thanks," Claude said. "I think I will."

He asked if he could smoke, and Ken laughed and said of course, so Claude lit up. He drained his beer so he could use the can for an ash tray, and Warren tossed him another.

"Ken," Warren said, "Bugsy's the guy I was telling you about. His father was president of the UUW way back."

"Aha," Ken said. "This should be interesting. Warren and I have had many conversations about unions, but disagree about what they are and what they should be. Maybe you can help resolve some of our differences."

"Doubt it," Claude said. "It's been so long since I seen a real union in action, I forget what it's like."

"There's a start," Ken said with a sniffle as he turned the wheel to avoid a large piece of floating garbage. "What's your union doing wrong?"

"What's it doing right?" Warren said, but although Ken fired a smile Warren's way, he returned immediately to Claude and held his stare as Claude took a long drag of his cigarette and held the smoke a count before exhaling.

"The biggest pisser nowadays," Claude said, "is that union members aren't there to help each other. If a guy has a problem with management, the union should support him, a hundred percent, from the union president all the way down to the regular joes. But our union doesn't do it that way. The union brass, forget it, they saw how good it is for them personally if they just cozy up to management. Management tells the UUW reps what they want—what management wants, that is—and if the reps deliver it, they can sit back and watch the bennies roll in. Easy days in a nice office with nothing to do. Tickets to anything. Trips to conferences in California. It's a racket, and all they have to do is sell their members short."

"Short?" Ken said.

"Yeah, short," Claude said. "Forcing us into HMOs, and then when those fail forcing us into PPOs, whatever the hell those are. Making us take a college test every time we want to bid a job. Keeping our wages way below everyone else's in the area. Like I said, deliver for management. If the company can save two million bucks by shaving a percentage point off the raises, what do they care about box seats at Fenway ten or twenty times a year? The union reps get the tickets, management gets the two million, and we get squat."

Ken looked to Warren. "I'm claiming Bugsy for my side."

"You're wrong," Warren said. "He's a fighter. If we ever had the balls to strike, Bugsy would be first in the picket line."

"Maybe," Ken said, "but not for the reasons you think."

Ken drew a log stream of air into his nostrils, sending the liquidy solids inside toward the bridge of his nose, and wiped the back of his right hand over his moustache. He pinched the fleshy base of his nose, and looked to see if anything came out. With his left hand he reached into a small tin and pulled out a fistful of peanuts.

"Want some?" he said. Claude and Warren declined, and Ken popped the nuts in his mouth, one by one, as he spoke.

"Warren sees the union as an instrument of power," Ken said to Claude while chomping. "He feels the union's job is to dominate management. Ostensibly, they should do so for wages and benefits and work conditions and so forth, but when you get right down to it, Warren cares less about the what than the how. He wants the control, the ability to bring the other side to its knees, day in and day out, regardless of the issue or whether the union's right or wrong."

"Not true," Warren said. "Sure, the quality of pay and conditions and benefits is the main goal of any union, but you don't get what you want if you're powerless. First you show your strength. Then you make your demands. Why bargain before you flex your muscles? Put some fear into them, make them squirm about the possibilities. Were the Philadelphia carpenters able to get ten-hour days before they stopped working or after?"

"You don't care what the carpenters got," Ken said. "But even two hundred years later, you still get a thrill from knowing they brought the masters to heel."

Claude stood up from the cooler and walked behind Ken to inspect the rifles on the opposite wall of the wheelhouse. "Whatcha got here?"

Warren answered. "The top one's an AR-15 semi-automatic .223 with a red-dot scope and a compensator. The middle one's a Remington 1100 12-gauge autoloader shotgun. The bottom one's a Marlin Model 1889 Rifle, an antique. It looks good, but Ken would never fire it."

"Unless I had to," Ken said. "But back to what I was saying, Bugsy's more into family, like me. Isn't that right?"

"What do you mean?" Claude said.

"I mean, a union's like a family," Ken said. "People buy into a union because of the social aspect, because it feels good to belong, because of the kinship that develops among the members. It's like when you were little and had to go to church, or to school. Why did you go? Because your parents told you to. You obeyed them. You went not because you believed in the value of church or school, but because your ties with your parents were important to you. Your family ties carried over to school too: If your brother got into a fight, you stood up for him, no matter what, because he's your brother. Your brother is important to you in ways that are a lot bigger than the squabble of the moment. You think union brothers should behave the same way."

"I do," Claude said. "Except in real life I don't have a brother."

Ken flashed Claude a smile. "I don't either, but I'm sure if we'd had them, we'd have protected them. The point is, if you see a union as a family, then it limits you. Preserving the relationship becomes important. A good parent will do the best he can for his family without putting the family unit itself in jeopardy. When you use the same analogy with the union, all of a sudden the all-or-nothing strategy Warren prefers is harder to support, because if it fails it's the end of the family, and you don't want that. You're happy if you can keep the family together and provide each member with a good life. I mean, it's natural for people to bitch about this thing they don't have or that thing they don't have, but in a union you have to realize you're never going to wring every single dollar from the company till unless you're willing to risk everything to get it, and most of the time it just doesn't make sense. I'd rather focus on the ninety-five percent of the pot I do have than fret about the five percent I don't have."

Warren opened another beer. "That's not fair," he said.

"Why?" Ken said.

"Because in Bugsy's case the union isn't like family, the union is family."

Warren laughed, Claude forced a chuckle, and Ken popped another handful of nuts. The conversation turned to fishing. The trio swapped tales about ocean beasts, drank beer, and chugged toward a fish-filled part of the sea. In an hour, Ken cut the engine and announced they'd reached their destination. When the men gathered the fishing gear and sat on a bench on the port side of the craft to prepare, Claude selected a rod with a heavy line and baited the hook with bits of shrimp.

"Hey, you know what?" Ken said. "I forgot to bring up the gaffs. Warren, can you go down and grab them? Should be three long and one short."

Warren went to the back corner of the wheelhouse, lifted a square section of the floor, and slipped the latch onto a hook on the cabin wall to hold the door open.

"Shit, forgot the big net, too" Ken said to Claude. "Maybe I'll grab my sweatshirt while I'm down there. Be right back."

Ken went to the wheelhouse. Claude heard a loud whump, looked over his shoulder through the window, and saw that the trap door had slammed behind Ken. He returned to his preparation.

In five minutes, Ken and Warren were back, and all three tossed their lines over the rail. As the need arose, they urinated off the starboard rail. Their chatter halted and took new turns as a steady stream of fish were hooked, boated, and placed in a big metal tub to await cleaning.

At noon, Ken suggested they eat, and he and Warren went below deck. Claude had to use the ladder. When finished, he wondered why the others went beneath the wheelhouse, since the sandwiches were in the cooler near the cabin door. When he pulled the trap door, it budged a little but didn't open. He tried again, with a harder yank, but it felt as though the door were locked from inside. Claude grabbed one of his own sandwiches and a beer from the cooler and headed for the bench, but before he sat down he heard the trap door creak open and Ken talking, and a few seconds later Ken and Warren reappeared and joined Claude outside.

Claude was glad he'd dressed warmly. Although the overhead sun shone bright in the sky, the non-stop wind turned a cool day cold. Claude pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose.

"This wind is something," he said. "Just a few hours out here, and already Warren and I are getting the sniffles just like you, Ken."

"When you do what I do," Ken said, "sniffles come with the territory."

Warren and Ken broke into laughter. Claude didn't see what was so funny but smiled along with them.

"Come on inside the wheelhouse," Ken said. "We can warm up a bit, and the way we're drifting we'll still be in good fishing waters. Come on."

Claude didn't see the point of sitting in the wheelhouse when there were fish to be taken, but followed Ken in. He picked up a pair of binoculars and scanned the horizon, surprised at how many large boats could be seen with a decent set of lenses. Ken and Warren flopped onto the cabin floor near the coolers.

"I think the time will come when unions won't be necessary," Ken announced. "We're not too far from that now. It'll start out as a fad, of course, a business craze, but once it happens, look out. Management will see all this head-butting is stupid, and the workers will agree. Then it's bye-bye unions."

"Dreamer," Warren said.

"No, seriously," Ken said. "Empires crumble. Capitalism won't last forever—like feudalism, it'll run its course. Once the oil dries up, maybe mitigation will be a good thing. Maybe companies will be happy to turn a modest profit as long as the jobs they provide give their workers good lives. Maybe CEOs of the future won't be able to become millionaires, maybe the lack of resources just won't allow it to happen."

"Oh please," Warren said. "What you're saying is that when resources become scarce, the high end is going to fall but the middle and bottom are going to stay the same. That's a pretty silly notion, Ken. There's always going to be a little wealth in the world, however it's measured, and it's pretty obvious that we'll go back to a handful of people hoarding it all before we turn into the utopic fantasy world you're talking about."

"That's only because you can't look beyond your current frame of reference. You can only see union and management at each other's throats, with the worker trying to decide which one to pledge his allegiance to. What I'm saying is in theory a worker can have allegiance to both a company and a union—if the company and the union share the same goal. It's already happening, Warren. Companies in this country are saying, look, we won't move to Mexico, but you've got to be willing to cut back a little, to not try to squeeze everything out of us. Once that takes hold we're on our way to a better world."

"We're on our way to living like Mexicans," Warren said. "We're the richest nation in the history of the world. Why should we accept substandard anything? Why should we take less so the CEOs can take more? We do the work, let us keep the profits. Tell me, what exactly does Munson own, anyway? Does he own us? He's our CEO, but if he died tomorrow, we wouldn't need to replace him. We do the work already. Throw his desk out the window and split his millions and his stock options among the people keeping the lights on."

Warren wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "Bugsy, what do you think?"

"Don't really know," Claude said. With the binoculars at his eyes, he moved his head from one side of the cabin window to the other. "How far can you see with these things?"

"How far are the stars in the sky?" Ken said.

Claude kept his eyes on the ocean. He said nothing. The boat rolled. Ken sniffed again and reached for the tin of nuts.

"All I'm saying," Ken said, "is that a company is like a person. People have values, and so do companies. If your company has good values, you respect it, just like you would a person. If companies treated their employees like lifelong friends, I could see a day when unions would disappear. I realize right now most companies in our country treat their employees like things to be used and discarded—in fact I recently read that the average company is geared toward keeping its employees for only five years now—but deep down we all know that's crap. Nobody wants friends they don't respect, or friends who don't respect them. Maybe someday we'll all wake up and realize how much better off we'll be when companies and employees simply treat each other with real, honest-to-goodness respect."

Warren spat on the floor. Claude flipped the binoculars around and looked through the wide end of the lenses. Ken seemed ten miles away.

"Hey Warren," Claude said at last, "when we gonna meet your girl?"

"Warren's got a girl?" Ken said.

Claude took the binoculars from his face. "That's where you stayed last night, isn't it?"

With eyes on him Warren fidgeted. But then his face broke into a wide smile. "Didn't catch her name, if you want to know the truth."

Claude shook his head and grinned. "You dog."

Ken looked at Warren and tossed his palms in the air. Warren shrugged. Ken laughed.

"Yeah, Warren, hey when are you going to settle down, anyway?," Ken said. "You're getting on you know. Time to catch a filly, don't you think?"

"Didn't do you any good, did it?" Warren said.

"I just picked the wrong one. Twice. But I'll get it right the next time, you watch."

"Sorry, I'm not taking marriage advice from someone like you," Warren said. "No offense."

"None taken," Ken said with a smile.

"But now Bugsy here, he's stayed married all these years. Him, he can give me advice on marriage."

They both looked at Claude, who smiled. He lifted the binoculars so the strap came off the back of his neck, then handed the binoculars and their case back to Ken. He sat on a cooler and pulled out his pack of cigarettes.

"They all get fat," Claude said. "They yap when you need them to listen. They bitch when you buy a power saw, then spend twice as much on crap for the garden. They want nothing to do with you when you're horny, but as soon as you fall asleep they're climbing all over you, expecting to be serviced. They cook the same old food and wear the same old clothes and tell the same old stories over and over and over again. They've got no respect for the way it's supposed to be, with the man making all the decisions and everyone else following his lead."

Claude lit a cigarette. He shook the match out and tossed the spent stick on the floor. He slid as much of his mouth to the right side of his face as possible, and exhaled a stream of smoke through the tiny opening.

"That's marriage," he said. "I wouldn't mind trading in my wife for something newer on the showroom floor, but it'd kill her. I'm the best thing she's ever had. She has a nice home, nice family, pretty yard, all because of me. Sometimes she forgets that, and I have to remind her, but we're clear on who's in charge. If you ever do get married, stick to your guns. It's your castle. Don't let your wife tell you to do this or do that, because if you give in once, you give in forever. My dad taught me that. You're the man. Do it your way."

"Cut the crap," Warren said. "That daughter of yours even hints she wants something and you've got the credit card out before the second syllable leaves her mouth. King of the castle my ass. If that only child of yours wants it, she gets it."

"That's different," Claude said. "I love my daughter. I can't imagine living without her."

"You love your wife, too," Ken said. "Sure, the dynamics between you and your wife are different than between you and your daughter, but that's to be expected. Wives have to succeed in lots of ways daughters don't. I've had two wives come and go, and even though I could no longer live with either of them, I loved them both. I still love them both. Whenever you share a common circumstance with any kind of intensity, and make agreements that satisfy you both, there's got to be some love there. When I was married I dwelled on all the great things about being single, and now that I'm single, I tend to miss a lot of the good things about being married. You can complain about your wife all you want, but if she were so bad you'd have been gone long ago."

"Maybe," Claude said.

"What's her name?"

"Joan."

"Joan Amognes?"

"Yeah, she didn't want a name that rhymed. When we got engaged, she wanted to keep her maiden name. That lasted about two seconds."

"So why are you still with her?"

Claude leaned back on the cooler, resting on his palm as the middle and index fingers of his left hand held his cigarette. He crossed his legs.

"A husband and wife stay together," he said. "My parents argued, but there was never any question of them splitting up. My in-laws fought all the time. My wife will stand by me forever, and that's the way it's supposed to be. She's my wife."

The threesome returned to their rods, and excitement reigned as they pulled in one fish after another. Claude caught the biggest fish, a cod, but Warren landed the most surprising, a five-pound sheepshead.

"Must be a sunken wreck around here somewhere," Ken said. "That's a good-sized sheepshead. Make you a fine dinner."

Warren placed his catch in the tub with the other fish, and asked Claude if he wanted another beer.

"Naw, I'm done," Claude said. "How much longer do we have?"

"It's two-thirty now," Ken said. "I'd say we should start back in another hour or so.

The rest of the afternoon the men tossed anything they caught back to the sea, and at three-thirty Ken started the engine and headed for land while Warren and Claude put away the gear and cleaned up. Ken told them to decide which fish they wanted to keep and which he should drop off at the market. Claude opted to take home his cod and one of the porgies Warren didn't want. Joan could clean them, and whichever one they didn't have for dinner could be frozen for later.

Once the chores were finished and the fish wrapped, Warren and Claude joined Ken in the wheelhouse to escape the wind and keep him company. As the wind picked up, the engine strained to power the boat through the high swells. Claude wished he'd left his last beer in the cooler as the waves rocked him and his stomach.

"I've got to use the ladder," he announced.

"Jesus, be careful," Ken said.

Claude left the wheelhouse.

"Maybe you should go watch him," Ken said. "If he falls overboard, he's gone."

"Aw shucks," Warren said. "I was thinking of heading back down beneath the deck again."

They both laughed, and Ken shooed Warren out the door to keep an eye on Claude. Before long, both returned, and with Ken spent the rest of the trip chatting about sports and the weather.

As they neared the anchored rowboat, Claude thanked Ken for such a terrific time, and said he really enjoyed meeting him and perhaps would see him sometime soon, and thanked him again for such a terrific time. Ken helped Warren and Claude into the rowboat, handed down their duffel bags and their fish, and waved goodbye. He waited on the rail until certain they could handle the rowboat in the swells, and when he saw they were managing well enough, he disappeared into the wheelhouse, started the engine, and lumbered away.

"I told you he'd do us right," Warren said.

"Good call," Claude said. "He sure did do us right."

At the beach, Warren took care of the boat and oars while Claude lugged everything to the car. An hour later, Warren steered the Grand Marquis into the Amognes's driveway.

"Thanks for a great day," Claude said as he slung his bag over his shoulder and walked with Warren to the trunk to get his catch. "I had a good time. We'll have to do it again sometime in the spring. Be sure to thank Ken for me the next time you see him."

"I will," Warren said. "See you Monday."

"See you Monday."

### Chapter 24

Monday, Claude stopped at the line shed before heading to the stores department. As he came out the door to cross the parking lot, he saw Warren waving him to hurry up.

I wonder what that's about, Claude thought as he meandered over the asphalt.

When Claude neared, Warren came up and took Claude's arm.

"Hey Bugsy, I need you," he whispered.

"For what?"

"Not so loud," Warren said. "I got the call."

"What are you talking about?"

"I got the call, man. Feeney called me at six this morning."

"What for?"

"It's my turn for a random," Warren said.

"And?"

"And I don't think I can pass. I need you."

Warren opened his jacket and lifted a small beaker from the inside pocket until Claude could see it.

"What do you mean you can't pass?" Claude said. "What are you, an idiot?"

"No time for that. I need your help."

Rhode Island Electric had a random drug-testing procedure for employees who operated any kind of dangerous equipment. Compared to other departments, the dangers in stores paled, but the crane was tricky, and the forklifts, in theory, could do some damage, so at negotiations management insisted the stores department be included in the tests. Every employee eligible for testing would be tested at least once every two years, but not more than once every six months unless he or she tested positive. The penalty for a failed drug test was an automatic positive discipline warning.

Warren ushered Claude into the men's room and handed him the beaker.

"No way," Claude said. "Are you trying to get us both fired?"

"Nobody's going to get fired. I've done this twice before, and it's kosher. They don't do DNA tests on it. As long as it's male piss, it doesn't matter."

"Who did it for you before?"

"Artie from substation the first time," Warren said as he pushed Claude into a stall. "Elton last time."

"Elton?" Claude said. "That cocksucker?"

"He owed me a favor. Hurry up. I'm supposed to be in the nurse's office now."

"Well, I wasn't exactly prepared for this, so you'll just have to wait."

"Yeah, yeah, just relax, and everything will flow smoothly," Warren said. "Just relax, and everything will flow."

Another thirty seconds passed, but then Warren heard fluid hit the plastic beaker, and a few seconds later heard it plunge into the toilet.

"Damn, I got some on the side," Claude said.

"Hurry up," Warren said.

"Just a minute. Let me wipe up and zip up, and you'll be all set."

Claude flushed the toilet and opened the stall door. He reached out to hand the warm beaker to Warren, but before the transfer was complete, the men's room door opened and in walked Elton. The three men froze. Elton turned around and left.

"Aw shit," Claude said. "Why him?"

"Don't worry," Warren said. "He can't report you because he did it once himself. Thanks a lot. I've got to go."

Claude kept as busy as possible the rest of the morning and avoided Elton. In the afternoon, he didn't speak to Elton, though that wasn't unusual, but just before quitting time the two men wound up loading the same truck and made eye contact three times. Claude felt relieved. Eye contact was about the extent of their relationship anyway. In addition, Claude took comfort in his belief that Elton was a company ass-kisser. He'd do anything to avoid a black mark on his record.

### Chapter 25

With his 25th wedding anniversary approaching, Scotty Williams decided to pad his regular paycheck with five or six overtime hours so he could buy a nice gift. While most of the stores guys worked their paycheck-padding overtime at the end of the normal workday, Scotty preferred to do his early in the morning, since in the morning it was less likely there'd be any work to do. Even better, Scotty knew none of his UUW brothers were going to climb out of bed early to gripe about anything union-related. They could just as easily gripe at 7 o'clock with a full night's rest.

Thursday morning, Scotty parked in the front lot and fumbled for his department keys as he balanced a giant cup of steaming coffee on a cardboard drive-thru tray. He found the keys, but when he rounded the corner found the steel grate door already open. He walked through the entrance, and saw Schulke sitting in a chair he'd pulled from the office.

"Morning, Scott," Schulke said.

"Morning, boss. What brings you here so early?"

"Actually, I've been here since 3:30 this morning. We had a little incident, and we need to call everyone together first thing to talk about it. Can you come to the cafeteria with me and help grab some chairs?"

"What happened?"

"Well it's probably best to wait until everyone's together. Mr. Clarke thinks it best.

Geez Louise, thought Scotty, Clarke and Schulke having a 3 a.m. discussion? Had to be bad.

They walked to the cafeteria, and Schulke unlocked the door.

"We have four chairs in the office," Scotty said, "and nine people in the department. Can the two of us handle five chairs?" "We'll have to make two or three trips," Schulke said. "The guys from the garage are joining us."

Scotty dropped the two chairs he'd picked up. "Tom, what the hell happened?"

"Let's wait until the meeting."

"No," Scotty said. "Let's not wait. I'm the shop steward. If this involves the union in any way, I should be notified."

Scotty put his hands in his back pockets and looked at the floor.

"Come on, Tom," he said. "Don't make me look bad in front of the guys from the garage. If something big happened in my own department, I should know."

"All right," Schulke said. "Let's get these chairs over to stores. You come to the office just before the meeting, and I'll give you the whole scoop."

They hauled the chairs and arranged them in rows. As people trickled in to work, Scotty told them about the meeting, as Schulke asked, but tried to remain off by himself as much as possible. He didn't join the others in speculation, though he ran through the possibilities in his own mind.

At 7:10, once the members of the two departments were seated, Scotty went to the office and Schulke closed the door. Out on the floor, Frank Dombrowski felt the mood was right for a little magic, so he selected a chair, sat back, folded his arms, and looked serious. Two days earlier, stores unloaded crates and crates of tires, so Frank knew the garage was doing routine truck maintenance. He also knew the tires were ordered from a company Rhode Island Electric had never used before.

"Anyone know what this is about?" Quinn, one of the garage guys, said.

"I do," Frank said. "But I can't say anything."

"Aw come on," Quinn said. "You have to tell us. Come on."

Frank unfolded his arms and leaned forward. He put an index finger six inches in front of his mouth.

"Ok," he said. "But you didn't hear nothing from me."

Everyone leaned in.

"I couldn't sleep last night," Frank said, "so I went down to the kitchen to get me a bowl of cereal. While I'm eating, I turn on my police scanner—I figure what the heck, right? Well, I come in in the middle, see, so the cops are already heated up. First thing I hear is some guy screaming that those screwups at the electric company don't know their asses from their elbows. 'How can anyone be so stupid?'"

"What happened?" Quinn said.

"He's yelling 'Truck crash on Elmwood. Truck crash on Blackstone. Truck crashes at Broad, Friendship, and Grehoski.' Then another cop comes on the scanner. Says, 'Hey Sarge, I think we figured out what's going on here.' The Sarge says go ahead."

Claude and Darezzo glanced at each other and shook their heads.

"'Well, Sarge,' the guy says, 'it looks like somebody in the Rhode Island Electric garage tried to save a few bucks by ordering cheap tires. Trouble is, they got sucked in by that company exposed on the news a while back, the one with tires that look like real rubber, and feel like real rubber, but only cost a tenth of what real rubber costs and explode after just a few miles on the road.'"

The guys from the garage froze.

"Can't be," Quinn said.

"Is," Frank said. "Two dead, six on the critical list."

"But those tires were fine! There's no way...oh god...there's no way...oh god...oh god..."

Claude and Darezzo and the others from stores exploded in laughter. Frank leaned back and folded his arms with a satisfied grin. Once they realized they'd been had, the members of the garage joined the laughter.

Schulke and Scotty emerged from the office amid the whoops and howls and shouts.

"What's going on here?" Schulke said.

The men faced front and the giggles slowed to a halt. Scotty took the lone empty chair from the middle of the back row and dragged it off to one side, where nobody could see him but the boss.

"I don't know what all this is about," Schulke said, "but what I have to tell you is no laughing matter."

He paused, and cleared his throat.

"Last night, we learned who's been stealing wire from the company. Before all kinds of rumors get started, Mr. Clarke felt it best to call you together and give you the facts as we know them. At 2 o'clock this morning, Warren Taylor drove into the back lot, used his key to open the gate, and hitched a trailer loaded with copper wire to the back of his car. The security camera did not catch him, and we suspect he climbed the stairs to the roof yesterday and pushed the camera out of position. He would've gotten away scot-free—again—except that when he was leaving the scene, he passed a policeman who noticed Warren's registration had expired. The officer put on his lights, but instead of pulling over, Warren took off, and the officer chased him through the city. At one point, it appeared Warren had eluded the officer by pulling into a parking lot under some trees and hiding. Fortunately, a backup officer responding to reports of the chase saw him drive into the lot and turn off his lights."

Schulke paused again, and the seated men exchanged glances. Claude sat up straight.

"The backup officer left his vehicle and approached Warren from the rear. When he ordered Warren to get out of the car, Warren turned the key and hit the gas. Unfortunately, the officer had hold of the door handle and was dragged approximately 200 feet before he was able to let go, and was struck on the head by the trailer as Warren drove away. The officer remains in the hospital in serious condition, though our last report indicates he will, ultimately, be all right.

"Warren was stopped a few blocks later, and apprehended by officers with drawn guns. In Warren's car, the police found a small amount of cocaine and an unloaded pistol. The sergeant Mr. Clarke spoke with believes Warren was selling the wire for money to buy drugs. Apparently, he was evicted from his apartment months ago for not paying his rent, and was living in a dilapidated trailer with no running water."

"What's he looking at?" Darezzo said.

"Two years minimum for assaulting the officer," Schulke said. "Bail was set at $30,000, but it might as well be $30 million, because Warren doesn't have a dime. It looks like he'll be in jail at least another two months."

"What about the theft?" John Carrollton said. "Will that add more time if he gets convicted?"

"We haven't decided yet if we're going to press grand larceny charges or not," Schulke said. "Mr. Clarke's meeting with legal today to review our options, and after that he'll speak to the union about terminating Warren's employment. The police have turned over his keys and kept the wire for evidence. We promised to cooperate with the investigation in any way we can. In fact, Warren just took a company drug test Monday, and when the results come back we'll give them to the police so they can show the court he had cocaine in his system as recently as this week."

"They won't find no cocaine," Elton MacGibbon said in a loud, commanding voice. All heads turned to the end of the second row, where Elton sat with his arms folded.

"Excuse me?" Schulke said.

"I said they won't find no cocaine. The pee he turned in Monday wasn't his own. He got it from someone else in the men's room before the test."

Claude's pulse doubled.

"Who?" Schulke said.

"I'm not saying. But I am going to tell you this: I'm ashamed to say I helped Warren pass a drug test once my own self."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Darezzo said.

Again Elton's voice boomed. "I'm talking about doing something very wrong, something I've regretted since the minute it happened. Something I deserve to be punished for. Something no one should ever get away with."

With the last phrase, Elton's stiff back loosened. His hands dropped to his lap, and his head bowed. Though his eyes pointed at the floor in front of Schulke, it didn't appear he was looking at anything. When he spoke again, his words were barely audible.

"You know, as the boss was telling what happened with Warren, I couldn't help but think maybe I could have helped him get his life together, you know, a year ago, when I knew he had a problem. I didn't, and believe me, I'm sorry. I'm very sorry. In a way, I feel a little responsible for that officer lying in the hospital today. I knew Warren had a problem. I just never thought it could come to anything like this."

"Why did you do it?" Schulke said. "You could have said no."

"He kind of cornered me," Elton said. "He didn't give me time to think, and my first reaction was that I should help a union brother. Looking back, I see I was a fool. I was wrong, and I deserve to be punished."

"How do you know Warren cheated this time, too?"

"I walked into the bathroom as the guy was handing a cup of pee to Warren. I turned around and walked right out of there, before anyone could say a word to me. Before anyone could involve me again."

"Who was it?"

"I'm not telling."

"Now listen," Schulke said in a firm voice, "we've promised to cooperate with the police investigation. If you know who did it, tell me."

"I won't," Elton said. "But if you've got the pee, you don't need me to tell you, do you?"

Claude's lungs kicked into high gear to accommodate his pulsating heart. He fought to keep his breathing pattern from notice, but it only contributed to his shortness of oxygen. His mind raced and his eyes darted. He tried to convince himself it was Gino who stole the wire, and he had nothing to do with it. If he believed Gino did it, then the way he was acting was natural, because he had no hand at all in anything Gino had done.

The rest of the men murmured among themselves.

"Well, if any of you helped Warren cheat," the boss said, "you're in big trouble. We'll know in a few days. Otherwise, that's all I have to report. If the union agrees to his termination, we'll be posting Warren's job, and once the bidding is complete we'll have someone new to fill the bottom spot on the roster. In the unlikely event Warren is released from jail any time soon, he's not allowed near the property, so if you see him in the vicinity you are to report it to me immediately. Understood?"

The men nodded.

"Okay," Schulke said. "Meeting adjourned."

Later in the morning, Schulke sought Claude in the stacks.

"Excuse me, Claude," Schulke said. "Can I have a second?"

Claude fought a reaction of any type. But as he checked a recoil, he noticed the lack of bark in Schulke's voice. He saw Schulke's shirt untucked on one side. He watched Schulke's shoulders slump.

"Yes?" Claude said.

"I know you and Warren were friends," Schulke said. "I was just wondering if you saw any of this coming."

"I didn't, no."

"Warren and I had our battles, but even so, I must say I feel for him. He's in quite a pickle. I wish he'd gotten professional help."

"Me too," Claude said.

Schulke started to smile, but his mouth stopped after the first muscle moved. "No idea who helped him cheat on his drug test this week?"

"No."

"Just wondering. I'm running through the candidates in my head, and nothing's jumping out at me. Well, if you hear anything, let me know."

He and left. When Claude was sure Schulke was no longer in the vicinity, he exhaled, and clenched his bangs in his fists. He wanted to scream. Since the meeting, he'd brainstormed dozens of lies to cover himself, but rejected them all. None were plausible.

He wanted to work hard, and not do anything to attract anyone's attention, but realized if he did much above the minimum it might be seen as a departure from the norm and attract attention. Acting natural became an undertaking, and the effort he put into it threatened to expose him.

He fantasized about a gunman wandering in to shoot Schulke. He'd take a bullet for the boss now. They couldn't give him a decision-making leave after a heroic act like that.

#

At 11:30, the department broke for lunch, and Scotty talked Claude into joining him at a nearby fast-food joint. The opportunity to be removed from the department eye appealed to Claude.

Once in the car, however, Scotty turned serious.

"What are you going to do, man?" he asked Claude.

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. What the fuck are you going to do?"

"About fucking what?" Claude said.

"What are you going to do when Schulke finds out you gave the piss to Warren."

"I didn't give the piss to Warren."

"That's not what Elton says."

Claude gripped the middle armrest, but managed a slight smile. Scotty didn't see either. Claude's smile widened.

"Elton also said he wasn't gonna tell who did it," Claude said. "I know Elton's been looking for a chance to run me in for a long time, and I'm not surprised he sees his chance now. The way I see it, Warren was too smart to let so many people in on what he was doing. I think when Warren slipped up and got caught for the world to see, Elton figured he'd get off easier if he fessed up quick."

Scotty bit the nail on his left index finger. He held his teeth together, rolled down his window, and spit the tiny nail chunk to the wind. He rolled up the window.

"Number one," Scotty said, "Elton said he wouldn't tell Schulke, and to my knowledge he hasn't. But he's not shy about telling us. Number two, at the moment, Warren don't look so smart in my eyes. Number three, Elton wouldn't mention the piss if it was going to hang him. You're right about him cutting his losses—that's exactly what he's doing. But he's fingering you, and I want to know how you're going to respond."

Scotty snapped on his blinker and whipped the car to the curb. He shifted to park and looked to Claude.

"Bugsy, if you tell me you didn't do it, I'll go to the mat for you, no matter what Elton says. If you tell me you did do it, I'll do whatever I can to make sure you only get a DML and not the outright boot. But if you tell me you didn't do it and the tests say it's your piss, I swear I'll help Shepard bury you."

Claude's pulse took off again. His chest muscles tensed. He forced himself to remain motionless.

"Now tell me," Scotty said, "did you do it?"

Claude looked his companion in the eye. "You know my dad would've beaten the crap out of me if I ever touched drugs, so I never did. Not once. There's nothing wrong with a good strong drink, but drugs are a no-no, and I have nothing to do with them. You know that, and Warren knew it too. And since Schulke screwed me with that last performance warning, who's been a perfect employee? Me. You've been in early all week— who's the first guy in in the morning? Me. There are no invoices left in the stack, because I entered them all, and there's nothing sitting on the dock all day because I come over and receive whatever's been delivered, but do I get any credit? Nope. Elton goes to Schulke and tells him he entered all the invoices, and Schulke gives him a 'good boy, good boy,' then Elton goes to Darezzo and the guys and gets them to line up against me for being a kissass—like I'm the kissass, right? So now Warren gets caught stealing wire, and is about to name names, and lo and behold, here's Elton standing up in front of everyone pointing a finger at me. Not even standing up in front of everyone. Playing closed-mouth tough guy in front of Schulke —because if he gets caught lying to Schulke he could get in big trouble —then going around to everyone else saying, 'oh, it's ok to tell you; it was Bugsy.' What kind of shit is that? He admits he gave piss to Warren, and he thinks that gives him the authority to take me down too? He's always had it in for me, and when he felt the pressure on his own back he spouted off the one name he knew Schulke wanted to hear. It's a royal screw-job. A royal screw-job."

Scotty flopped back in his seat and looked over at the steering wheel. He clicked off the blinker.

"I'm glad," Scotty said. "I'm glad. Believe me, it's a big relief."

After lunch, Claude sorted through the day's deliveries for something to keep him in a corner of the department. His hands shook, he perspired. When a shipment of raincoats arrived, he signed the packing slip while the driver still held the clipboard. He wheeled the raincoats deep into the stacks, sorted them by size, and thought.

I didn't help Warren, he told himself. No matter what, I didn't help Warren.

#

Jamie burst through the front door after school that afternoon, tossed her book bag to the couch, and raced for the downstairs bathroom. Once inside, she noticed an unfamiliar silence. Her father's truck was in the driveway, but in the family room, just on the other side of the wall from where she sat, she didn't hear a television.

When she finished in the bathroom, she found Claude staring at a blank screen.

"Hi precious," he said to her.

"Hi daddy. Everything ok?"

"Fine," Claude said. "How about a big hug?"She sat in his lap, and he held her tight. He placed his cheek against hers and squeezed her in his arms.

"You're shaking," she said." Are you sure everything is all right?"

He released her, sniffled, and looked away.

"Tough day at the office," he said. "Another hug."

She returned to him, and he embraced her again.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too."

She thought about asking, but didn't. She knew her father pretended things were well when they weren't, and all her inquiries usually got her was a flimsy story, something so silly it couldn't possibly be true, something only a child could believe, and she wasn't a child anymore, she was a woman, and the fact that her father would think she'd swallow something ridiculous in those moments sent her to her room in silent fury, and for days interrupted communication between them, until at last she decided to be the grown-up and return to him as if nothing had happened. She was a woman, she insisted to herself, yet her father didn't trust her with any of his troubles.

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "I'm going upstairs now. Is that ok?"

He nodded, and she left. When Joan arrived home, Jamie escorted her to the kitchen.

"I think something's wrong with daddy," she said. "Something happened at work. He was practically crying in there."

"Oh Christ," Joan said. "Him and work, always him and work. What this time? Mouthing off to the boss? Napping in one of the trucks?"

She raised her voice. "Finally get fired, did you? Well, I'm sure it wasn't your fault, was it? I'm sure somebody was out to get you, as usual. Whatever you did, don't worry, it couldn't possibly effect me and Jamie, your family. We don't matter. You just worry about finding someone to blame, some excuse to make, some lie to get you out of it."

She broke into sobs. She wept for a moment, then smashed her hand to the table. "I'm sick of it! Sick, sick, sick of it!"

Joan rose from her chair and stormed out the door. Jamie heard the Buick start and rumble away. She crept to the family room, taking care to stop in the doorway.

"Are you all right?" she asked her father.

Claude's back was to her. "Yes," he said. "I'm all right. And when your mother comes back, tell her I did not get fired."

Jamie took her books upstairs and shut the bedroom door. She called Peter at the mall, but spoke in a low voice and kept the conversation short. She did her homework, listened for her mother's car, and fell asleep with the lights on.

Claude went to bed early but did not sleep. He rehearsed one story after another with no success. Around one o'clock, he heard Joan come through the front door and sat up in bed, waiting to forgive her, so she would hold him, but she went straight to the family room instead. Two hours later, he figured she had to be asleep, so he gave up his vigil. Although Claude nodded off for brief stretches, tense period of wake dominated his night.

#

"So how about that Taylor?" Jim Shepard said as Clarke settled into his big chair and Schulke and Mickleson adjusted themselves in theirs. "All those thefts were him. The company's been paying his coke habit for months—isn't that something?"

"I'm glad you think it's funny," Schulke said.

"Brianna, what's the word?" Clarke said. "Did Warren make bail?"

"He didn't," Mickleson said. "He's still behind bars, and we expect him to be there for the foreseeable future. I spoke with legal, and they've advised us to use the stolen wire as leverage with Warren's attorney."

"Leverage against what?" Shepard said.

"Termination. We agree to drop the stolen wire charges, he agrees not to challenge his termination."

"What leverage do you have with me?" Shepard said. "National don't like terminations. Before I can go along with a termination, I have to take a hard look to see if it really benefits the UUW."

Clarke pulled his necktie away from his collar and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. "You can't be serious, Jim. He stole wire, for Christ's sake."

"He's innocent until proven guilty."

Clarke removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. "What does the contract say, Brianna?"

"Well, I'm sure it allows us to terminate him."

"Where?" Shepard yelled. "What clause? What paragraph?"

"I don't have a contract on me," Mickleson said.

"Well then how the hell can you be sure it allows you to terminate him? Run off to your little office and get a contract, then show me exactly where it says Warren Taylor can be terminated."

Mickleson didn't move. Her face reddened beneath her light freckles. She looked at Clarke, but spoke to Shepard.

"That's true, that's true, we do need to refer to specific language in the contract. But we all well know that felonies constitute grounds for termination. We have a clear track record of that."

Clarke stood. "Jim, give us a minute, will you?"

Shepard left the room. Clarke walked to a set of built-in shelves, removed 18 inches worth of small pamphlets, and began sorting through them. As he did, Schulke reached into his leather satchel and produced a current copy of the UUW contract.

"Here you go, Mr. Clarke," Schulke said.

Clarke took the booklet and handed it to Mickleson. Before she opened it, Clarke put his hands on his hips and breathed a heavy sigh.

"Forget it, Brie," he said. "Let's hold off on the termination for now."

"But Mr. Clarke," Schulke said, "in light of what he did, how can we even appear to condone this? I think we should terminate him immediately and make the union fight to bring him back."

"Not now, Tom," Clarke said. "Do you know how much work that is? It's work for us, it's work for you. It isn't worth it. We'll put him on crisis suspension, so he won't get paid, but it doesn't hurt us to leave his benefits running. If he's convicted, we can terminate him. If not, we can deal with him when the time comes."

"What, and have me have to take him back in stores? No way."

"That's enough, Tom," Clarke said. "I have enough of a headache without lip from you. We'll keep you updated. On your way out, send Shepard in so I can give him the news."

"What about the urine?" Schulke said.

"What about what urine?"

"The urine from the drug test," Schulke said. "Can't we test it to see who gave it to Warren? If we find out who it belongs to, maybe we'll be able to rid ourselves of another nuisance."

Clarke and Mickleson broke into laughter. "Are you shitting me?" Clarke said. "Look, every time we catch a union employee red-handed, the union does everything it can to coax us into a procedural misstep, because that's the only way to spring a guilty man. Remember the Colin Smith case?"

"No," Schulke said. "I wasn't in the loop on that one.

"Ronnie Hopkins caught him in his line truck with a can of beer in his hand and five empty cans on the floor. Smith was slurring his words, and his breath smelled like alcohol. Hopkins took Smitty out of the truck and drove him to our off-site doctor for a fitness for duty test. Open and shut case, right? Not quite, because after the test Hopkins brought Smith back to the company and let him drive his own vehicle home. Bang, case ruined. The union argued that if the supervisor allowed the employee to drive himself home, the supervisor could not have felt the employee was drunk. We never even saw the results of the fitness for duty test—they went straight to the garbage. If we test Warren Taylor's urine, Warren's automatically off the hook. No question. It's not even an option, so forget about it."

"Isn't there anything we can do?"

"The only thing we can do is wait for someone to come forward with information. We're certainly allowed to ask questions. Does anybody in your department know who did it?"

"Well I have my own suspicions, that's for sure," Schulke said. "And Elton MacGibbon claims to know. He actually claims to have witnessed the urine handover. But he said he's not talking, and believe me, he means it, because he's a tough nut to crack."

"A tough nut to crack, eh?" Clarke said. "Send him here. We'll bust him out of his shell."

Back in stores, Claude looked as miserable as he felt. When Schulke called the men together, Claude hung toward the rear behind Darezzo and his forklift. He longed for a nap.

"This won't take long," Schulke said. "I just came from Mr. Clarke's office. Nobody came to Warren's aid, so he did not make bail. Because of the seriousness of the offense, Warren has been placed on crisis suspension without pay. Mr. Clarke intends to show that behavior of this kind will not be tolerated at Rhode Island Electric, and that union or no union, any time you steal from the company there will be serious consequences. Is that understood?"

Half the men nodded, half snickered.

"Because of the indefinite nature of Warren's situation, I suspect we will be allowed to replace him through the normal bidding process, so Scotty, get a posting ready. In addition, Mr. Clarke decided it was not worth the expense to DNA test each of you to determine who donated the urine to Warren. Since the sample was indeed negative, it has no bearing on Warren's case, and I assume it will be kept only as long as any other sample and discarded along with the rest."

Schulke asked if there were any questions, and there were none. He dispersed the group.

Ten minutes later, he remembered something he was supposed to say. He went to the far wall of the department, where Elton catalogued streetlights.

"Elton," Schulke said, "I forgot to tell you. Mr. Clarke wants to see you in his office."

#

Elton went to morning break a little earlier than usual, then went to Clarke's office as requested. When work resumed after break, nobody noticed he was missing. At 11:20, Elton walked into stores, plucked his coat from the rack, and headed toward the door. Only John Carrollton saw him.

"Where are you going?" John said.

"Half a vacation day," Elton said. "See you."

"Did you tell Clarke Bugsy gave Warren the piss?"

"We danced a little. I told him some things without telling him some things. I told him I deserved a warning for helping Warren once before, and I got an oral. Have a nice weekend."

Activity slowed as lunch neared. Claude walked beneath the crane and looked up to Frank. "Lunch a bunch. That's my hunch."

"Be right down," Frank said.

Next Claude ambled up behind the taller Scotty, threw an arm over his shoulder, and rubbed his knuckles on Scotty's head. Scotty laughed and twisted himself free.

"What's into you?" Scotty said. "You're exuberant today."

"Exuberant, am I?" Claude said. "I'm not sure what that means, but if it means it's Friday and I'm happy I'll soon be pouring a few beers down my throat at the Dub-a-dub-dub, then exuberant it is."

Claude and Scotty waited for Frank to climb down the ladder so they could eat, but just as Frank appeared around the corner, Schulke asked Scotty if he could see him a minute. Scotty sent Claude and Frank on without him and returned to the office to see the boss.

He never did make lunch. When Claude and Frank came back to stores, they saw Scotty and Jim Shepard in the office with Schulke.

Schulke leaned through the door. "Could you come here, please, Claude?"

Claude looked to Frank, then entered the office. Schulke closed the door behind him. A row of three chairs faced a fourth chair. Scotty and Shepard selected end seats and sat down. Claude remained by the door, and Schulke motioned for him to sit, too.

"No," Claude shouted. "I'm not sitting. I'm not sitting at all. In fact, I'm getting the hell out of here."

He opened the door of the office, slammed it behind him, and with a scowl on his face charged toward the bay doors. Scotty bolted through the front door of the office and headed Claude off before he escaped. When Claude tried to pass him, Scotty grabbed him by the collar with both hands and pinned him against the time clock.

"Let go!" Claude screamed. "Get the fuck out of my way!"

"Listen," Scotty said. "Listen."

"No! This is fucking bullshit, and you know it. They have no proof I did anything, and I won't go along with it. They can fuck themselves."

"Listen!" Scotty shouted as he pulled the shirt up under Claude's nose. "If you leave, you're fired. Understand? Fired. Forever. It's only a decision-making leave, and that isn't bad. I stood up for you to get it, so I'm telling you—no, Bugsy, I'm asking you—to go back and sit. You don't have to speak. Just sit. Take the DML, and come back refreshed."

"But it's bullshit. I didn't do anything."

"I know it's bullshit," Scotty said, still pressing Claude's shirt against his throat. "Yes, you got ratted out, but look, the deal is you've got two last chances. You can use them both now, or you can use one now, and live to work another day. What's it going to be?"

Claude stopped struggling and Scotty released him. Claude's collar, stretched out of shape, hung to one side. He ran his hand through his hair, flipped his bangs into place, and walked into the office. He sat in the end seat, and Scotty sat in the middle.

"Claude," Schulke said, "I have a problem."

Schulke proceeded to read a prepared description of the offense, and stated without mentioning names that a reliable witness identified Claude as the offender. The boss offered Claude a chance to give his version of events, but Claude remained silent.

"Claude, this is a serious step in the company's positive discipline program," Schulke said. "We are granting you a decision-making leave. For the next three work days, we want you to reflect about your responsibilities here in the department, and your obligations toward making Rhode Island Electric a superior company in all regards. In this time, we ask you to decide if you are willing to make such changes in your work habits as to allow you to continue as a Rhode Island Electric employee. If you indicate a willingness to make such changes, you must demonstrate your commitment by working incident-free for 18 consecutive months. If you do not indicate a willing, or have a discipline incident within 18 months, your employment will be terminated. At this time, do you have any questions?"

Claude scowled and stared toward an empty corner of the office.

"All right," Schulke said. "Your decision-making leave begins now. You will report to me at 7 a.m. Thursday morning to communicate your decision. If you do not appear at that time, your employment will be terminated."

As Schulke searched his satchel for a pen, Claude got up and left without looking to anyone. Schulke moved to call him back, but Shepard shook his head.

"Don't bother, Tom," he said.

"But I didn't finish," Schulke said. "He has the right to submit a rebuttal."

Schulke shrugged his shoulders. "Well, you guys can sign. If Claude comes back, he can sign then."

PART II

### Chapter 26

As Claude stormed across the parking lot to his truck, he turned and gave the finger to the building he just left. After backing his truck from its spot, he held the clutch low and jammed down the accelerator, announcing his departure with a blaze of screech and smoke.

Claude turned onto Broad Street, a busy city avenue, raced the truck up to 60, and weaved between lanes to avoid slower vehicles. He slammed on his brakes when the car in front of him stopped at a red light, and raced up to 60 again when the light turned green. He slowed near the Dub, and yelled an obscenity at the smiling leprechaun with the black horns. All that had happened, from Schulke's announcement about the urine sample to the decision making leave, spurred within Claude a desire to drink. He headed downtown to find a dump where he could get blitzed without running into anyone from Rhode Island Electric.

Claude parked in a free lot near the State House and walked toward the center of the city. Through sunglasses he saw young families eating at boulevard cafes, Ivy League students reading on lawns, and well-attired businesspeople barking orders into cell phones as they checked their watches and waited for white pedestrian signs to light up so they could cross the avenues.

Ten minutes later, on streets too narrow to escape the shadows of the buildings on either side, Claude saw a bearded man in tattered fatigues raise his head from the sidewalk to plead for a dollar. A block later, a fat woman in a mini-skirt and fish-net stockings, her eyelids covered in purple mascara, asked if he wanted a date. As he looked upstreet to avoid her eyes, he noticed a short, young, bald man walking directly toward him. It was a game of gangland chicken, in which the weaker man veered off to avoid a collision. Bring it on, thought Claude. The young man leapt to the side at the last moment, brushing Claude's arm, and although Claude turned to invite a confrontation, the man continued walking without looking back.

Claude stopped at a motorcycle parked against a building. The handle end of a broken pool cue propped open a great wooden door next to the bike, and when Claude peered to the darkness beyond the door he saw the white faces of three men on barstools and the white shirt, face, and arms of a bartender filling a mug under a tap.

He walked in and without sitting down ordered a beer and a shot of Wild Turkey. The bartender handed a mug to a large man wearing a leather vest over a black tee shirt. He filled a second mug from the tap and slid it to Claude as he dug beneath the bar for a bottle of Wild Turkey. After pouring the shot, he set it before Claude, who grabbed it and downed it.

"Another," Claude said.

The four men stared at him. Claude returned their gaze, then pulled out his wallet and set $30 on the bar.

"Friends," he said. "Join me."

Claude took his beer and moved down the bar as the bartender poured five more shots. The men clinked their glasses and swallowed the booze in single gulps, except the bartender, who drank his in four sips without removing the cigarette from the left side of his mouth.

"Claude Amognes," Claude said, extending his hand to the man in the vest.

"Trevor Botsford," the man said, taking Claude's hand. "Bots. This is Hal Rhodes and Malcolm Knox. Across the bar is Walt."

The men shook hands with Claude. Bots stood, and was almost tall enough to hit his head on a metal pipe hanging a foot below the ceiling. He wore leather gloves without fingers, and on his forearm had a tattoo of an eagle wearing an eye patch.

Hal, now seated closest to Claude, wore horn-rimmed glasses of an earlier vintage and plaid polyester pants. Although Claude couldn't be sure at first glance, it appeared Hal had incorrectly matched the buttons and buttonholes of his shirt. On the bar in front of Hal, a round black ash tray held a pile of cigarette butts.

Aside from the spectacles, Walt looked like an older Hal. Wrinkle rays ran from his eyes to his sideburns. On his arms, skin sagged where muscles once held it from the bone. Although he combed his hair thoroughly, he hadn't washed it in days, perhaps a week, giving it an extra-black sheen that highlighted the dandruff captured by the grease. He wore a white, short-sleeved shirt that looked bigger than his skinny neck, sunken chest, and thin arms required.

At the rounded corner of the bar sat Malcolm, the only man—now including Claude—not smoking. Malcolm wore a dark blue polo shirt with a gold-colored watch. He had brown, neatly-trimmed hair, brown eyes, a solid build, and a face without wrinkles or hint of five o'clock shadow. Claude placed him in his late forties.

"What brings you here," Malcolm said as Claude drained half his beer, "with such a ravenous thirst?"

"My fucking boss and my fucking union," Claude said. "My boss is screwing me out of a job, and the union president's sucking his dick while he does it."

"What union are you in?" Malcolm said.

"Union of Utility Workers, Local 7917," Claude said. "Down at Rhode Island Electric."

"Ah, the electric company," Malcolm said. "The greatest source of patronage and nepotism in the state. Did your father work there?"

"He was president of the union. How did you know?"

"Lucky guess," Malcolm said.

"I hate them bastards," Bots said. "Always shutting off my electricity when I'm a day late with my payment. Who made them God? They can charge whatever they want, and I gotta pay it or have no power."

"I hear you," Claude said, noticing the slur in Bots's speech. "Management is looking to squeeze every penny they can from working joes like us. It isn't enough to make a simple profit. They have to get rich. And we're the ones who get screwed."

"I'd like to cut their damn throats," Bots said.

Bots chugged the remainder of his beer and set the empty mug on the rail.

"Gotta go," he said. "Nice meeting ya, Claude. Come again."

"Careful on that bike," Walt said.

"No problem," Bots said with a smile.

When Bots left, Claude got up and took a stool between Malcolm and Hal. Walt retrieved a half-empty ash tray and placed it near Claude.

"Sometimes he's a scary fella, that Bots," Malcolm said. "But he's got a heart of gold. That's why he's in so much trouble all the time. Always willing to help someone who's worse off than he is, and always loyal to a friend, even if he has to break a law or two to be so."

"Big," Claude said.

"So what's your trouble at work?" Malcolm said. "If your father was head of the union, that should count for something, shouldn't it?"

"It should, but it doesn't. My father's enemies ganged up on him and forced him out a long time ago. Even though he's dead in his grave, they keep after me to settle the score with him. My boss was an enemy. You think after all these years he'd let it drop, but no, he's still out to get me."

"How so?"

"Well, for one thing, he's always moving things around in the stockroom where we work, hoping I'll give the wrong equipment to the linemen. Sometimes, if someone screws up and nobody admits doing it, I get the blame. Or how about this: one of the guys I go fishing with got arrested for stealing wire at 2 a.m. He had drugs in his car when the cops nabbed him, but passed a drug test two days before. My boss figured, well, obviously Claude gave him urine so he could pass the drug test. No evidence at all. Just called the union president to the office, and five minutes later the two of them had my suspension papers all drawn up and ready to go."

Claude slammed his palm on the bar. "Dammit," he cried. "I bust my ass all day long, and this is what I get to show for it?"

"How long's the suspension for?" Walt said.

"Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday," Claude said. "What time do you open?"

Walt smiled. "Eleven. First beer is half price."

"Geez Walt," Malcolm said, "the guy's losing three days' pay, and that's the only discount you're giving him?"

"Oh no," Claude said. "My suspension is with pay."

Malcolm and Walt couldn't believe it. Hal was so intoxicated he held the brass rail with both hands and gazed non-stop at the butt-filled ash tray.

"Well, then, I guess you're buying Monday," Malcolm said.

Claude smiled broadly and ordered shots for himself, Malcolm, and Walt. Malcolm balked at more Wild Turkey, so Claude called for tequila instead. When the shots were gone, Malcolm announced he was going down the street for a sandwich, and invited Claude along. Walt asked for a ham and cheese sub, and said he'd pay them in beer when they returned.

It was only 2:30, so Claude wasn't hungry, but went anyway. Malcolm led him to a small pizza place between two pornography shops. When they came out, Claude turned toward the bar, but Malcolm whistled him in another direction.

"Too nice out here to eat in there, with all the smoke and everything," he said. "Walt won't mind waiting. There's a nice plaza up the street. We can sit and eat, watch people go by, and shoot the breeze."

They walked seven blocks without speaking until they arrived at the plaza, where workers from a nearby insurance company chatted in small groups, smoked on benches, and soaked in the sun. Malcolm and Claude found an empty bench, sat down, and unwrapped their sandwiches. Malcolm hadn't purchased a beverage, and Claude, figuring they were heading from the pizza parlor straight back to the bar, hadn't either.

"I like this place," Malcolm said. "Very mellow. And some of the women are beautiful."

"It sure beats where I work," Claude said.

They ate, and watched people pass. The cool breeze blew Claude's napkin away, but he didn't chase it.

"So," Claude said, "are you from around here?"

"Not originally, no," Malcolm said. "I lived in Pennsylvania most of my life, and just moved out here a year ago. My sister lives across the bay, and always spoke highly of it, so when it was time for me to make some changes I decided to give Rhode Island a try. So far, I like it. The people are a little colder than in other parts of the country, but so far so good. I can't complain."

"What do you do for a living?"

"I used to drive trains," Malcolm said. "I'm a union man myself, you know. National Union of Locomotive Engineers. Got my first job with a railroad at 18, and rode trains east of the Mississippi for the next 29 years. But then it got to be a hassle. Flying became relatively inexpensive. The bus companies finally got their acts together. Railroads stopped making money like they once did, and we paid the price. The pay was still good, but the hours got longer and longer, and the working conditions went to hell. I got sick of it, so I decided to do a jig."

"A dance?" Claude said.

"No, no. You ever fish?"

"All the time."

"Then you know how to use a jig. You find something they think is real. You wave it in their faces, nice and slow. Entice them. Get them to believe. When they believe, they'll swallow, and when they swallow—bang!—you've got them hooked. At that point it doesn't matter if they swallowed something real or just a decoy. You've got them, and no amount of wriggling will set them free."

"I'm not following you," Claude said. "Might be the tequila."

"I looked through my union contract until I found the equivalent of a shiny lure."

"And?"

"And I jigged 'em. I'm out on disability. I get 75% of my pay and free health care until I turn 65. All the time I earn credit toward my pension based on the going wage for my job classification. At 65, I collect under the federal railroad retirement system and have my Medicare and medigap plans paid for for life. When I need cash, I paint a couple houses, under the table. All in all, I get the same pay for a tenth of the work, and no all night runs from Pittsburgh to Washington five times a week."

"If you don't mind me asking, what's your disability?"

"Symptoms of headaches. Awful, terrible headache symptoms. At work, I used to double over and writhe on the floor."

"Sounds rough," Claude said. "Do you think they'll ever be able to cure them?"

Malcolm laughed, and slapped Claude on the shoulder.

"That's the beauty of it," he said. "No trains, no symptoms."

"Hell, what was it about trains that gave you headaches?"

"I never said I had headaches," Malcolm said. "I only said symptoms of headaches showed themselves when I was on a train. And they did, as my coworkers attested. Once word reached company headquarters that I was rolling around the floor clutching my temples, no doctor in the world was going to put me in control of a train again, not with the potential liability and bad press if there were ever an accident. No way. Every test they ran me through showed nothing, but once they even investigated, it was over. Jigged. They could fight me on principle, if they wanted, but they had so little to gain for so much to lose that, in the end, they played it safe and approved my disability. From their angle, it was the right decision. And I must say it hasn't worked out badly for me, either."

#

As he and Malcolm approached the great wooden door on the walk back to the bar, Claude noticed a small sign above it: Victory Tavern. When they entered, Walt rinsed glasses in the sink. Hal looked up from the ash tray, and the effort nearly knocked him off his stool.

"Here's your sub," Malcolm said. "And a stick of beef jerky, special for you."

"Thanks," Walt said. "Couple of beers?"

"You bet."

"Hey Walt," Claude said. "Tell me why I should drink at the Victory Tavern."

Walt scratched more dandruff into his hair. "Well, let's see. We've got a beautiful wall, there, as you can see. The paneling on the bottom is a fine example of mid-seventies style, and the wallpaper above it, you might say, harkens one back to a simpler time. We have several sturdy stools, both practical and decorative, and a hardwood bar with a genuine brass-colored rail. If you look beyond Malcolm you'll notice two small tables—lovers tables we call them—perfect for retreating from the busy bar scene with your wife or hooker. Over here, of course, we have the alcohol, and up here, television. Oh, and Hal attracts celebrities by the dozen, though he's too modest to brag about it. Go ahead, try to get him to brag."

Hal's stare remained fixed on the bar. He smiled, though, indicating he understood but didn't, at the moment, have the ability to reply.

"I'm sold," Claude said. He clinked beer mugs with Malcolm and lit another cigarette.

"Did you bring family with you from Pennsylvania?" he said to Malcolm.

"No. I'm mostly solo. I got married late, at 34, and by then I was already set in my ways. Lasted five years, but the good news is my ex and I are still friends. She even visited for a week earlier this summer."

"That's kind of weird," Claude said.

"Not really. When our divorce was final I decided to treat her as I did when we were boyfriend-girlfriend, because those days were great. And it worked. I'm a terrific boyfriend, lots of fun two or three times a week. I'm just not so good at the long haul, the every hour of every day thing. I like time to myself. I like to golf when I want to, and read when I want to. If I want to show up here at noon and drink until I'm nearly blind, I do."

"Lucky stiff," Claude said, exhaling smoke.

"Well, I am lucky, and I realize it. I know the lifestyle only works because I'm still able to attract women for the amount of time I want them. Believe me, as much as I love my freedom, I don't ever want to be lonely. It's the worst. If I weren't able to make friends, or if I had to go eight or nine months between dates, I'd be a lot more willing to try marriage again. I've dated some great women since I came to Rhode Island, and haven't had to give up my freedom. So yeah, I'm a very lucky stiff."

Hal rose from his stool and wobbled in place. He ran the fingertips of his left hand from his belly button to his left shoulder, and kept his hand in place, like a one-armed chicken taking a standing eight count.

"Got to go to the bathroom?" Walt said. "How about you fellas help him down the steps."

Claude and Malcolm walked with Hal until he reached the top of the small stairway leading to the single bathroom. As he began to descend they each took an arm to prevent him from toppling forward. At the bathroom door, Claude halted, but Malcolm continued in with Hal.

When they returned, Hal walked on his own.

"Watch," Malcolm said to Claude, "he won't drink for another three hours. Then when he's just about coherent again, he'll go right back at it. Goes from trashed to sober and back two or three times in the same day."

"Not good."

"I know," Malcolm said. "That's what I was talking about upstairs. Marriage doesn't look so good when it gets in the way of golf and theater and running around with bright, beautiful women. But it looks real good compared to a life like this."

They helped Hal back to his stool. When he was centered firmly, Malcolm put his nose near the top of Hal's ear.

"You've got to get a girlfriend," he shouted. "I know a fat pig who would love to sleep at your place two or three times a week. Might even help you dress in the morning. I'm going to bring her in one of these days, and I want you to take her home and bang her."

"Cue," Hal said, his head flipping back like a cannon recoiling from a shot. "Cue."

"What does that mean?" Claude said.

"He's trying to say 'fuck you,' but it isn't coming out right. Ah, let's leave the poor bugger alone."

They walked to the corner of the bar and sat down.

"You serious about bringing him your fat friend?"

"I am," Malcolm said. "But he'll never sleep with her. Accurate assessment of where she rates on the dating scale. Inaccurate assessment of where he rates on same."

"Come again?" Claude said.

"I'll give you an example. One time I talked him into going up near the colleges to drink. We walk in, and right away I pick out a prospect. She's not much to look at, but seems friendly and is only talking with other women, so I go over and strike up a conversation. When she gets up to go to the bathroom, I wander over to Hal at the bar and ask if he sees anyone he's interested in. He points to this blonde, drop-dead gorgeous, half his age, with about ten guys hanging all over her, and says she's the one. He was serious. I just laughed. Hasn't been laid in years, but won't settle for anyone but the most beautiful woman in the place."

"Nine years is a long time," Claude said. "How fat is your friend?"

"Fat," Malcolm said. "Smelly too. But if I were Hal, I'd be grateful."

Claude swigged his beer and considered ordering more shots, but a glance at Hal dissuaded him. Perhaps later, he thought. Walt leaned his elbows on the bar as he tugged the beef jerky.

"How about you," Malcolm said. "Are you married?"

"Yup," Claude said.

"You like it?"

"Nine years is a long time," Claude said. "How fat is your friend?"

Walt and Malcolm laughed, and Claude said he was only kidding.

"I wish I'd stayed a bachelor longer and played around a little more. But then I might not have my daughter, Jamie, and I wouldn't trade her for anything."

"How old is she?" Walt said.

"Just turned seventeen. Bright, pretty, good sense of humor, just a sweet kid. Landed a five-pound bass when she was nine. Now she's a senior in high school. It's hard to believe."

"Boyfriend?"

"Some kid named Peter. He better watch his peter, and not get any ideas about getting into my daughter's shorts. If I find out he's tried anything I'll kill him."

"Aw, come on now Claude," Malcolm said, "you must remember what it's like to be his age."

"I remember. He can knock up the entire sophomore class for all I care, as long as he doesn't touch my daughter. Obviously you don't have a daughter, or you'd know what I mean."

"It's good for her to have a boyfriend," Malcolm said. "Think about it from her perspective. If she learns the ropes now, it'll help her when she's a young woman trying to catch a man for real. The pussy's a powerful tool if you know how to use it, and seventeen's about the right age to begin experimenting. Just make sure she's on the pill and knows where the condom machine is."

Malcolm could see Claude didn't appreciate the conversation's current direction.

"Is she going to college?" he said.

"No," Claude said.

"Why not?"

"I did fine without college, and so did my dad. I think I can get her into the company after she graduates, maybe as a clerk, maybe even in customer service."

"Plus she can always go to school later," Malcolm said.

"For what? To learn housewifing? She doesn't need college for that."

"You said she was bright. Don't you think her career prospects are better with college than without?"

"No," Claude said. "I know guys who went to college and didn't amount to anything. And I know guys who made millions with just a high school diploma. Plus nobody learns anything at college anyway. All they do is drink and sleep around. Of all the people I know who went to college, none of them is doing what they learned at school."

"That's true," Walt said. "My nephew majored in politics, and now he's a grunt in human resources. And my niece majored in social work, and now she's an accountant."

"I disagree," Malcolm said. "College isn't about what you learn, it's about how you learn."

"How do you know?" Claude said. "You've been with the railroads since eighteen."

"I have a degree," Malcolm said. "I went nights, over seven years. I think college is like an obstacle course. The professor's job is to give you hurdles to climb over—papers to write about topics you've never heard of, problems to solve, projects to research. The subject doesn't matter. It only matters that you get over the present hurdle so you can take on the next. The people who make it, number one, have the self-discipline to hunker down and do their assignments, and number two, learn how to get information, make sense of it, and present it intelligently. You're learning how to learn, really, and once you do that you can succeed in any career."

"Why'd you drive trains if you had a degree?"

"The money. Hey, I didn't get a degree so I could win a Nobel Prize. I got a degree so people who aren't any smarter than I am couldn't look down their noses at me."

"Well, college is a long way away," Claude said, "and Jamie likes it at home. I suppose she'll move out when she's ready to get married, but she's got plenty of time before then."

Two men in dusty blue jeans entered the tavern and sat on the stools nearest the door. Walt went down and took their orders.

"Seen them before?" Claude said.

"Once or twice," Malcolm said.

Claude lost his desire to wait for a shot, and called for a Wild Turkey. Malcolm insisted on paying, and ordered an Alabama Slammer for himself. Walt brought the shots, refilled their empty beer mugs, and emptied the two ash trays at that end of the bar. Claude gulped his drink. Malcolm drank slowly until his was gone.

"Tell me more about your jig," Claude said. "I may have a disability in my future, too."

"Not tonight," Malcolm said. "For something like that, you want a clear head. Bring me a copy of your union contract Monday, and we can go through it. Just because something worked for me doesn't mean it will work for you. All situations are different."

"I think headaches will work fine," Claude said.

"Maybe, but it has to be believable."

Walt stepped on a small footstool, retrieved a remote control, stepped back down, and turned on the television. As he flipped through the channels, he came to the classic sports network. A graphic in the corner of the screen read "Television's Greatest Fights Marathon," and an announcer in the center of a boxing ring introduced two opponents.

"Hey, this is the Hagler-Hearns fight," one of the men at the door end of the bar said.

Walt looked to Malcolm and Claude for their approval.

"Fine with me," Claude said. "It's a great fight."

The match started, and after the second round the two men near the door joined Claude, Malcolm, and Hal. The five men, plus Walt, became immersed in rating the best boxers and best matchups, and as they watched fight after fight drained beer after beer. Occasionally, newcomers entered the bar, but neither joined nor bothered Malcolm's gang. Around 11:30, after watching Boom Boom Mancini's first title fight, Malcolm said good night and paid the remainder of his tab. Claude left with him. They grabbed a snack, and then shook hands and agreed to meet Monday. Claude staggered to his truck, and was fortunate to encounter a largely empty highway on his drive home.

### Chapter 27

At home, television projected changing shades of light on the wall behind the couch. Claude peeked through the family room door, heard Joan breathing a steady rhythm, and saw her lying with her back to the screen. He tiptoed to the bedroom, undressed, and went to sleep.

Claude pretended the next two days were just an ordinary September weekend. He raked a small layer of leaves from the back lawn, and repaired to the family room to watch baseball. After Jamie left with Betty Saturday night, he plugged in a video while Joan baked a pie from apples she and Connie had picked that afternoon. Sunday, Claude planted himself in front of the television for twelve hours of professional football.

On Monday, Claude rose with the alarm, showered, and dressed in his work clothes. He forgot where he put the union contract, and nearly blew his charade by searching for it past the time he normally left for work. But he did find it, eventually, and was sure Joan and Jamie hadn't noticed his tardiness.

He drove off in the direction of Rhode Island Electric, but doubled back and headed north toward Massachusetts. In Upton, a good tackle shop stood just a few hundred yards from an excellent breakfast nook. The ride helped him kill time, and helped ensure he wouldn't run into anyone he knew. He ate, fiddled with rods and reels, walked around a pond, and hopped into the truck to meet Malcolm.

Although Claude arrived early, Walt let him in as he set up the bar. Claude learned that Walt owned the Victory Tavern and worked eleven to close six days a week, shutting the place down on Sundays. No others were allowed to tend bar. If at any point during the week Walt didn't feel like working, he sent the patrons home and locked the door.

Hal came next, wearing the same plaid pants but a new-looking cream-colored dress shirt. He already smelled of whiskey. Claude excused himself to the bathroom, and was pleased to find Hal and Walt engaged in conversation when he returned. A third man, whom Walt introduced as Greg—another regular, Claude determined—entered and joined the smalltalk with Hal and Walt.

Malcolm arrived at 11:15, exchanged pleasantries, and walked to his corner of the bar. He met Claude with a broad smile and a firm handshake. Claude called for a beer for Malcolm, but Malcolm asked for ginger ale instead. When he asked if Claude remembered the contract, Claude drew the pamphlet from his pocket and dropped it on the bar. To Claude's surprise, Malcolm didn't touch it.

"You know," Malcolm said, "before you go the disability route, there are questions to ask. Work is very important in our culture. It provides income, of course, but it also brings structure, and can give us a sense of belonging, a feeling we're important. If you aren't going to work, you need to be sure you can handle it."

"Of course I handle it," Claude said.

"Right," Malcolm said, "and that's what everyone says when they buy lottery tickets. 'I can handle $50 million.' The truth is, most can't. There are a lot of demands placed on you when you win that kind of dough. You have to have good communication skills and good relationship skills, and you have to know how to handle money. If you don't, it will bite you in the ass in a hurry."

He slipped the watch from his wrist, adjusted the minute hand, and put it back on.

"See," he said, "when most people dream of winning the lottery, they aren't dreaming about money. They're dreaming about power. The power to tell the boss to shove it. The power to influence people by rewarding them with the new wealth—or by withholding it. The power to do what they want when they want. What they don't realize is power carries responsibility."

"What's this got to do with me?"

"Dreaming about freedom is a lot like dreaming about power. Although it's easy to get sucked in by the fantasy, you have to be realistic. You have to envision what it's really going to be like, how it will affect your wife, your family, your friends, and most of all, how it will affect you. You can't just hope you can suddenly handle all that free time, you have to know you can. Like I said, most people's knee-jerk reaction is 'oh yeah, I can handle it.' But most people are wrong. It's tougher than you think."

He sipped his ginger ale. "Maybe you're different. Anyway, let me tell you a little about the Americans with Disabilities Act."

"The what?"

"The law that protects you if you become disabled."

Claude slumped on his stool and groaned. "Hey, I don't want to become a lawyer, I just want to get paid for not working."

Malcolm shot a look over to Walt. Walt turned his head slightly and raised his eyebrows.

"Even so," Malcolm said slowly, "you'll need to know a little about how the law works. Think of the law as something in your tackle box. The better you know how to use what's in your tackle box, the more likely you are to get that big fish. Now, the law was passed by Congress to protect people who are really disabled, but you know, being disabled isn't always a black and white thing. In recent years, the courts have expanded its scope significantly..."

As Malcolm spoke, Claude put down his cigarette, finished his beer, motioned for another one, crossed his legs, and uncrossed his legs. He looked at Malcolm between actions but not during.

"All right," Claude said at last, "let's skip the history lesson. What do I need to do to beat the system?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you," Malcolm said.

"Ok," Claude said. "Shoot."

"The key phrase is: 'I have a disability.' Remember how important that is. When you're in danger of being fired, tell your boss 'I have a disability.' Once you've said that, you've invoked the ADA and brought the law on your side. Once you've said that, you just forced your employer to jump through a whole ton of hoops."

"I have a disability," Claude said.

"That's right. Truth is, Claude, it wouldn't hurt you to read up on the law. You don't have to become an expert, but the more you know about the do's and don'ts, the easier it will be to avoid doing something to mess up the whole thing. It's your future, you know."

Claude nodded.

"Tell me, what are your hobbies?"

"Fishing."

"Good," Malcolm said. "Anything else?"

"Cribbage. Watching the tube. Playing video games."

"No good," Malcolm said, shaking his head. "If you're going to spend your days watching television and playing video games, believe me, you're better off working, because that's no way to live. You need something to get up for in the morning. Not every day, of course, but more often than not. For me, it's golf. If I didn't have golf I'd go nuts. Fishing will work, if you do it right, though I wouldn't recommend just you and a rod day in, day out. Join a sportsmen's club with other outdoorsmen. Volunteer to help cub scouts get their merit badges in angling, or teach a class in fly-tying, or take inner-city kids on fishing trips."

"That sounds good," Claude said. "I'd like that."

"Good. Are you involved in any community service projects right now?"

"Not really."

"That's ok. What about church?"

"Church of the NFL. Does that count?"

"Yes and no," Malcolm said with a smile. "What about money? What will you do when you need extra cash for Christmas presents?"

Claude pondered the question. "I don't know. Get a job, I guess. Maybe at a sporting goods store, or a hardware store."

"Remember, it has to be under the table. It also has to be something away from the public eye. You can't have your hardware store boss see you hide when your electric company boss comes through the door. Plus, if word gets out you're working, it's trouble. Craft-type items are good. For example, I paint houses. Another guy I know builds and sells small sheds. Fishing is good, because it's relaxing. If you can find a way to make some money from it, you'll be all right. But don't leave it to chance. You should think hard about how to earn extra cash when you need it, because somewhere down the road, you definitely will need it."

Claude downed his beer and asked for a refill. He lit another cigarette, and Hal asked to bum one, so he slid the pack down the bar. It didn't return immediately.

"What's up with that?" Claude said under his breath.

"How about your wife?" Malcolm said. "You'll have a lot of time together, and you'll want to keep her on your side. What sort of things do you do together?"

Claude ran his hand along the back of his head, and held his neck when he got there.

"Not much," Claude said. "We used to play cards once in a while. She can't dance, she's not much on outdoorsy things, though she does fiddle in her garden quite a bit. She likes bingo." He scratched his neck. "Uggh, bingo. She's always trying to get me to go, but there's no way in hell I'm sitting with 300 wrinkle bags listening for B-17, O-22, G-90."

"What you do isn't the issue," Malcolm said. "All that matters is to find something to do together." "How important is that? You get along fine without a wife, don't you?"

"I do," Malcolm said, "but I have female companionship. People need to feel close to others. Whether it's a wife, a girlfriend, or a best buddy, good relationships are important."

Claude crushed his nearly unsmoked cigarette in the ash tray, and walked toward Hal to retrieve his pack.

"How's it going down there?" Hal said.

"Fine, for chrissakes. I'll be frigging disabled any minute now."

Claude picked up his cigarettes, and slid a fresh one through the opening. He paused to light it, and returned to his stool.

"What's next?" he asked.

"Do you still want to talk about this?" Malcolm said.

"Sure, sure. I need to learn all from the Guru Knox."

Malcolm dropped his hands from the bar. "Okay, enough."

Claude caught the new vibe. "Hey look, I'm sorry," he said. "I just didn't know I'd have to answer so many questions."

"I'm just trying to help you appreciate what lies ahead."

"I know, I know. Look, I'm sorry. But believe me, I'm not like the other dodos you know. When I say I can handle it, I mean it. I've got plenty to keep me busy at home."

"All right, then," Malcolm said. "Let's wrap this up. Tell me about your medical history. The longer you've had something, the better. I started setting up my headaches a year before I actually stopped working, but had a history of headaches even before then. Do you have any health conditions? Have you ever had a work injury? Have you ever been medically retrogressed?"

Claude recalled the flea incident. For a moment, he wrestled with himself about whether to reveal it.

"I did have a work injury once," he said at last. "And I did get retrogressed because of it."

"What happened?"

Again Claude paused. He took a drag from his cigarette. He sipped his beer and stared at a high part of the wall.

"I was reading a meter," he said, "and I was attacked by fleas. Pretty bad. Had to go to the hospital. After it happened, my father thought it was a good idea to get me out of meter reading, so he arranged a transfer to the stores department."

"Why?" Malcolm asked.

"He just didn't want me to go back to reading meters."

"I know, but why? Were you afraid to go back?"

"Hell, no. I wasn't afraid. He saw what I looked like after the attack, and didn't want me to ever have to go through something like that again. He was a union president looking out for an employee, but he was also a father looking out for a son."

"Are you sure you weren't afraid?" Malcolm said. "Because if you were, that's pretty powerful stuff. Flea-o-phobia, or whatever. There have to be insects in the stockroom. Maybe a couple bug freakouts could buy you a ticket to the psychologist's couch. A story like that is gold."

Claude looked to the floor. "I don't know," he said.

"Well, think about it. In the meantime, mind if I look this over?"

He picked up the union contract, and Claude nodded that he could take it. Malcolm left two dollars on the bar and rose from his stool.

"Where you going?" Claude said.

"I'm meeting a friend for lunch. She took half a vacation day, and after we eat we're going to Boston to see a show."

"Oh," Claude said. "I didn't know. I guess I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"Sorry, tomorrow's golf. I'm playing 18 in Newport, then going out for drinks. How about Wednesday morning? I'll meet you here at eleven, and we'll get good and drunk."

Malcolm turned to the others. "Walt, Hal, Greg, I'll see you all Wednesday. Give my best to Bots when he comes in."

He waved, and left. Claude puffed his cigarette and thought about what to do. He'd planned to drink all day with Malcolm. Instead, his companions looked to be Hal, Greg, and an impending storm called Bots.

What the hell, he thought. "Walt, if you please, shots for myself, yourself, and our two friends here."

Three o'clock came earlier than Claude expected. Greg, like Claude, was a big Beatles fan, and the two debated with Bots about the top bands of the sixties. Although Bots seemed too young for that time, he said the era's best music came from the Velvet Underground, Frank Zappa, and Van Morrison, and flush the rest. Hal remained coherent enough to participate, though his fervor for Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett limited his role in the conversation.

Claude wanted to be home at the usual time, but couldn't be early, or some nosy neighbor would squeal to Joan. He timed his departure from the tavern perfectly, but on the drive home realized Jamie would smell the booze on his breath. He decided to crawl onto the couch to simulate a nap; if anyone asked, he'd say he worked hard and was tired. When Jamie was late returning home, however, Claude went to the fridge, removed two beers, and poured them down the sink. He took the empty cans to the family room, set them near his recliner, and turned on the television. Everything looked normal.

#

That evening warm air of pleasant September days met air from the Canadian cold, and hard rain fell. As Claude dressed for a dreary Tuesday morning, he looked the part of a man wishing to return to bed instead of heading into the wet world.

He drove south, past Rhode Island Electric, and an hour later arrived at Point Judith. Though he was hungry, he sat in the parked truck a moment before venturing into the rain. He saw a smattering of boats held in by the weather, and a row of empty docks vacated by the others.

Maybe I could work a fishing boat once in a while, he thought. Maybe Ken Hale could use an extra hand. Claude knew commercial fishing bore no resemblance to sport fishing. He'd have to rise before dawn. He'd suffer through a period of discomfort as his arms adjusted to pulling heavy nets and carrying big carcasses. He's need to learn to clean fish well, and distinguish at a glance between fish bound for the market and fish bound for the chum barrel. It was a hard life, and wouldn't make him rich, but as a once-in-a-while thing it might suffice.

He pulled the slicker hood over his head and stepped into the muddy parking lot. Before turning toward town, he walked along the pier, hoping to encounter someone to chat with, about nothing in particular, but found no one. With his hands deep in his pockets, he trudged the single street of businesses, noting each establishment as he passed, until he arrived at a small restaurant with an "Open for Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner" sign in the window. As he stepped inside, he didn't see anyone, so he stood near the door and dripped. Before long a woman his own age in an apron appeared through a door and said good morning. Claude hung his yellow slicker on a peg and selected a stool at the counter.

"Nasty out there," he said to the woman.

"Coffee?" she said.

"Please. Does this weather keep most of the fishermen in?"

She poured the coffee, and set a menu before him. Claude wondered if she heard his question. As he opened his mouth to re-ask it, she disappeared through the kitchen door. A few minutes later she returned with a pad of paper and a pen.

"Ready?" she said.

"Two eggs, sunny side up, with sausage, baked beans, and white toast."

She scribbled down the order, picked up the menu, and left.

Claude sipped his coffee and thought about work. Of course he'd tell Schulke he wished to stay, but Thursday still seemed the distant future. He wondered what Frank and Scotty were saying about him. He asked himself if the guys would treat him differently now that he had a DML, if he'd crossed a line from which he couldn't return. Some people thought once you had a DML, the end was inevitable, and hastened to distance themselves from you. Warren felt that after his DML. Frank wouldn't do it, probably, but would Scotty? Darezzo? The linemen?

It'll pass, Claude thought. The more he thought about Rhode Island Electric, the more discomfort he felt in his gut.

The waitress returned with the breakfast, topped off Claude's coffee, and set the bill upside down near the utensils.

A gust of wind whistled through a cracked window pane. Claude's reflection turned to headaches. He rarely had them. _What causes headaches?_ Bad eyesight, he supposed, brain tumors, stress, head injuries. Claude's eyesight was fine. Brain tumors and head injuries struck him as hard to fake. Stress might succeed, he thought, but working in a stores department wasn't like driving a train, where hundreds of lives could be lost if the conductor became incapacitated at the wrong moment. A headache could cause him to drop something from the crane, except he never drove the crane. If stricken while goofing off in the nest he could accidentally writhe off the platform and fall to his death, but that would likely get everyone laughing instead of feeling sorry for him, since he couldn't very well argue he belonged on disability because he might fall while goofing off. He figured he could lose an arm in the trash compactor, and decided maybe that would do. Maybe that would do.

When finished eating, he nursed his coffee. He hoped the woman would come to refill his mug, so he could take another shot at conversation with her, but she didn't. At last he left money to cover the check and the tip, zipped himself into his slicker, and left.

A mile down the road, where the harbor reached the ocean, the land turned from mud and marsh to a long stretch of wide, sandy beach. Claude parked his truck, marched through the soft sand, and walked in the firm sand along the water's edge. Wave remnants stopped a few inches short of his boots before retreating to the sea, though on occasion a surprise wave continued past, dampening the cuffs of his jeans. Seagull cries rose above the wind, rain, and crashing surf. Claude interrupted his walk frequently to toss rocks into the water, strain to see Block Island, or scan the horizon for ships.

An hour later, his pants soaked, Claude returned to the truck. After peeling off his jeans and spreading them over the passenger seat, he changed into shorts and a pair of sweatpants pulled from a gym bag he kept behind the seat. For the next thirty minutes, he leaned on the steering wheel and watched the surf pound the beach. He knew of a bar not far up the road, but vetoed his own suggestion, since he didn't want to knock down four or five beers and then contend with rain traffic on Route 1. He wanted to be home on time. He wondered if the Dub opened at eleven; after all these years, he should know, but he didn't. Maybe he'd try a new bar. Then again, maybe Walt, Hal, Greg, and Bots weren't so bad after all.

At 10:45 Claude started the truck and headed north. Although he wasn't hungry, he stopped for lunch at a busy restaurant, mostly to kill time, since he wanted to keep his time at the Victory Tavern to an hour or two. He arrived after one, and was pleased.

"What did you swim here?" Bots said.

"No, no," Claude said, shaking rain from his bangs and stomping sand off his boot soles. "Down to Point Judith to check out the fishing boats."

When he ordered a beer, Walt smiled and reminded him the beer wasn't free because it wasn't before noon. As Claude settled onto a stool next to Greg, he noticed how small the place felt with the front door closed. He still heard the rain.

"Shot for you?" Walt said.

"Save it for tomorrow," Claude said. "Today I'm just going to sip a few beers and go home."

#

Before retiring to bed that night, Claude made sure to tell Joan and Jamie he planned to go drinking after work Wednesday. He said one of the linemen was turning 30, and a bunch of guys were going to celebrate, though he still expected to be home before seven.

He groaned at the morning alarm, and realized in the shower how convincing his moans had been with his half-asleep wife. I am a good actor, he thought. Later he realized pretending to go to work was pretty much the same as actually going to work, in terms of groaning and resisting anyway, but nonetheless gave himself high marks for serving his decision-making leave without Joan or Jamie knowing about it.

For the third morning in a row, Claude drove a distance to eat breakfast. Although it remained cloudy and cool, sometime during the night the rain had stopped. At nine, Claude pulled into a mall just as it was opening. He found a large bank of televisions in a department store, reset four of them to different channels, and watched. A manager hinted that extended tube-watching was frowned upon, so Claude said he was just waiting for his wife to pick out some curtains and the right color ironing board cover, and wouldn't be long. He stayed another hour, and wandered the mall for an hour after that.

Good, he thought as he walked to his truck. It's eleven now. It takes a half an hour to drive to town. I won't be first.

After parking near the State House, he noticed how barren the streets seemed. Outside the cafes, large folded umbrellas dripped water on the empty tables and chairs. A few business people scurried around the puddles, but most waited at the taxi stand for the next available cab. No one sat on the park benches or reclined on the wet lawns.

As he turned the corner onto the narrow street leading to the Victory Tavern, he saw the same homeless man sleeping in the same spot on the sidewalk, and paused to look at him. The man wore a hoodless, knee-length wool coat over his fatigues, and, over that, a rain poncho made by punching three holes in a garbage bag. He slept on his side, with his knees tucked up into the bottom of the bag. He wore dirty mittens but no hat, and Claude could see cakes of mud in the man's hair and beard. Claude considered tucking a $5 bill in the man's coat, but decided against it and proceeded toward the tavern.

"Are you looking for me?" a voice from a side alley said as Claude passed.

Claude stopped, and with a puzzled expression turned back and walked into the alley. There he saw a girl, Jamie's age or a little older, with damp, shoulder-length auburn hair. She huddled inside an oversized maroon blazer, the sleeves hanging limp as she held the coat closed from within. She wore a black mini-skirt and black tights, and pressed her skinny legs together all the way down, thighs, knees, and ankles.

"Are you looking for me?" she repeated.

"I don't think so," Claude said. "Should I be?"

"I don't know," the girl said. "I'm supposed to meet someone here, and thought you might be him."

"Sorry, I don't think I am."

Claude supposed hi should walk away, but he didn't. He kept his eyes on the tiny girl.

"You look cold," he said. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Well," she said, "I think I should be meeting someone else, but I guess it doesn't really matter."

She stepped toward Claude and let the blazer fall open. Beneath it she wore a bikini top and nothing else. She touched her body to Claude's and turned her head so it rested on his breastbone, and held his hip with her hand.

"You need to pay for the rest of the morning, though," she said. "That's what the other guy wanted. My boss will think I'm cheating if I come away with any less."

Claude didn't want her services, but didn't let her go, either, didn't release her to do her job, to find the correct man and render unto him her barely nubile offerings, this shivering fawn. He put his arm around her and held her close, to keep her warm, if only for a minute. He knew she would see his hug as an indication of interest, but didn't care. As she nestled against him, he looked down the alley, past broken glass beneath a boarded-up window, past garbage strewn about the cobblestones, past a black bird feeding from a puddle of vomit.

"I think you'd better find the person you came to meet," he said.

He extricated himself from the girl. She scrunched her shoulders and pulled her head down as she folded her arms inside the blazer, but lifted her eyes to look at Claude. He turned and walked toward the Victory Tavern, keeping the image of the girl inside his head.

Claude opened the great wooden door and saw Greg, Hal, and Walt. He forced a smile, and placed a hand on a Hal shoulder and a Greg shoulder as he stood between them.

"Good morning, gents," he said. "How's everyone today?"

Greg raised his glass, and Hal gave a thumbs up.

"I think I have a discount beer with your name on it," Walt said.

"And I'll take it."

He left two stools between himself and Hal and sat down. He noticed Walt had showered, and started to comment on it, but wanted to be careful of the wording.

"You look good," he said at last.

"Thanks," Walt said. "Here's your beer."

"Thank you. Has Malcolm been around yet?"

"No, he hasn't. But he stopped by last night and asked me to return this to you."

Walt reached beneath the bar and produced Claude's UUW contract.

"The rain washed out his golf match yesterday," Walt said, "so he and his friends took a tour of the mansions instead. He said if he couldn't play again today he'd drop by, but if it cleared up he was going to try to squeeze in a round. I doubt we'll see him."

Claude didn't speak. He lifted his mug, but only took a small sip. He looked at a spot on the rail, and the rest of his vision blurred.

"You all right there, partner?" Greg said.

Claude humphed that he was, but didn't allow Greg to draw him into any conversations. Claude sat and drank. When he finished his beer he ordered another. Bots arrived and the banter livened up, though Claude, for the most part, remained quiet. At last, Bots sauntered over to Claude, smacked him on the back, and stated the obvious.

"You're looking mighty blue," he said.

Claude forced a smile, but still didn't speak.

"We can't have a sourpuss glooming up our bar," Bots said. "How about I buy you a shot, and in return you tell us all what's bugging you?"

Again, Claude resisted, but the others joined in and he relented.

"Okay," he said. "Wild Turkey. But please, join me."

The others did, including Walt, who filled Claude's glass well above the shot line. They clinked their glasses together and swallowed the booze.

"There," Greg said. "Now what's eating you?"

"You guys go the raw end of that deal," Claude said as he wiped his mouth. "There isn't much to tell. I have to go back to work tomorrow, and it's got me down a little, that's all. I was hoping to see Malcolm and learn more about disabilities. I hope he makes it in soon."

The four others exchanged glances.

"I don't think he will," Walt said. "When he was in last night, he talked a little about you."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," Walt said. "I think a couple things you said Monday bothered him. He said he didn't think you had the makeup to do the jig right."

"He did? What did I say that upset him?"

"Oh, he wasn't specific, but I remember him bristling when you called him the Guru Knox. I thought, at the time, it was a strange comment, but it was the way you said it more than the words themselves. I mean, here he is trying to teach you, and you're making sarcastic remarks. It was like you didn't really want to learn anything. Every time he said 'You need to do this,' you seemed to say 'No I don't' or 'I don't want to.' Or at least your body language did. From what I know of him, Malcolm's not one to bang his head against a wall. He's willing to put in a little effort, but he expects a little effort in return."

All eyes were upon Claude. Although he wished to hang his head and brood silently while filling his stomach with beer, he held his head up and raised his mug and inch off the bar.

"Well I still have all of you," he said.

The four others exchanged another round of glances. An awkward silence ensued. Bots walked toward the door and sat at a stool near Greg. At first, Bots, Walt, Greg, and Hal spoke softly, but gradually the awkwardness wore off, and the alcohol flowed, and the conversation became more spirited, and the decibel level returned to normal and then some. Claude sat two stools removed from the men, refrained from looking in their direction, and drank.

After an hour, he left some money on the bar, waved to Walt, and walked toward the door.

"Take care," Walt called.

The others watched him go.

Claude walked past the plaza near the insurance building to an Irish pub where a dozen or so college students relaxed after a class-filled morning. They played backgammon, cribbage, and pool, kept the jukebox blasting their alternative-music favorites, and drank dollar beers from plastic cups. The television above the bar had the closed caption option on, so interested patrons could read what they couldn't hear.

Although as the only non-student in the pub Claude drew some interesting looks and comments, he didn't care to fit in, or try to. He sat at the end of the bar, ordered dollar beers, and read an afternoon's worth of soap operas.

At five, he headed for the truck, taking the route by the arts center to avoid the Victory Tavern. When he arrived home, Joan asked why he was home so early.

"We had a few beers," Claude said, "but there weren't many people there, so I left early. I wanted to come home and spend time with you and Jamie. Come here and give me a hug."

"Not tonight," Joan said. "Go brush your teeth. You smell like a brewery."

Before Claude could make a second attempt, the doorbell rang. It was Frank.

"Hey old-timer," Claude said in a loud voice. "What can I do for you?"

As Frank stepped through the door, Claude put a finger to his lips and pointed to the kitchen.

"Joan, Frank's here. We're going to the family room and make ourselves comfortable."

"Hi Frank," Joan yelled from the kitchen. "You want something to drink?"

"No thanks," Frank said from the living room.

In the family room, Frank sat down and Claude closed the door halfway.

"What's up?" Claude said.

"Just seeing how you are. Are you coming back tomorrow?"

"Unfortunately," Claude said. "Let me tell you, though, I could get used to this not working routine in a hurry, no early mornings, no union bullshit, no Schulke. Permanent vacation."

Frank laughed. "Bugsy, you're something. It'll be good to have you back. I'm sure Joan'll be glad to get rid of you—you must've made a heck of a mess hanging around the house all week."

"Actually, I didn't tell her," Claude said. "I figured no sense getting her all worked up. What's done is done. I know what I need to do, and I'll try to do it. Believe me, it's a lot easier when she's not yapping about it every five seconds. Plus, I didn't hang around the house at all. Out the door by seven each day."

He lit a cigarette and pushed back in the recliner to bring the footrest up from the base.

"So what did you do all day?" Frank said.

"Partied, mostly. I wandered into this pub downtown, and the guys there were really cool. This one guy, Malcolm, used to drive trains in Pennsylvania. He's a hot shit. The first day Malcolm and I went out for a sandwich, and the bartender says he'll trade us beer for a ham and cheese sub. He drank as much as the regulars. There was this huge biker guy—he was scary—and a guy named Greg who has the same taste in music that I do. We talked a lot about bands from the sixties and seventies and stuff. And the other guy got totally blitzed, then sobered up, then got blitzed again, like three or four times each day. It was a hoot."

Frank stood up and prepared to go. "Sounds like a good three days," he said.

"It was," Claude said, also rising. "The only thing was, I got a couple of nasty headaches. It was a little weird, because I rarely get headaches. But these were whoppers."

#

Claude rose early Thursday to make a good impression on the boss. He reported to work at 6:30, told Schulke he'd seen the error of his ways, punched in, and began entering invoices into the computer. As Schulke signed forms, Claude turned to him.

"Excuse me, Tom," he said. "Is there any word on Warren's replacement yet?"

Schulke had grown used to being called "Mr. Schulke sir" by Claude, and the change up caught him off guard.

"Not yet," Schulke replied. "The posting is up. When it comes down Monday we'll open the bid box and see who gets the job. Actually, that reminds me, I've got to have Scotty write down a list of everything the new man will need to be trained in. Could've used one with Gino, that's for sure."

"Anything I can do?" Claude said.

"No. I'll have Scotty take care of everything."

Outside the office, the men of stores accomplished nothing, sitting on forklifts and talking about the hurricane that whacked the Caribbean in the night. When Schulke noticed, he dispersed the group. Back in the office, he remembered the training list, so he called Scotty in and mentioned the project.

"No problem, boss," Scotty said.

"Anything I can help with?" Claude said.

"Sure," Scotty said. "When you're done with those invoices, why don't you draw a good map of the department the new person can carry around. No need to get too specific, just list general categories like regulators, safety clothing, recycling bins, and so on."

"Roger dodger," Claude said.

Schulke began to object, seeing no reason why Scotty couldn't do the map himself, but stopped short. An hour before lunch, Claude grabbed a clipboard and climbed to the nest to draw his map. Frank pointed to the security camera, and Claude responded by waving and pursing his lips to the humming box. Darezzo sat on an outside rail near the meter department, flirting with one of the young honeys as she took a smoke break, and John Carrollton carried a small box of something up and down the rows, seeking without success the correct place to store it.

The map complete, but with ten minutes to go until lunch, Claude lingered in the stacks and practiced facial expressions a severe headache might spur. He pressed his temples with his palms, pushed a fist firmly against his forehead, and squinched his eyes while biting his lower lip. Gino rounded the corner and caught Claude squinching.

"If you're too lazy to walk to the bathroom, fine," Gino said. "But Jesus, at least have the energy to drop your drawers."

### Chapter 28

The last Saturday in September brought warm temperatures and sunny skies. Claude and Nate Coffey went to the Central High football game to watch Aaron Coffey run Central's offense. Jamie and Betty Allen went to the West High football game, and afterwards planned to attend the senior corn roast, where Peter Greeley would join them.

Joan sat in the kitchen and looked at the sky through the window over the sink. It's truly a day to be happy, she thought, so nice outside, with the trees changing color and a gentle breeze blowing. I bet everyone I know is having fun right now. It's a perfect day.

She reached for the phone and dialed Connie, who answered after the second ring, but Connie only heard the throaty, chopped-up squeaks of someone sobbing.

"Who is this?" Connie said. "Is this some kind of joke?"

Joan dragged two short sniffles through her nostrils. "It's me," she managed.

"Joan?"

No direct answer came, but a wave of sobs confirmed Connie's guess.

"What's the matter?" Connie said.

"Everything."

"What's everything?"

"I'm fat, I have a crappy job, my husband doesn't think I'm sexy..."

"Oh," Connie said. "Everything. Listen, Joan, I've got the girls here for cards, but we should be done in an hour or so. When we finish, I'll come right over. Can you hold yourself together for another hour? Hello?"

"You don't have to come over."

"Yes I do. And I will. I'll be there in an hour, and we'll talk. Maybe we'll take a drive. Or go for a walk. We'll sort the whole thing out, you'll see."

"Okay," Joan said.

"In the meantime, go out to the garden and make it a little better than it is now. Pick whatever's left. Weed anything that doesn't belong. Heck, if it's a big pile of dirt with not a thing growing, all right, then grab a rake and smooth it out, just as long as you're doing something in the garden until I get there. Promise me you'll work in the garden until I get there."

"Okay," Joan said. "I promise."

Connie scanned the three faces around the card table. "Oh and honey," she said, "leave the hedge clippers in the garage."

Joan smiled, but held the phone to her ear long after her sister hung up.

Joan started toward the garden, but never made it. On her way through the breezeway, she dropped to the floor in front of the bookcase and plucked a photo album from a shelf. Before she opened it, she looked around. Nobody ever spent time in the breezeway. Nobody else Joan knew even had a breezeway, and the Amognes wouldn't either if the realtor hadn't named it for them as she led Claude and Joan from the kitchen to the garage on their initial tour of the house. The name made sense, because when the door leading to the driveway and the door leading to the back yard were both open, voila, a breeze. But no work went into the breezeway. It had a bookcase, two small stands, and a floor lamp, and on the walls still hung the three pieces of yard-sale art Claude purchased for $2 each the week he and Joan moved in. The breezeway didn't even have a chair. Joan counted on her fingers: kitchen, living room, family room, our bedroom, and bathroom downstairs; Jamie's room, the guest room, and Jamie's bathroom upstairs—not counting bathrooms the breezeway was one-seventh of their house, and it didn't even have a chair.

We'll fix that, she thought. Every house in this room is going to feel wanted. I'm going to buy a nice chair and put it here and once in a while come out just to sit in it. No, one chair is no good. Need two. _What am I saying? A room feeling unwanted? I must be going nuts._

She flipped the album open to a picture of Claude and Jamie in the back yard. Jamie stood straight, stiff almost, her spaced-out baby teeth bared in a way that showed she hadn't yet learned to smile for a camera, with her arms by her side and her fingers extended flat against her thighs. Joan moved her eyes left to Claude, dressed in cutoff shorts and a gray concert tee shirt with maroon sleeves, wearing sunglasses and a huge grin. His left hand held Jamie's left shoulder. His right arm stretched in the other direction, hand open, fingers spread, and when Joan took the photograph she thought it was simply a "ta-da" motion by Claude—hey, here we are, take our picture—a fluid movement frozen by the camera, but later, when Joan opened the envelope from the photo lab and saw the picture, she knew immediately it was a punishment from God. There was her husband, her mate, smiling the definition of happiness, with his left hand on the shoulder of the daughter they had and his right hand on the shoulder of the son they didn't. When she first saw the photo she thought to destroy it, but knew that would only bring another punishment upon herself, and dutifully placed it in the album among the other pictures.

Before the picture had been taken, she'd agreed to have another baby. When she saw the photo, she immediately went off the pill, where Claude thought she'd been for weeks. But instead of making babies, she made excuses. She feigned illnesses large and small and did not have sex with her husband. Early in her next cycle, with her husband on the edge of forceful and her imagination exhausted, she opened her legs and let her husband make love to her. When Joan fell asleep that night, that very night, the first in which she believed there was a chance of pregnancy, nightmares tortured her. She awoke screaming, not once but hour after hour. When the nightmares continued for three more weeks, Joan spent a succession of midnight-to-morning hours crying on the couch, huddled with a stuffed bear as her husband snored a room away. Then her next period came, and after it did, Joan called in sick and drove to her childhood church, where she hadn't appeared in years, to thank God for not impregnating her again. However, as she knelt, praying in silence and gazing above the altar at the statue of a tortured Jesus on the cross, guilt crept upon her, and she resolved to try for a second child, nightmares or no, for her husband and for her family, and sure, for her god too. Even though she and her maker had been estranged in recent decades, she believed the signs, so sure, she'd try for her god too.

It wasn't easy. The prospect of pregnancy didn't bother her so much, because her pregnancy with Jamie had been a breeze. But the weeks after her birth were anything but. Joan thought back to Jamie's infancy, to the day she searched every inch of the house for a revolver Claude might have hidden within its walls, to the day she stood atop the stairs with Jamie and wailed because she wanted to throw her baby to the bottom, to the day she picked up the phone to commit herself as an awful monster unfit to continue in society, replacing the receiver only after she realized she'd be leaving Jamie with Claude, at least when Gail needed a break, and she couldn't do that to her little girl. When she pictured the son she might have, it always looked like Jackie, and swore like Jackie, and drank like Jackie, even as it waddled in its diapers, and although she succeeded in purging from her mind the image of herself standing atop the stairway with that son in her arms, never could she purge the image of that same son broken and bloody eighteen steps below her, Little Jackie dead for the fears Joan Amognes could not keep from strongarming her soul.

Joan never again exposed an unprotected womb to her mate. She renewed her prescription and hid the birth control pills beneath the front seat of her car during the week and on top of the lighted mirror in Jamie's bathroom on weekends. She told Claude she loved him, and told him this time, this time, this time, she hoped she'd conceive the son they both wanted.

#

Joan heard a car door slam and craned her neck to be sure the vehicle belonged to Connie and not Claude. It did. Connie came in through the front door to the living room, heard her sister call, and followed the voice to the breezeway, where she saw Joan smiling beneath red-welted eyes, still seated on the floor with the photo album open on her lap.

"I never made it to the garden," Joan said. "Sorry."

They both laughed. Joan stirred to get up, but before she could rock herself toward her feet Connie dropped beside her and wrapped both arms around her younger sister's shoulders. For a moment they just sat. When Connie released Joan, she lifted the photo album, gently closed it, and returned it to the wrong spot on the shelf.

"Don't tell him," Connie said. "At the lake you promised me you'd never tell him."

"I won't," Joan said. "He'd only fly into a rage. But still, it's hard. I remember how sad he was when I told him I was going back on the pill, and geez, that was when Jamie was ten. If he knew I'd been on it all along..."

"Is that what's bothering you?"

"It's everything," Joan said.

Her lip quivered and tears pooled in her eyes. "I'm such a loser. I work in the appliance section in a crappy department store, and I'll never move up because I'm fat and uneducated. Connie, I'm not that old! But this is what it's going to be for me every day for the next 25 years. This is the best it gets for me: a bottom of the barrel job that anyone could do. That's what I am."

"So quit. Nothing says you have to do something you don't want to do."

"I'd love to quit, Connie, I'd really love to. But whenever I work up the nerve, I get this empty feeling in my stomach, you know, like how you feel inside when a friend drops in and you know you haven't cleaned the bathroom. Those bad juices."

"But those bad juices go away," Connie said, "when you clean the bathroom. Maybe if you quit your job, the bad juices will go away then, too."

"They won't," Joan said. "That's the problem. I can leave my job, but I can't leave my _job_. You see what I mean? I can quit Home & Yard tomorrow, but I can't quit being a salesperson at a department store, because if I try another line of work I'm as bottom as it gets there, too, and at least with a department store I know what I'm doing and I'm good at it. So even if I quit Home & Yard, all I'm going to do is turn around and apply to another department store, because that's what my resume says I do. And what if I can't find another job right away, what kind of loser would I be then? An unemployed floorwalker. I don't think I could handle it. What would Jamie think? What kind of example would that set for her, if one day I just decided I wasn't going to do the things I have to do? Plus, I mean, I couldn't go to Claude and ask for money. He wouldn't give it to me. 'Get a job,' he'd say. And he'd be right, because if I can work I should work. And there I'd be, right back at the very bottom for the first department store willing to take me."

Connie shook her head. "Listen to yourself," she said. "Listen to yourself talk about how much your family needs you and how much you're there for them. You go to work so Jamie will be proud of you, so you have money for fun things to do, so your husband will respect you. You just said so yourself, and that's not the talk of a loser, Joan. That's the talk of a somebody. You have responsibilities and you meet them, you know your job well, and you do it well. You fit in. You belong there."

"I belong there. Oh brother. Do you know they gave a promotion to a twenty-year-old kid? She got an associate's degree, and now she's an assistant manager. I've been there for years. But she's a size three with a college degree and I'm five times bigger with no education at all."

Connie swiveled from Joan's side to a position directly in front of her. She held Joan's wrists.

"Listen," Connie said, "it's never too late to go to school if you want to. Community colleges are loaded with people our age, and it isn't that expensive, plus I can help. And you can lose weight too, if you're willing to watch what you eat and exercise regularly—not just here and there, but every day, hard, until you're good and sweaty."

"I can't exercise. My knees hurt."

"Your knees hurt because you're overweight, dear," Connie said. "You can have pain-free knees and be fat, or you can exercise through the pain until you're thin enough that the pain goes away. There are things you can do to fight the pain, like taking an aspirin before you walk, but there's nothing you can do to fight the excuses if you're intent on hiding behind them. Exercise is the only way, believe me, but once you develop healthy habits, the weight will come off in a hurry, and once you lose ten pounds you'll know you can lose twenty, and once you lose twenty pounds, you'll feel much better about who you are and how you look. It's not just the weight, though. It's the feeling that you control the things in your life that are important to you. Once you adopt the right mindset and put some real energy into it, you'll see successes, and before long you'll realize it doesn't stop there, that with a little effort and self-discipline you can do just about anything you want to. Honest. You can lose the weight. I guarantee it."

Connie released Joan's wrists, and Joan wiped away tears with the palm of each hand.

"Geez, you think then Claude will think I'm sexy again?" Joan said.

Connie smiled. She rolled to her knees, and from there stood up. She extended her hands and helped Joan to her feet, then gave Joan's hands a quick squeeze. Connie leaned forward and kissed Joan on the forehead before taking a final look into her eyes and dropping her hands.

"He'd better," Connie said.

### Chapter 29

The warm, cloudless sky of the previous weekend marked the first sign of trouble. All moisture on the east coast, the weather channel said, had been drawn in by Hurricane Jessica, whose pace put her on schedule to hit Rhode Island in 36 to 48 hours. At the electric company, top brass put employees on preliminary emergency alert.

In the stores department, that meant a lot of hustle. Schulke spent half the morning on the phone ordering wire—enough to double the current stock. He sent Darezzo and John Carrollton scurrying with forklifts to clear space for the wire, but when they began removing a pile of debris from the far corner of the yard they discovered a huge raccoon, dead for two days they guessed, and called Frank from the crane to determine if the carcass were too rotten to turn into a nice hat, which Darezzo envisioned wearing with his long leather coat to his high school's Thanksgiving Day football game, and when Frank said he thought the pelt could be salvaged Darezzo bolted to the storage cabinets for work gloves, an asbestos mask, and an array of cutting tools to make his first-ever attempt in the furrieric arts. The whole department gathered in the yard to watch Darezzo clip and carve, screaming in unison when he cut through bones or peeled back fur to reveal the coon innards.

When Schulke discovered he was alone in the department and came outside to bark at the men, even he became engrossed, and soon joined the shouting chorus of Darezzo's advisors. When Darezzo finished, Frank changed his mind and said flies had probably eaten too much of the raccoon to make a good hat after all.

"Nonsense," Gino said. "Gives it more character."

Darezzo stuffed the pelt into a plastic convenience store bag and put it behind the driver's seat of his truck.

As the group returned inside, Schulke turned to Scotty.

"Any word on New York and Quebec?" he said.

Scotty flipped a thumbs-up. "Feeney just sent an e-mail. Ten crews are on standby in Albany and twelve crews are standing by in Sherbrooke."

"Good."

If the storm hit hard and the governor declared a state of emergency, Rhode Island could hire mercenary crews from other utilities to help restore power, with the state footing the bill from its emergency coffers. When it happened the other way around, with Rhode Island Electric sending crews to help other areas restore power, the company charged exorbitant fees for its assistance, and not a penny found its way back to the state.

Claude drew rain gear duties. He loaded all the rain gear in stock onto a large flatbed dolly and carted it over to six folding cafeteria tables set up on the far wall near the bays. He arranged the gear by size.

"Yo Franko," he yelled, holding up a tiny raincoat. "Think we can get Cheryl from accounting to squeeze into this?"

"She don't need it," Frank shouted from the crane. "Tell her rain is God's way of saying it's time for a wet tee-shirt contest."

The company's outdoor personnel already had rain gear, naturally; these sets were for office cubicle dwellers pressed into service as bird-dogs—people who helped foreign crews find their way to downed lines in Rhode Island's most obscure corners. The gear kept the bird-dogs dry, but also served as a uniform that legitimized their presence in scenes, and among people, with which they probably felt unfamiliar.

In the middle of the activity, Schulke halted everyone to introduce the department's new man, who turned out to be a woman, Felicia Lopez.

"Felicia was the successful bidder for the material handler second class position we had open in the stores department," Schulke said. "I have full confidence that with our guidance and support, and through her own initiative, Felicia will have no trouble learning the job and progressing smoothly to material handler first class, and then onto stockperson. I expect you to afford her the same respect you would any other member of the department, if not more. From her experience as a field engineering assistant she already has a basic understanding of how we function, and from her years with the company we know her as a talented, dedicated individual who will be a welcome addition to our team. Felicia, happy to have you aboard."

The men broke into light applause, and stepped up one by one to shake her hand. Schulke gave her a new hardhat with her name on the side, shook her hand, and gave her a peck on the cheek.

"Hey boss," Darezzo said, "how come I didn't get an introduction like that?"

"Yeah Tom," Gino said. "Where's my kiss? I got a couple cheeks you can smooch if you're still in the mood. Better late than never."

"Very funny," Schulke said. "Felicia will receive her seniority and pay increase as of today, but because of the hurricane I'm sending her temporarily back to field engineering, since she knows that job well and can be useful if the storm does a lot of damage. Felicia, anything you'd like to say?"

"Nope."

She waved to the group, tucked her hardhat under her arm, and left through the side entrance.

"Ok," Schulke said. "Back to work."

Schulke turned and went to the office, but the rest of the men lingered.

"Man, she's something," Elton said. "I can't believe it, the Aztec Princess is one of us."

"So much for working," Darezzo said.

"Gimme a break," John said. "Her butt is huge."

"I don't know about huge," Darezzo said. "It's bigger than it was five years ago, but come on, back then it was perfect. Perfect ass. Perfect black hair. Perfect dark eyes. Perfect little boobies, and not an ounce of fat on her. Remember that dance she did on Cinco de Mayo?"

"Oh my god," Elton said. "The bathroom was jammed with jerkers after that one. I didn't really know her then, just that she was pretty. She seemed so meek and quiet. I never expected her to come out and put on a show like that. The way she moved, it was the sexiest damn thing I ever saw."

"You guys need to get laid once in a while," Frank said.

"I know," Darezzo said. "Where's Sharon when you need her?"

Everyone laughed. Elton tapped an open palm off the back of Darezzo's head.

"What's Felicia's deal?" Gino said.

"Dating a cop," Frank said. "Big guy, too. They live right around the corner. And her son, he's in high school, and he isn't anyone to mess with either."

"She has son in high school?" Darezzo said. "She doesn't look old enough."

"She has a daughter in high school too," Frank said. "Started young, I suppose. But she's a good egg, and I hope none of you is dumb enough to think you have a chance with her."

#

Before lunch, Schulke came back from overhead lines with a full report on the storm. Jessica had slowed some at the Carolinas, but still packed strong winds. Schulke wanted three men to work an hour of overtime at the end of the day, and instructed everyone else to take care of things at home this evening and be prepared to spend the rest of the week, if necessary, on the job. If the hurricane picked up speed and the men were needed earlier than expected, he'd call—and he didn't want to get any answering machines.

Claude, Scotty, and John were the next three on the overtime list, but since the delivery they expected required the crane, Frank hung around too. As the others left for the day, Schulke came into the office to say the delivery truck driver called to say he'd be late, and the four might have to stay a little longer. Frank grabbed the newspaper and headed for the bathroom. Scotty and John went to the line shed to buy a drink and a snack from the vending machines. Claude climbed to the nest and watched the clouds roll in from the south.

He'd planned to let more time pass before beginning his headaches, but with the impending hurricane he reconsidered. During emergencies, employees worked eighteen hours and slept six until the crisis abated. If an employee were truly afflicted with stress-related headaches, Claude thought, wouldn't such a schedule bring them out? How, a month from now, could he convince his superiors he'd developed debilitating headaches in just four weeks, when there'd been no evidence of them even during the long hours of hurricane duty? No, he decided, if the storm hits, the headaches will start.

And then, he said to himself, paradise will be mine. He pictured himself sleeping in late, waving to neighbors from the hammock, fishing, fishing, fishing, and watching all the day baseball games he'd always had to miss. He saw himself on a tropical island, with Jamie but without Joan, surrounded by scantily-clad, laughing women who tickled him and whispered things in his ear that other scantily-clad women begged him to reveal.

Once the shipment arrived and the four men unloaded it, Claude punched out, swung home, picked up Jamie, and stood in line at the supermarket for bottled water, canned food, soda, and chocolate. After they put the groceries in the truck, Claude drove to the mall. He'd been meaning to buy a leaf mulcher for a while, and figured the looming high winds justified the purchase. As he looked at different models with the salesperson, Jamie headed to the clothing store to say hello to Peter, and told her father she'd meet him in the photography store on the upper level. Claude bought a nice mulcher, oversaw its delivery to the truck, and went to the photo store, where he found Jamie on one knee in front of a glass case inspecting zoom lenses for her 35 millimeter camera. He told her to pick out whichever lens she liked best, and when she did, he took it to the counter and bought it with his credit card.

When they returned home, Claude and Jamie set up a makeshift hurricane shelter in the basement. They dragged over two old chairs from the storage shed, hauled down the television from Jamie's room, and filled the small area with games, food, water, and blankets. Claude went to the truck and brought back a bag of emergency equipment he'd taken from stores for Jamie and Joan: hard hats, rain gear, heavy duty flashlights, dozens of batteries, and even flares and a first aid kit, just in case. When they finished, Claude and Jamie helped Joan tape windows, then went to the family room for a game of cribbage.

The next morning, the forecast said the coast-hugging storm remained on track to hit Rhode Island, with the worst weather expected the following day around noon. With a day to go, dispatch, telecommunications, and meter personnel at the company ran through final checks to be sure the electrical reporting equipment functioned correctly. Line crews tested their chain saws, which worked off the hydraulic systems in the bucket trucks, so they could clear tree limbs quickly when the time came. The stores department spent the morning driving supplies to Rhode Island Electric's network of small outposts throughout the state.

"What do you think?" Claude said to Scotty as they drove wire and transformers to the storage shed at Chopmist Hill. "Are we in for a biggie?"

"I doubt it," Scotty said. "Every year some hurricane is supposed to wipe us out, and each time it turns out to be a dud. The news people are looking for ratings, that's all. We'll get some wind and some rain, and some lines will go down, but it won't be the horror show the media's making it out to be."

"Yeah. Remember when Gloria hit? We all went out back and played in the rain, and damned if that didn't turn out to be the worst part of the storm."

"I know," Scotty said. "That's the good part about living in New England. No tornadoes like the midwest, no hurricanes like the Carolinas, no mudslides or wildfires or earthquakes like the west, no giant bugs or reptiles like the south. An occasional blizzard is all we get, and lately we haven't even had many of those."

Claude nodded, and pulled the company vehicle onto the dirt road leading to the Chopmist Hill substation.

"Actually, I hope we get popped a little," Scotty said. "All that overtime makes a nice payday when the whole thing's come and gone."

When Claude and Scotty returned to the department, they received a surprise. Work had gone so well that Schulke was sending everyone home at two o'clock. He wanted them to get a good night's sleep and report back at four the next morning.

The group headed directly for the Dub and started drinking.

#

When his alarm rang at three the next morning, Claude heard the wind rattle the windows in their grooves. Trees swayed to the gusts, though no branches had yet come down, and the front yard flag he never took in rippled with a sound that reminded him of a small outboard motor churning against the tide. It had not begun to rain.

As he climbed into his truck, he paused, resting an arm on the door and the other on the roof. The wind blew warm. The trees reminded him of the lake, rustling as they did in the steady breeze that gathered momentum over the open water, turning their leaves upward as they did when they expected rain.

Everyone else in the state ceased activity to brace for the storm, but Rhode Island Electric hummed. As Claude pulled through the front gate, line trucks honked hello on their way out. Light streamed through the windows on all floors of the main building, from the front door of the line shed, from stores, and from the garage, while meter reading trucks and telecom vans idled in the courtyard, locked and riderless, their exhaust indicating the swirling wind patterns created by the U-shaped design of the surrounding building. Someone parked in Claude's regular space, so he wheeled around the line shed and pulled into a spot where falling limbs wouldn't pose any threat.

Apparently, most other departments had called their workers in at three, not four as Schulke had. Non-union, non-essential personnel, like training coordinators and marketing analysts, scurried across the lot to the emergency storm room, where they'd don headphones to handle the overflow phone volume. The human resources department joined the kitchen staff to serve meals to the entire workforce and clean the dishes after. The president and top brass put the finishing touches on a media room from which they'd update the public on storm damage and restoration efforts as events unfolded.

Stores moved slowly. Despite the early-morning energy running through headquarters, everyone knew little would happen until the storm actually hit. Claude spent the first three hours of his day signing out rain gear and taking trips to the cafeteria for free food. Scotty manned a computer to monitor work orders and customer service reports. Schulke sent the others to move three regulators he deemed too close to an elm branch, and to secure items that could be blown around, both inside and out.

"Aw, Tom, why do we have to tie everything down in here?" Elton, who had plenty to drink at the Dub the previous afternoon, said.

"You know why," Schulke said. "If anyone opens the back door while the bay doors are up, the wind's gonna zip through here like a virgin through a frat house. Anything unsecured goes straight to the back yard."

Around eight, customer service reported seven outages throughout the state. In each case, a limb fell on a service connection, knocking out power to an individual home. A click of the computer mouse showed Scotty that crews had arrived at six of the seven locations.

"Nothing big," Scotty told the group gathered in the office. "P.R. work."

"Get a weather update," Schulke said.

"Raining in Westerly," Scotty said after another mouse click. "Jessie's running a little ahead of schedule. Let's see, Philadelphia's mayor declared a state of emergency. Big damage on the Jersey shore. Winds on Long Island gusting to 140 miles per hour."

"That's a hurricane," Darezzo said. "Break out the cards."

"Not yet," Schulke said.

"Come on, boss," Frank said. "Now's the time. It's going to be a long day."

"All right," Schulke said. "But go play in the stacks somewhere. Not here."

The crew left. Schulke leaned back and put his feet on an upside-down metal wastebasket. Scotty remained at the computer. Claude straddled a backwards chair, leaning on the backrest with a view to Scotty and the computer screen.

"Aren't you going with them?" Schulke said to Claude.

"Nah. I'll stay here and watch the reports. Maybe there'll be something you'll need me to do."

#

By late morning, the rain fell hard on the pavement and trees now waved in long looping arches. Leaves, small branches, and bark dotted the empty streets. The card game broke up, and most of Schulke's men gathered at a window near the bathroom to watch the storm.

"It's funny," Elton said. "You expect a hurricane to be this amazing catastrophe, blowing houses to splinters and clearing a path of destruction. But it's really kind of peaceful. If you walk down Thompson Street when it's all over and see four or five big limbs down, you think wow, what a terrible storm. You don't realize it happened over ten or twelve hours."

In the early part of the storm, Feeney allowed his crews to dash out and restore power to individual homes. It kept the troops occupied, and provided photo opportunities for the print media, allowing them to complete their assignments and still have plenty of time to run for cover before the heavy winds hit.

As the teeth of the storm bit the area, however, Feeney held all his men to the line shed or their assigned outposts. At that point, he'd only dispatch crews to important public buildings like hospitals, fire stations, and police stations, and to a short list of companies with enormous energy needs who called to say they'd lost power—and since most companies on the list were closed because of the storm, none called. Otherwise, the best course of action was to wait until the bulk of the damage was done and begin with the jobs that brought the most lights back on with the least amount of work. If a major distribution line went down and blacked out an entire neighborhood, obviously that would take precedence over a tree limb ripping the wire from a single house. The more juice it carried, the higher its priority.

Another reason Feeney held back his men, despite what the company would have the public believe, was the danger. Certain jobs could be done even in driving rain. But working from bucket trucks in hurricane-force winds amid branches which could snap at any moment made no sense. If a very important building lost power and very important people were screaming at the Rhode Island Electric brass, Feeney might take a risk. Otherwise, he waited.

Of course, Feeney had to balance his safety concerns with the president's commitment to the bottom line. When a large community went dark, the company could lose tens of thousands of dollars an hour, and Feeney knew that five years from now his bosses would certainly recall how much Hurricane Jessica caused the company's stock price to dip. They would certainly not recall the names of any women the storm happened to widow.

So the crews sat. The phones ran the customer service people ragged, ringing non-stop, and outage reports streamed through the computers. Television reported that the damage, on the whole, would be moderate. The stores department never ate better.

#

At three in the afternoon, Feeney gathered his engineers in the war room and began dispatching crews. By then, 8,722 customers were without power, not a bad figure, especially since about half would be returned in an hour or two after the local power plant repaired a section of downed transmission line in Johnston. Another 300 customers would be back on-line when Feeney's men repaired damage to a key part of a substation caused by a hard-flying garbage can lid. For the remaining 4,000 or so homes, power would return as the crews worked their way from side street to side street. The governor did not call a state of emergency, no help was arriving, and a handful of Rhode Islanders would go three days without electricity.

Before long, trucks waited in line at the stores department bays. After twelve hours of virtual inactivity, Schulke's men worked non-stop, unloading trucks as they came in and reloading them to go out.

At six, Schulke called the men over and briefed them on the projected work schedule.

"Most of the people in the state who lost power already have it back," he said. "Now the house to house work will begin, and since you're all veterans you know that means a busy stretch for us over the next 48 hours. I want to keep the department open as much as possible, so I'm staggering the sleep shifts. Claude and Frank, here's your room key, you go first. Scotty and John, here's yours, you go at eight. Everyone else goes at ten, which means the department will be closed from ten to midnight, when Frank and Claude return. I'll try to stay here until two. You can figure on at least one more cycle of eighteen-and-six, maybe two more cycles if the work orders keep coming."

At the motel, Frank removed his shirt and pants, fell asleep, and began snoring. Although he was tired, Claude had trouble tuning out Frank. Willing himself to sleep didn't work. At last, he drifted off, but woke up whenever Frank murmured dream mumbles, and took in, he figured, only about three hours of quality shuteye during the six-hour break.

When the alarm went off at 11:59, Frank pulled on his pants, buttoned up his shirt, and poked Claude to go. They skipped showering, but Claude wanted to splash some water on his face, and lingered at the sink a little long for Frank's tastes.

"Bugsy let's go for chrissakes. It's quarter past already."

"Chill out, man. Nobody's even in the department. We'll be there in five minutes."

When they arrived, six trucks idled in front of the bay doors.

"What are these guys doing here?" Claude said. "I thought Schulke was coordinating the rest periods with overhead lines."

"Feeney brought them in an hour earlier than us," Frank said. "Maybe these guys been sitting here since eleven."

"Well, that's not our fault."

While they were gone, Schulke changed from his gray polyester slacks and white, short-sleeved shirt to a pair of baggy blue sweatpants and a black company sweatshirt. The white of his jogging shoes hadn't been dusted up. Although Schulke had very little hair, what he had was a mess: a patch behind his left ear stuck straight out, while a patch on the other side was pressed flat against his head and had tiny bits of pretzel showing through the strands.

"Looking casual there, boss," Claude said.

"Getting tired, too. Hope you guys had some rest, because we have some chugging to do. Feeney wants those trucks on the road, not sitting here waiting for us."

He held a half dozen work orders. Frank and Claude moved in to see.

"These three orders don't call for any big equipment," Schulke said, "so we can work alone until they're done. Claude, you take Willie and Gonzo. Frank, you take Jeff and Junior. I'll take Nate and Dan. After that, we'll have to get a couple transformers from the yard. We can work together on those."

Wire, crossarms, insulators. All night long Claude trekked between the stacks and the bays, the bays and the stacks. Top pins, lobster claws, more wire. It continued to rain. Cutouts, surge arrestors, who ordered streetlights? Must be a mistake. Streetlights can wait. On second thought, give 'em what they order. Match the sheet, and hold it high if they come back screaming.

As men returned to the department from their rest periods, so did linemen return from theirs, so the work held a fast pace. With Schulke grabbing a nap, Scotty asked for a volunteer to postpone breakfast so the only truck currently waiting could be loaded, and Claude raised his hand.

Later, as he enjoyed his steak, eggs, home fries, and coffee by himself, Claude thought about a headache. He didn't know, but he figured Rhode Island Electric had made good progress toward returning everyone to power. That meant instead of getting just six hours at the end of his eighteen-hour stint, Schulke might send him home outright, and if that happened, his turn on the seniority-driven rest time schedule would follow quickly, giving him, in effect, two mandatory vacation days. Two o'clock, he decided. The headache would call at two.

#

Breakfast fulfilled Claude's desires for food and caffeine, but one need remained, so instead of returning to stores by the hallway, he slipped out the cafeteria's back door and lit a cigarette as he walked toward the department's rear entrance. He walked quickly, since a light rain still fell, but paused for a final drag before punching the button to raise the automatic door. As he flicked the cigarette into a puddle, he noticed muffled shouts inside. Claude pressed the button, the door lifted three feet, and he ducked beneath it.

Halfway across the department, Schulke and Elton stood nose to nose. Claude halted.

"You do whatever you want once you've carried out my order," Schulke yelled. "But right now, I've given you an order, and you better get moving this fucking second."

"It'll be a cold day in hell," Elton shouted. "Roster 24 does Roster 24 work and Roster 9 does Roster 9 work. I'm not a goddamn messenger. You need a letter delivered, get someone from Roster 9 or do it yourself."

"This isn't my letter. This is the president's letter. Remember Mr. Munson? He runs the place. He told me to get this downtown pronto, and you're going to take it downtown."

"Listen, Tomsy, you may think you're the exalted almighty, but you aren't. I'm not taking anything anywhere."

Scotty stepped in to try to restore calm. "I'll go find a messenger if you want me to."

"No you won't," Schulke screamed. "I told Elton to do it, and he's going to do it."

"Shutup, you asshole," Elton said.

"Who you calling asshole?"

Scotty moved in to keep the men apart. At first, he used outstretched arms to keep the two at bay, but as each pressed he resorted to using his elbows. Darezzo came over and tried to drag Elton away.

Schulke turned toward the back of the department. "Claude! Close that goddamn door."

Claude pressed the bottom button and held it until the door hit the cement floor. Schulke collected himself.

"Take the letter to a messenger," Schulke said to Scotty. "Don't be too long trying to find someone, though, because we still have shitloads to do. We'll deal with Mr. MacGibbon later. Everyone back to work."

Frank climbed down the ladder and went over to talk to Elton.

"Hey," Frank said, "don't let this brew into something bigger than it should be. The union never loses cross-rostering cases, and once Clarke hears the details he won't even bring it for discussion. But for now, drop it. Do something mindless, and just forget about it. Don't give Schulke any ammo to shoot you with."

Elton agreed, and Frank continued on to the office.

"Geez, boss, things got a little testy down here at the lower altitudes."

"Mind your own damn business," Schulke said. "When I want your input I'll ask for it. Until then, get back to work."

Hmm, you are an asshole, Frank thought. He meandered out the front door to the line shed and returned with a cup of coffee.

"What's with Schulke?" Claude whispered at Frank passed.

"If he was my grandson, I'd say he needed a nap."

At eleven Schulke called the department together. The group gathered, but each man kept his distance. Elton remained at the back of the group, Darezzo, Claude, and Gino to the side. Only Scotty stood within ten feet of the boss as he spoke.

"Here's the update on the restoration efforts," Schulke said. "All major problems have been corrected, and the house to house stage is moving along. The state's roads and railways are open, and the airport is back in service. The weathermen say we'll have sun and blue skies by tomorrow morning. The linemen still have a lot of work to do, and Feeney says we'll have a steady stream of trucks the rest of the day and maybe into the night, but the worst is over. Substation has cleared all their problems and is going off emergency alert this afternoon. We'll keep hustling to get the incoming trucks unloaded and reloaded, and we'll start restocking. When there aren't any trucks in the bays, I want you guys on the phones ordering replacement supplies and arranging to have those recycling bins emptied."

Claude worked. As he and Scotty loaded a vehicle, Claude paused and rubbed his eyes.

"You all right there?" Scotty said.

"Feel a headache coming on."

"I've got some aspirin in my car. I'll get a couple for you at lunch."

Claude thanked him, and when they punched out for lunch followed Scotty to his car, cup of water in hand, and swallowed two pills. In the cafeteria, Claude and Scotty ate with Frank, Darezzo, Gino, and three guys from underground lines. Although the others got a little raucous, Claude said nothing. He tried to keep his head down. When spoken to directly, he smiled and nodded.

As the men finished lunch, Schulke marched into the cafeteria, paused to scan the room, and headed toward their table.

Gino rolled his eyes. "Another big breeze blowing our way, boys."

"Three huge shipments just came in," Schulke said.

"Hey boss," Frank said, "we're eating."

"I can see that," Schulke said, "but I've got to go upstairs and face the music. Feeney's already on my ass because some of his trucks had to wait while we were closed. I hope I'm only there a few minutes, but it could take an hour or so. I wanted to let you guys know so you can get cracking when you get back. Scott, you match the invoices with what's actually delivered."

"Righto."

"Claude, you go to the shelves and drag what's left forward so we can rotate it properly."

Frank waved both hands in front of his face. "Excuse me, boss," he said. "Did you tell any of this to Elton?"

"Well, no, I didn't," Schulke said. "I told John."

"Then John will tell us when we return. Now go get chewed out so we can finish lunch."

Schulke didn't move, and looked befuddled.

"Go," Frank said. "We've unloaded a million trucks. We know what to do. Go."

"You're right. See you in an hour or so."

Schulke turned and walked away.

"Did you ever?" Frank said with a smirk.

"How do you guys stand that dink?" one of the guys from underground asked.

"Aw, he's not so bad," Scotty said.

#

Back in the department, Scotty oversaw the deliveries while Claude and Darezzo pulled boxes and equipment from the shelves so the new items could be stored beneath or behind them. As they worked, Darezzo slapped Claude's elbow.

"What was that for?" Claude said.

"Hold still," Darezzo said. "You've got a spider on you."

Claude obeyed and Darezzo flicked the bug away. When they finished their task, they went to Scotty and told him the guys could start bringing boxes to the shelves.

"Don't move," Scotty said to Claude. "You've got a spider on you."

"Another one?"

"Geez, you've got three or four on you. Hold on."

He brushed off the spiders. As they scampered for cover Darezzo decided to play soccer with one, and everyone laughed until Schulke arrived.

"What's going on here?" he said.

"Bugsy's got spiders," Darezzo said.

"Knock it off and get to work."

Claude and Darezzo each hopped on a forklift and began piling boxes near the shelves for Frank to lift with the crane. The others worked on a truck in the far bay, bringing boxes to the shelves on the other side of the department from where Claude and Darezzo worked. Frank maneuvered the crane from side to side to clear the piles as they rose.

While tackling the fourth pile, Frank stopped, and peered from the cockpit. He leaned on the horn, and when nobody looked up to him, he gave it three more blasts.

"What's up?" Schulke called as he emerged from the office.

"Man down, over there, in the stacks."

Schulke walked to where Frank pointed, with Scotty hurrying close behind. They saw an empty forklift parked at an odd angle in the aisle. When they stepped around the forklift, they saw Claude on the floor, squirming slightly and clutching his head.

"Games are over," Schulke said in a firm voice. "Get up and get back to work."

Claude didn't respond. With Frank watching from above, Schulke leaned over to Claude.

"Are you all right? Did you fall off the lift? Are you hurt? What's wrong?"

Claude rolled to his knees, folded his arms on the floor, and pressed his forehead against the back of his hands. His toes dangled a few inches from the cement. Schulke and Scotty knelt to his side.

"Hey man, it's Scotty. Are you ok? What happened?"

"Headache," Claude said softly as he rocked gently on his knees.

"What?" Schulke said.

"Headache. Somebody take me home. Now."

Schulke knelt upright and looked at Scotty. The boss's upper lip tightened around his front teeth, and the inner ends of his eyebrows furrowed sharply toward his nose. Scotty turned his palms up and shrugged. Schulke stood, slammed his clipboard onto the vacant seat of the forklift with a loud smack, and walked back to the office.

"Bugsy," Scotty said in a low voice. "No fooling around. If you can get up, you better go tell Schulke you're sorry. He's in no mood."

"Take me home."

Scotty looked up to Frank and shrugged. Frank shrugged. Scotty shrugged, and jerked his outstretched palms once in frustration before rising.

"Hold on," he said. "I'll be right back."

Scotty trotted to the office and asked what to do.

"That cocksucker," Schulke screamed. "We don't have time for this shit. We're down a man as it is."

"That's all well and good, Tom," Scotty said, "but he's not getting up. We can't leave him there. He could be having a stroke or something. Let somebody take him home."

"Bullshit on that," Schulke said with a slight smile. "Call an ambulance."

Scotty did, and Claude left the department on a stretcher with both arms firmly planted across his eyes.

### Chapter 30

Scotty tried to reach Joan but got the answering machine, and since he didn't want to leave a message that Claude had been taken to the hospital, he fumbled a bit before asking Joan to page him as soon as she heard the message. When he hung up he realized what he said wasn't any improvement over what he wanted to avoid saying.

At 4:00, his pager buzzed, and he dialed the Amognes' number. Jamie, not Joan, answered.

"Hi Mr. Williams," she said. "Is everything all right?"

"I just called to let you mom know that your dad had a bad headache at work today, and as a precaution they took him to Providence General."

"For a headache?"

"Yes."

"Must've been pretty bad."

"I'm sure he'll be okay," Scotty said. "His truck is still here, though, so you'll probably want to swing by and pick it up. We haven't been released from storm duty yet, so we might still be here when you come by. If not, I'll leave word at the front gate so you can come in and get it."

"Sounds good."

Jamie hung up and called Home & Yard. Mr. Abeles charged Joan 45 minutes of unpaid personal time, but let her go.

#

At the hospital, Joan and Jamie were told Claude had been taken for tests to determine if he were having a stroke, heart attack, cerebral hemorrhage, or other life-threatening episode. About ninety minutes after Joan and Jamie arrived, they saw Claude walking down the hall with an ice pack pressed to his temple. A young doctor accompanied him. Jamie lept up.

"Are you okay, daddy?" she said.

"I don't know," Claude said softly. "I was working, and all of a sudden my head felt like it was going to explode."

"Is he all right, doctor?" Joan said.

"We're not sure," she said. "I'm Dr. Huckaby."

She shook hands with Joan and Jamie, and then continued.

"We've ruled out any imminent danger, Ms. Amognes. Your husband's CAT scan looked fine, his vitals are normal, and there's certainly no reason to admit him, so we're sending him home to rest. I've already contacted your family doctor, Dr. Corrigan, and he's going to bring your husband in tomorrow to look at things in more detail than I can justify here in the emergency room."

"What could it be?"

"Almost anything. I know that's no answer, but violent headaches can be associated with a number of maladies. It could be as simple as him needing glasses. What's important is there's nothing life-threatening."

Joan thanked the young doctor, who as she walked away called to Claude to be sure to rest. Jamie helped her father into the back seat of the Buick, where he slumped against the far door. On the way home, Joan dropped Jamie at the front gate at Rhode Island Electric so she could retrieve the truck. When Jamie had trouble finding it, she went to the office in stores, gave a report on her father's condition, and asked where he'd parked. Schulke engaged her in polite conversation, then volunteered to lead her to the vehicle. On the way out she waved good-bye to the men.

"That's Bugsy's kid?" Gino said. "Some bod. You know, she's not half bad. She's a fine looking little kitten."

"Once you get past the face," Darezzo said.

"Yeah," Elton said. "I could never do her because of the face. The whole time I'd think I was banging Bugsy."

"That's enough," John said. "I could've lived my whole life without hearing that."

As dusk approached, the members of the stores department itched for the end of storm duty. The collective adrenaline rush brought with the winds died with them too, and the dull routine of restocking the department led even the most conscientious worker, Scotty Williams, to seek an out-of-the-way pile of boxes to recline for a spell. The others nagged Schulke to send them home even though, technically, he lacked the authority to do so.

At last Schulke grew weary of their griping and sauntered over to overhead lines to get a read on the restoration. He didn't find anyone, so he walked toward dispatch, where he knew someone had to be working. On the way, he waved to Doug in security, but twenty yards beyond the closet-like room where Doug worked Schulke stopped, wheeled around, and scurried back down the hall. When he arrived at the security room, he took a moment to scan the bank of televisions on the wall in front of him, searching for the stores screen and watching as it flipped from one camera to the next before repeating the sequence again.

"Hey Doug," Schulke said. "How long are the loops on the security tapes?"

"Twenty-four hours. Unless we know in advance you want something longer."

"No, no," Schulke said, "twenty-four hours is good. Can I get two copies of the view looking down onto the office?"

Doug reached to the controls for monitor eleven, punched a green button, and twisted a black knob. The view from the ceiling stayed on the screen as the day's activities sprinted in reverse.

"Come back in an hour," Doug said.

As Schulke turned to leave, Feeney saw him in the tiny room.

"Send 'em home, Tom," Feeney said. "We've wrapped it up pretty good. Nobody's to return until eleven tomorrow morning. We'll have a nice easy day to ease us into the weekend, then come back Monday ready to go."

"I'll tell them," Schulke said.

He then turned to Doug. "But I'm not going home quite yet, because I'll see you in an hour."

#

Schulke returned to stores, and when he gave the word, the men rushed to the time clock, punched out, and hurried out the door. Within two minutes of his announcement, Schulke stood alone in the department.

The UUW contract contained a provision that gave mandatory rest time to anyone who worked more than 24 hours during an emergency, in effect granting them special vacation time based on the hours they put in. The men had worked almost two complete eighteen-and-sixes—though the first shift fell short of a true eighteen hours—so each man had earned a full day of rest time to use at his discretion. Schulke wondered how many of his men he'd see the next day, and how many messages he'd have from people taking rest time.

Schulke thought about calling Doug and telling him he'd pick up the tape later, but decided against it. Instead, he walked to the back entrance and secured it, moved a forklift to the parking area, brought down the bay doors, and turned out the main lights, leaving just the dim security lamps to illuminate the department. Schulke returned to the semi-dark office, stared at the pile of work clothes he'd tossed behind his chair a full day earlier, and wished he had a locker like the union employees. For a moment, he leaned toward leaving the pile as it lay, even though he knew he shouldn't, until at last he summoned the energy to stoop down, gather in his arms the scuffed-up black shoes with the toes that bent upward, the polyester slacks and shirt, the cotton briefs, and the two black nylon socks, and cram the whole wad into his gym bag. After he zipped the bag closed, Schulke flopped into his chair and dialed home. He got the machine.

"Hi Win," he said after the tone, "it's me. I'll be another hour or so, and don't expect much from me when I get home, because I'm beat. I'm probably heading straight to bed. See you then."

After he hung up, he dialed Shepard's office and left a voice mail message.

"Hi, Jim, it's Tom in stores. Listen, if you're in tomorrow, I need about an hour of your time. I have something you may find very interesting, very interesting indeed, and I want to go over it with you and talk about the implications. It might even be the break we've been waiting for. Anyway, give me a shout and I'll fill you in. Bye."

Schulke checked his watch. It hadn't even been ten minutes since he sent everyone home.

### Chapter 31

Friday morning, Dr. Corrigan gave Claude a simple eye exam. When Claude demonstrated 20-20 vision, Dr. Corrigan led him down a long corridor in the medical building where he kept his office. As they walked, Claude imagined the giant gizmo Dr. Corrigan would connect him to and grew excited, feeling a little like an astronaut, all wired up with machines beeping his bodily functions while pretty nurses fussed to keep him comfortable.

But the last door in the hallway led only to a small room, with a desk against the wall, a single chair facing the desk, and a standard metal examination table looming in the far corner. A tiny sink and cabinet lay between the desk and the table, and a rack of medical supplies stood near the cabinet. The walls featured the usual assortment of anatomical diagrams and lessons in good health.

"Sit down, Claude," Dr. Corrigan said. "I can see you were expecting something different, so on behalf of the world of medicine I'd like to apologize. When it comes to headaches, I use three main tools. One, machine stuff, like CAT scans, x-rays, and MRIs. Two, eye exams. Three, interviews."

"Interviews?" Claude said.

"Yes. Old-fashioned, to be sure, but you can't beat the classics. The CAT scan is an excellent tool, but I've looked at yours from every diagnostic angle I can think of and see nothing wrong, so although it's fancy and expensive and high-tech, it's only telling us what's not wrong with you, not what's wrong with you, because like I said the CAT scan shows nothing. Now I'm not telling you you didn't have a serious headache, because of course you did, I'm just saying there's no abnormality or trauma that seems to be causing it, and that's a good thing, because it means there's no brain tumor or intracranial hematoma or what-have-you."

Dr. Corrigan picked up a clipboard and focused on it. "I'm just going to run down the list, here," he said. "Some of these we already know the answers to, so let me just bop them off first. Let's see, blow to the head, no. Sinus infection, no. Menstrual symptoms—hey, what do you think?"

Claude smiled. "Probably not."

"Good. No nausea. No speech problems. No medication. You're not 55. Too many beers on Friday nights, I suspect, but we'll get into that later."

"It definitely wasn't a hangover headache," Claude said. "I'm an expert in those."

"Did your parents have headaches?"

"Not that I know of."

"Do you sleep well?"

"Usually."

"How many hours a night?"

"It depends," Claude said. "Most of the time, I don't know, six or seven hours. Once in a while I can't sleep, but usually I go right out."

Dr. Corrigan nodded. "Do you eat a lot of sugary things?"

Claude tipped his head to the side as he pondered the question, returned it upright, and repeated the movement. "I like cupcakes. I drink soda, and eat quite a bit of candy. I have sugar in my coffee. Yeah, I'd say I eat some sugary things."

"Possible trigger number one," Dr. Corrigan said. "Is your coffee or soda decaffeinated?"

"No."

"Possible trigger number two. You said your headache came while you were on hurricane duty, so I'm going to list barometric pressure as possible trigger number three, job stress as possible trigger number four, and fatigue as possible trigger number five. Don't worry, these aren't in order of importance, I'm just ticking them off as I go along. How about red wine, Chinese food, milk, or cheese?"

"I like 'em all."

"Ok. Immediately before your headache, did you see anything unusual, like flashing sparkles or zigzag lines?"

Claude took a deep breath, and hoped the doctor didn't notice. Although he realized it was probably already too late, he did not want the doctor instructing him to avoid soda and sweets and Chinese food, telling him the things Claude ate and drank—and really liked, dammit—had caused the headache and would cause more unless he cut them from his diet. He wanted to slap himself for telling so much truth, and wished he'd said his parents had had headaches. _Shit, I need some fucking symptoms or he's going to send me back to work and force me to become a teatotaller._ Claude started nodding his head.

"Come to think of it, I did see sparkles before my headache," he said. "First I saw sparkles, then wavy lines."

"How long before the headache?"

"A long time," Claude said. "A good five minutes. Definitely, five minutes."

"And you don't think it could've been closer to the actual onset of the headache?"

"Maybe. It's hard to say."

"But not longer than five minutes, right?"

Claude shook his head.

Dr. Corrigan scribbled something on the top sheet of the clipboard. "Dr. Huckaby's notes are wrong. She said no sparkles. Any numbness in your extremities, Claude? Right before the headache, I mean."

"A little," Claude said.

"Where?"

"Um, I think in my hands. Just a little tingly, like when you fall asleep on the couch and the circulation to your arm gets cut off."

After scribbling a few more notes, Dr. Corrigan spun his chair in a half circle, opened a desk drawer, and pulled out a small black book. He handed the book to Claude."

"A diary?" Claude said. "You want me to keep a diary?"

"Ignore the cover," the doctor said with a slight smile. "They were on sale, and well, you know, cost-cutting and everything. But the truth is, yes, I want you to keep a diary. A headache diary. The next time you have a headache, I don't care how minor it is, I want you to take a couple minutes to write down everything we just discussed. Did you just eat cheese before the headache began? What was the weather like? Did you have a good night's rest? All that. Before long, we might be able to determine your triggers, and from there we can help you to avoid them."

"I don't think a lot of those things are my triggers," Claude said. "I've drank soda and coffee for years, and I've never had even the slightest headache. I'd say it's probably job stress. We work awful hard, and it can get pretty ugly in there."

"But that's nothing new, is it?"

"It's been worse lately."

Dr. Corrigan stood. "Well, we'll see. Keep that journal, even at work—especially at work—and I'll make you an appointment to come back here in a few weeks and talk about what's in it. In the meantime, if you have another severe headache, get down here as soon as you can—as soon as you can, understand? We'll give you an injection of Imitrex, and if your blood pressure doesn't go off the chart, that might be something we can use as a lynchpin of your treatment program."

"How long should I stay out of work?" Claude said.

"No reason you can't go back Monday," Dr. Corrigan said. "Until we've identified your triggers, don't do anything different. Work, eat, and sleep just the same. And keep that journal."

The doctor looked at his watch. "Oy, the time," he said. "Excuse me, but I've got a few more headaches to deal with, no pun intended, before I can start my weekend. Thanks for coming in. Say hi to Joan and Jamie for me."

### Chapter 32

That day, among the union employees in stores only Scotty and Felicia reported for duty. While Scotty reviewed the work orders trickling in, Schulke gave Felicia his account of the company's recycling efforts.

"I'm chair of the recycling committee, you know," Schulke said. "I set the whole thing in motion, and saved the company hundreds of thousands of dollars. Of course copper from old wire is our big money-maker. We sell it by the ton, and it's melted down and made into all kinds of things, though usually not more copper wire, if you can believe it. About the only thing we send to the recycling plant that comes back as it left is aluminum cans. We collect them, they're melted down, then they're made into new aluminum cans, same as before. It's called closed-loop recycling."

Felicia glanced to Scotty and rolled her eyes. Scotty smiled, but didn't give her away.

"When the trucks come in today we'll show you the bins and what goes where," Schulke continued. "The only things we recycle that never actually come into the building are utility poles and motor oil. We keep the poles out in the yard, and the oil in big barrels near the garage. But we're still responsible for them."

"No we're not," Scotty said. "The garage handles oil now."

"Since when?" Schulke said.

"Last year. Maybe longer. I don't even know what company they're using now."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah boss," Scotty said. "I'm sure."

Schulke frowned, but when he realized Felicia noticed, the smile returned.

"Anyway, a lot of the stuff we recycle isn't truly being recycled, it's being burned at trash-to-energy plants to make electricity. But it's still better than dumping the stuff in some landfill. Take newspapers, for instance. You see newspaper recycling bins everywhere, but newspaper has long fibers that make it difficult to reuse. It's really a joke. Our newspaper is burned, and we don't pretend it isn't. Another example are the utility poles I talked about. They have petroleum in them, to keep them from decaying and being eaten by insects, so you can't just burn them or you'd release all that oil into the air. They have to be burned at plants that have special filters to catch the petroleum. Ours are trucked all the way to Virginia."

"Pennsylvania," Scotty said.

Again Schulke frowned. Felicia stood up, and Schulke stood up too. He pointed to a banner on the wall that said "Why Recycle?" in big letters. Beneath it, the banner read "To Save Mother Earth."

"See that," Schulke said. "A guy from our department came up with that slogan. You know Frank Dombrowski, don't you? He won $100 first prize for that one."

"And was totally pissed off at you," Scotty said. "You abbreviated his entry."

Schulke shrugged his shoulders and tossed his palms in the air. "I had to," he said. "I couldn't use the original."

"Why not?" Felicia said. "What did the original say?"

Scotty stood up too. "Q: Why Recycle? A: To Save Mother Earth for Future Generations of Whiny, Undereducated Americans."

Scotty and Felicia excused themselves, and went to lunch.

### Chapter 33

Claude's instinct was to call in sick Monday and stay out until the company dragged him back to the property. But as he sat in his recliner Sunday evening, Claude thought of the Guru Knox and decided this war would be won by brains, not balls. He'd do it right. As Malcolm set up his headaches over a period of time, so too would Claude, and although he didn't recall Malcolm mentioning a how many episodes he used in his jig, Claude figured at Rhode Island Electric three would do the trick, which worked well since he already had one in the books. And his little diary was going to point to stress at his number one trigger, not caffeine or booze or Chinese food or the weather. At the first hint of extra effort at work, Claude was coming down with another onto-the-floor headache.

"Could be something that happens to me any time, any place," Claude told the group gathered around the time clock Monday. "My doctor's still working to pinpoint all my triggers, but he's pretty sure stress from this shithole is a top candidate. This time I was lucky, since I'd already brung the forklift to a stop. I hate to think what'll happen if the next one hits when I've got the bugger in full cruise and loaded to the hilt. Could be ugly."

As Claude entertained Frank, Scotty, Felicia, John, and Darezzo, Schulke poked his head in and asked how Claude felt. Throughout Claude's answer Schulke wore a slight grin. Scotty and Frank exchanged glances, but as quickly as Schulke and his grin arrived they were gone. Schulke told Claude he was happy to see him looking well again, then held up the videotape and excused himself.

"I've got to run along now," Schulke said. "Gotta go show this to the right folks. Rock on, everyone."

Schulke left. John and Darezzo burst into laughter.

"Rock on everyone?" Darezzo said. "What the fuck is that about?"

"He's just trying to show Felicia how cool he is," John said.

Felicia folded her arms and leaned against the time clock. "I'm already getting used to it."

Scotty took her by the elbow. "Let's sit at the computer and teach you everything there is to know."

"No," Darezzo said, "first you gotta learn to handle a forklift, Darezzo style."

"Later," Scotty said. "Right now it's the computer."

Felicia followed Scotty to the office. As the group started to break up, Frank yanked Claude by the shirt and pulled him off to one side.

"Don't buy it," Frank said. "Schulke's the worst poker player I ever seen, and he's hiding something, something good. I could see it in his face. I don't know what it is, but be careful, Bugsy, especially around him be careful. He's up to something, and it's got to do with you."

"I can take care of myself," Claude said. "But thanks, Franko. You're a good man. Sometimes I wonder where I'd be without you."

#

Jim Shepard took rest time from the hurricane Friday instead of coming in to work, leaving Schulke feeling like a six-year old with a ticket to a rained-out ballgame. Schulke considered taking the video to human resources. He almost played it for Feeney. He wanted to show it to Felicia, but "hey, do you want to see an interesting video?" brought a terse "no thanks." In the end, he stuck the tape in his satchel and forced himself to wait the weekend.

When he made it to Monday morning, Schulke went to see Shepard, catching Shepard in the union office, sipping coffee and going through the morning paper. Much like the line shed, it was taboo for a management person to hang around the UUW office, so Schulke stuck his head through the door and asked if he could see Shepard in the overhead lines conference room. Shepard left the paper but took the coffee.

"Did you get my message?" Schulke said as they walked down the hall.

"Nah," Shepard said, "I don't even know how to get messages off the machine. That's for the vice-president to do. If I didn't let her do that, she wouldn't have anything to come to the office for and I'd never see her. And believe me, I like seeing her."

They reached the conference room and Schulke closed the door behind them. He wheeled a television on a tall, black, metal stand from the far corner to the edge of the large conference table and turned it on. With gray and black static behind him, he held up the videotape.

"Claude Amognes faked his headache," Schulke said, "and this tape shows it. Now Jim, I've brought this to you first, before Clarke, before Feeney, before anyone, because I want you and me to be on the same page with this. I want to be sure whatever we decide to do with Claude Amognes, we decide to do together, because this is our chance and I don't want to blow it. I want to make sure the correct procedure is perfectly followed. Want to see it?"

Shepard nodded, and Schulke slid the tape into the VCR. As he waited for the tape to begin, he rested one hand on the table and set the other on the side of the television. An image from the stores department popped on the screen, and Schulke narrated.

"Ok, this is a couple minutes before he hit the floor," Schulke said. "See, he and Dave Darezzo are goofing around, and there's Darezzo dancing or something, and look at Claude laugh. That's a real laugh, not a laugh forced by someone with a splitting headache."

"And here you come to squash the laughter," Shepard said with his arms folded and a smile across his face.

Schulke frowned. "Yeah, yeah, here I come. Very funny. Let me just fast forward a bit...to here, with Claude alone on the forklift. Okay, he's sitting on the forklift, then he starts to look around. And then, right there! He gives the middle finger toward the office, and he doesn't just give it, he gives it like he's shoving it up someone's ass seven or eight times. Look like he has a debilitating headache yet? All right, now he's easing himself off the lift, and look how carefully he lowers himself to the floor. He doesn't flop to the cement like you'd think he would if he were in agony, he goes down in stages, first to a hand, then to his butt, then full out before he rolls over."

Schulke sat on the edge of the table, put his left foot on a chair, and rested his left elbow on his knee. The tape continued, with no sound, a clock in the bottom right corner ticking off the seconds as the scene unfolded. Shepard watched. At the end, Schulke tapped the off button, and gray static returned to the screen.

"Well Jim? What do you think?"

Shepard leaned back. "Depends what you're after."

"What I'm after?" Schulke said. "I'm after his termination, Jim, nothing less. Don't forget, one more strike and he's gone, and I'd say faking a headache during storm duty qualifies as a last strike."

Shepard did not display the emotion Schulke hoped, sitting motionless and relaxed. What Schulke expected to spark discussion only led to silence. Schulke shook his head.

"Look, you care about this place," Schulke said. "I know you do. The union means something to you, and you put a lot of sweat into making it the best it can be. You shouldn't let some chronic goldbricker give it a bad name, and let's face it, Claude Amognes is goldbricker number one. You know it."

"Maybe I do, maybe I don't," Shepard said. "National don't like terminations, Tom. It's not what we're about. Hell, we fought Warren Taylor's termination, and he stole $50,000 worth of wire, spent it on cocaine, and damn near killed a police officer. An alleged fake headache looks pretty pale in comparison, don't you think?"

Schulke lifted his hands and dropped them to his lap as he turned away from Shepard. He punched the television's power button to kill the static, stood, and ran his hands over the top of his head. He swung around and returned to his spot on the table. Shepard twirled his coffee stirrer in small, slow circles.

"Come on, Jim," Schulke said at last, "Claude Amognes is a cancer, on your union, on my department, on this entire company. The script is too easy to read: he got a DML, he saw he was doomed, he cooked up this headache scheme to buy himself some time. If he goes out, he collects how-many-ever weeks of sick pay when he isn't really sick, and all the while his eighteen month clock is ticking in his favor. If we don't tackle him now, we may never catch him, because if he can play-act well enough who knows how far he can take this—maybe the entire eighteen months if he's real good, and god, I can't take him coming back with a clean slate. I can't. I'm trying to run a department, and yeah, I get various attitudes from different guys, but Amognes is even way beyond that. He constantly challenges my authority, he's always on his soapbox about his father this and his father that, he doesn't do shit in the department, and whenever he does try to do something he usually louses it up so bad it takes three guys to correct it."

Shepard set the coffee cup on the table. "No offense, Tom, but some people say you're slightly short of perfection yourself."

Schulke's body heaved forward to scream a reply, but when Schulke saw Shepard's sly smile, he rocked back to the table and grinned himself. "You're unbelievable," he said. "Look, I know I'm not perfect, that the company has me so overloaded that some days I don't know if I'm coming or going, but I can tell you that every day I make an honest effort to do what I can as best I can. That's true for most guys in stores, but not for Amognes. He's ignorant, and he's arrogant, and I just can't stand to see a guy who knows the difference between right and wrong choose wrong and then thumb his nose at me because he knows I can't do a damn thing about it. It's an insult. Hell, he's an insult—I mean, do you ever listen to the guy? There's no such thing as evidence with him, because what he says is right. The way he sees the world is the only way, and everything else is wrong. I don't even think he realizes how stupid he sounds, yet he expects everyone to worship him as a fountain of wisdom, but I could even live with that if he'd only work once in a while. I mean, isn't the basic premise of any business a fair day's effort for a fair day's pay?"

"Fair's a hard thing to cut, Tom. You think Munson works harder for his half million a year than Junior does for his $75,000? No way, Jose. Listen, I'm no fan of Bugsy Amognes. I've had to sit at union meetings while he took over the microphone and tore me a new asshole for not doing things to his liking, and I've had to survive one challenge after another from people he's convinced to run against me. He always paints me in the worst possible light—you don't know how much time I've spent before the company brass defending myself against rumors that probably came from that son of a bitch. But even so, I need to proceed with caution here. This isn't you coming to me with some cockamamie performance issue; termination's the real deal. I need to taste the soup a little, you know, give a few people a whiff to see how they react. If it smells right, who knows, maybe we'll lean toward termination. But if it doesn't, well there's no way I'm going to commit political suicide over anything involving that chump."

Shepard sipped his coffee, but scrunched his face and tossed the quarter-full cup into a nearby wastebasket. "Cold as ice," he said. "Come on, let's go to the cafe and get another one."

Schulke pressed the eject button on the VCR to retrieve the tape. He left the television stand near the corner of the desk, and didn't turn off the lights as he followed Shepard out the door. After the two walked the length of the corridor without speaking, they went through the glass door, took a right, and trotted up a flight of stairs to the second floor. As they neared the cafeteria, Shepard paused to read a new posting on the union bulletin board. Schulke stood with him. When Shepard continued down the hall, Schulke fell in step.

In the cafeteria, Shepard poured himself a medium hazelnut supreme. He picked up an empty styrofoam cup and pointed it toward Schulke, who nodded. Shepard poured a second hazelnut supreme, held both up to the girl at the register, and asked her to put them on his tab as he moved toward the nearest table. Aside from the two men, the cashier, and the grill cook, the cafeteria was empty. Although he hadn't put cream or sugar into his coffee, Shepard stirred the drink anyway, running the thin plastic stick in circles near the rim until he'd created a small whirlpool. When he had it going good he held the stick stiff, braking the current, before stirring hard in the opposite direction to create another whirlpool. Schulke cleared his throat.

"Here," he said, handing Shepard the videotape. "This is your copy. Show it to whoever you need to show it to. If you think we can use it to terminate Amognes, we'll take it to Clarke together."

Shepard sipped his steaming beverage. "Ah, that's better," he said. "Let me ask, you, Tom, why come to me first? I mean, Clarke's the human resources manager. Why not go straight to him?"

Schulke cradled his cup. "Clarke never listens to me. I hate reporting to the guy—Christ, who ever heard of aux services reporting to human resources?—and ever since they took us away from Feeney, it's been hell. He hands me more and more assignments, and when I say I'm overloaded he doesn't want to hear it. I beg him to come down and spend a day in stores, to see how much is going on, how much we do in a day, but he won't. He won't listen to me, and he won't open his eyes to see the truth for himself, and it's frustrating, because what ends up happening is he only measures us on the things we don't get done, not on all the good things we do. It's like he tells us to put twenty pounds of potatoes into a five-pound bag, and when we manage to squeeze eighteen pounds into the bag, we get chewed out because we left the other two pounds on the floor. And not only that, with our luck some fucking vice-president probably tripped over them on his way to the golf course."

Shepard smiled. "Tommy boy, serves you right for deserting the union."

Schulke rolled his eyes and leaned his elbows on the edge of the table. "Anyway, if I go without you, Clarke will laugh in my face."

"Of course he'll laugh in your face," Shepard said without a hint of a smile. "He doesn't respect you, or anyone else who works beneath him. Why should he? What can you possibly do to make his life difficult? If you give him too much lip, he can just hand you your walking papers, fuck off, nice knowing you. But us, he respects us, because we can hold his ass to the fire. Let him try to treat me like he treats you, even for one second—I'd make him so goddamn miserable he'd wish he'd grabbed hold of something in his mother's womb and never let go. See, Clarke doesn't give a damn if you're swamped. His concern is to keep us happy, because if we're happy we're off his back, and if we're off his back his job is very, very easy. Peace with us is prosperity for him. He's gotten into such a rut that he doesn't even consider manpower issues any more. Doesn't give a hoot. If it shuts us up, we get it. 'Don't worry,' he'll tell us, 'whatever it is, my people will find a way to get it done.' Never once says, 'hey, you know what? We don't have the manpower to do that.' And the union isn't stupid. If he's going to fold when he sees that card, then we're going to play it, and sure, we'll pile the work onto management. Why the hell wouldn't we? Whenever anything new goes into place, we ask the company to give an initial notification to our members in writing. We ask for periodic written reminders. We ask for quarterly reports, monthly if we can get them. We set it up so management has to chase our guys if something goes wrong and not the other way around, and whenever we negotiate that kind of crap, there's Clarke, nodding his head and saying 'Not a problem, my people will get it done, not a problem, my people will get it done.' And I say great. No sense having management sitting around doing nothing all day—crank out some paperwork, especially you, you bastard, jumping the brotherhood for a few extra bucks. I bet you've wished a zillion times that you were back in the line department with me to protect you from the company's bullshit."

Schulke gave a minute shrug. "Next time I want to lighten my burden, I'll come to you, the almighty savior."

Shepard laughed. "Now you're talking sense. Maybe someday Clarke will cut your workload down to something sane, but don't bank on it. People at this company don't care about right and wrong, they only care about power, and that's why you came to me, because you're powerless and the union has thump. Let me make the rounds with this tape. If I think it'll fly, I'll let you know."

### Chapter 34

A delivery truck full of just about every kind of electrical insulator Claude could think of idled in the first bay as John Carrollton fussed over the packing slip, forcing the driver to count the eleven boxes in the delivery three different times. Frank leaned on the bar up in the crane. Claude sat in the seat of a forklift, and Gino lounged on a pile of crates, tossing chewy chocolates into the air and catching them in his mouth, leaving the ones he missed to become gummy additions to his coworkers' bootsoles. With Schulke off to parts unknown, none of them asked where Scotty, Felicia, Elton, and Darezzo were, but just as John okayed the packing slip and handed it back to the deliveryman, Darezzo bounded around the corner and lept to the loading dock. He walked just short of running, smiling like he wanted the world to see the small chip on the corner of his front tooth.

"Salutations, Bugsy," Darezzo said as he scurried past the forklift. "How's that head a-feeling?"

Darezzo hustled over to Gino, swatted a midair chocolate halfway to the time clock, and bent low to whisper to Gino. Gino jumped to his feet and ran with Darezzo toward the back entrance. Claude looked to John. They both shrugged.

A few minutes later, Scotty, Felicia, and Elton also appeared around the corner. Felicia wore an ear to ear smile, tried to compose herself when she came into view, and cracked up laughing when she failed. She fell into Elton's arms, briefly, and then stepped ahead of him so he could put his hands around her waist and boost her up to the platform. Again she tried to suppress her smile.

"Hi Bugsy," she said with a quick wave.

She pressed her lips together and hustled to the office, closing the door with a thud and disappearing, it seemed to Frank, toward the floor. Elton walked around the office and entered through the other side.

Scotty hoisted himself up to the platform and looked neither left nor right. He was not smiling. He walked between Claude and John without speaking, stomping long strides across the dusty floor until he came to the time clock, where he punched himself back in from break, wheeled around, and marched toward the far corner of the department. Again Claude and John exchanged shrugs. Before long, Felicia and Elton emerged from the office, smiling, but lacking the same pent-up fervor as before, and punched in. Elton searched the rack for Darezzo's card and punched him in too.

Claude wondered what the big secret was. He sauntered toward Felicia, but every time he got just about close enough to speak with her, she moved away. Oh well, Claude thought, if they haven't told Frank it can't be any big deal. He looked for John, but couldn't find him. Elton told Claude John had stepped over to the union office for a second and would be right back.

#

At 11:30, a crowd gathered at the foot of the ladder as Frank climbed down from the crane. They giggled, and poked each other. When Frank stepped to the floor, Gino slid in front of him.

"Man, you're the only one who hasn't seen it," Gino said. "You gotta go to Shepard's office and see the tape. You got to."

Frank held a stare for a second, then smiled and shook his head. "Thanks, Gino, but I don't need to see nothing. I'm going to lunch with Claude and Scotty, just like always."

"Actually," Elton said, "Scotty told me to tell you to go ahead without him. He said he's eating lunch off property."

Frank met Claude at the office and told him Scotty wouldn't be joining them. He stopped to tug his socks and fiddle with his shoes to give the rest of the department time to get ahead of them in the hallway, then bitched about the Giants, who a day earlier failed to cover the spread for the third week in a row.

"Forget that," Claude said in a low voice as they walked down the hall. "What's going on? I feel like there's some joke that nobody's letting you and me in on."

"Nobody's keeping nothing from us," Frank said. "Just go about your business and forget about everyone else."

But as Claude entered the cafeteria, people laughed and pointed. "Hey Bugsy," someone called, "can I borrow an aspirin? I've got a headache that's just about flooring me."

Muted laughter came from all corners of the room. Claude and Frank purchased their lunches and sat down. Claude began to sweat. As Frank prattled aimlessly about football, Claude's temples began to pound, a dull discomfort near his eyes turning within moments to a throbbing, full-blown pain along the entire right side of his skull.

My god, a headache!

But it was too soon. Claude hadn't planned a headache for another week, at least, figuring nobody would believe another one so close to the first. He noticed people watching him. He closed his eyes and clutched his temples, but when he heard a roar of laughter he jerked his head in the direction of the outburst and jumped up, like a gunslinger daring someone to draw, only to see his coworkers bite their lips and turn away.

"Frank," he shouted in a whisper. "Frank! What's going on? What the hell is going on?"

Frank pulled Claude back to his seat. "Don't look at nobody."

Claude stared Frank straight beneath the eyebrows and waited. Despite the urgency pulsating from Claude's face, Frank took another bite of his pastrami sandwich and chewed in large, round chomps. Claude continued to stare. Frank swallowed. He swigged a glass of water and set the sandwich down.

"I ain't seen nothing," Frank said, "no videotape, I mean. But I saw the whole scene when you hit the floor last week, from the spiders to the forklift to the floor. Everything."

"So?" Claude said.

Frank laughed. "Think back to what you did. Think what it'd look like if you were watching you. Then think about those cameras Schulke installed when we was losing a roll of wire a week. I'm no genius, Bugsy, but I figure Shepard got his mitts on the security tape of you flipping Schulke off before you hit the cement."

"I never did no such thing!" Claude said.

Frank put his hand on Claude's forearm. "Don't bluff," he said. "Hey, I was rooting for you. I thought that ambulance ride was your ticket out of here, damn near clapped from the cockpit as they were hauling you out the door. You know I'm always on your side, Bugsy, but I gotta confess, this time I got no advice for you. I honest-to-shit don't know what to say, so eat your sandwich, try not to look at anyone else, and talk to me about football."

Frank tore a big chunk of mustardy meat from the sandwich and chewed slowly. "Them frigging Giants are killing me with all the bunny field goals they missed lately. At some point those gotta start going through the uprights again—you can't keep missing field goals at that level for that long, especially ones so easy. You're a pro, you do what you're supposed to do. You get it done."

### Chapter 35

Claude didn't finish his lunch, just picked up his half-eaten food, dumped it in the trash, and bolted the cafeteria without a word, leaving Frank munching alone. Once outside, Claude lit a cigarette and paced. He sucked the lighted tobacco with the same rhythm he breathed, flaring the end with each heavy draw, disgorging the smoke along the shaft of the cigarette still held in contact with his lower lip, and flaring the end again.

Jacketless in the unusually warm afternoon, he stood with his back to the stores building and watched Fernando from maintenance give the outside fence its pre-winter paint job. Fernando splashed paint on three tall spikes, walked ten steps without touching any of the spikes supporting the Schwartz Motors razor wire, and splashed paint on three more spikes. Claude lit another cigarette even as the still-going butt of the first one dangled from his mouth.

"Claude! There you are."

Claude wheeled around, holding the unlit cigarette and just-to-be-struck match in front of the stub of the cigarette between his lips. It was Schulke.

"What are you, trying to smoke a whole pack at once? Put that one away. Clarke wants to see us both in his office. Now."

Claude waited for Schulke to move toward the building, but Schulke waited for him with more force, so it was Claude who took the first steps for the back door. Schulke followed. As they walked beneath the nest, Claude flung the spent cigarette from his mouth to the floor. Schulke veered from his path to step on it, but said nothing. Claude still held the unlit cigarette between the middle and index fingers of his left hand.

At the doorway to Clarke's office, Claude paused when he saw Shepard, Clarke and Mickleson sitting up straight, awaiting his arrival. Schulke nudged him in the small of the back, guiding him into the office until he had enough room to close the door.

"Where's Scotty?" Claude said. "He's my shop steward, and he has the right to be here."

"Scotty refused to come," Shepard said. "Told me he was too disgusted to defend you like he should, so he was staying away. I tried to change his mind, but he wouldn't listen."

Schulke stepped around Claude to sit down. Although Clarke motioned for Claude to take the chair in the middle, Claude continued to stand.

"This is never easy, Claude," Clarke said. "But it has to be done. Sit down."

Claude eased himself into the seat, settling neither on the edge nor against the backrest. He leaned forward to look at Clarke. When he realized he still held the unlit cigarette, he slipped it into his shirt pocket.

Clarke shuffled some papers around his desk. "As I'm sure you already know, Claude," he said, "your little attempt at a headache last week has made you something of a laughingstock among your peers. It seems everyone on the property is convinced you faked the whole thing, and although at first I discounted what I was hearing, when I actually saw the tape myself...well, the tape speaks for itself, doesn't it?"

"No!" Claude said as he lept to his feet. "That headache was not a lie!"

Schulke and Clarke rose to their feet too, hands braced against attack. Mickleson recoiled in her chair. Shepard sat with his legs crossed, chin resting in his palm, a slight smile forming on his face.

"Sit down," Clarke said in a manufactured-calm voice. "It's all right."

He waved slowly with both hands as if to levitate Claude back to his seat. "This is the hardest part of my job," Clarke said. "No matter how many times I do this it never gets any easier, but if you just sit down, we're all going to get through it ok. Trust me."

Claude returned to his chair.

"Claude, I won't mince words," Clarke continued. "What I've seen is, in my view, indisputable evidence, so indisputable that everyone involved—the union included—agrees about the action that needs to be taken. Claude Amognes, effective today..."

"No!" Claude screamed, leaping again to his feet. "Wait goddammit, wait. You don't know what really happened. You don't know what's going on. I have a disability. I have a disability and I come to work with it every day and fight it, and most days I win, but some days I don't and I have to cope with the consequences as best I can. I'm afraid of bugs! There, I said it, for you all to hear. Claude Amognes is afraid of bugs, deathly, horrifically terrified of bugs, so much so that when he sees one he might not sleep for days because of the nightmares, so much so that he can be taken advantage of by people like Warren Taylor, who would come over and squash bugs for me so I could keep my job, so I could keep providing for my wife and family, so my wife and daughter could have food and clothes and a roof over their head, and all the time I never knew he was up to his ears in drugs, never knew he wasn't helping me as a friend, or as a union brother, but as someone biding his time until he could use me for his own purposes. One day he pulls me aside, and what was I supposed to do? I realize now Warren needed as much help as I do, but at the time it all happened so quickly, I didn't have time to think and I did the wrong thing. When it all blew up, what were my choices? I was ashamed of my disability, and didn't want anyone to know about it. I'm sorry, I really am. I didn't want anyone to know. But that headache, that headache was real, Mr. Clarke. I had spiders on me just before it hit, and when Darezzo and Scotty went to brush them off, Schulke charged in and made them stop. Ask them both. I'm not saying I shoulda blamed Schulke for my headache, but that headache was not a lie. It was real. I'm telling you on the soul of my father, that headache was real."

Claude flopped to the chair and let the backs of his hands drop to his thighs. The other four exchanged glances. As the silence lengthened, Claude rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers, shielding his eyes from Clarke and Mickleson. At last Shepard leaned until he was out of Claude's field of vision, pointed toward Claude, and then pointed toward the door. When Clarke shook his head no, Shepard repeated the motion with such force that Clarke stood up.

"All right," Clarke said. "Okay, Claude, this statement of yours warrants a reconsideration of what we're going to do here. I'm granting you the rest of the day off—Tom, put Claude in for personal time for the rest of the afternoon. Go home, Claude, and then come back tomorrow morning so we can talk about where we are."

"I can't go home thinking I'm going to be terminated," Claude said. "If you're going to discuss termination, I want to stay."

Clarke's hands balled into fists as he stared into Claude's eyes. "Thirty seconds ago, you were about to be terminated. At this very moment, you are still employed. You have raised an issue that merits discussion, and you will not be part of that discussion. You will return here at nine o'clock tomorrow morning for our final answer, but I will make no guarantees about what that answer will be. If you do not report here tomorrow—if you call in sick or are kidnapped by the Diablos or are in an car accident that leaves you paralyzed and in a coma—I will terminate you. Is that understood? I don't care what the reason is, if you don't show up here tomorrow you're fired. Good day."

Claude didn't budge from his chair. Schulke walked to the office door and grasped the knob. Claude opened his mouth to speak, but Clarke cut him off.

"I said good day."

Claude got up and left. Schulke closed the door behind him and returned to his seat. He rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger and stared at the floor. Clarke's face remained flush. Mickleson sat with her arms folded, her face in a silent growl. A smile formed on Shepard's face. The harder he tried to contain it the wider it grew, until he started choking back giggles, but at last he could hold it no longer and burst out laughing. At first, the others looked on in anger, then in bewilderment, and then in near hysteria as Shepard's wave of laughter engulfed them too. They laughed for a good thirty seconds, and when the moment finally subsided, Clarke rubbed his eyes and pulled the knot of his necktie away from his throat.

"Aw, Christ," Clarke said. "What the hell just happened?"

Mickleson tossed her pen on Clarke's desk. "You were about to terminate him, he invoked the Americans with Disabilities Act, and now we've got a stinking mess on our hands. Isn't that about right?"

"Something like that," Clarke said. "Jim, what's your take on this?"

"I don't buy it for a second, Morris. That's the biggest cockamamie story I ever heard, total bullshit. But you know what? I'll give him credit. That's a goddamned nice piece of stumbling he did there. A goddamned nice piece of stumbling."

"Brianna?" Clarke said.

Mickleson adjusted herself in her chair, kicking off her shoes and pulling her right ankle up beneath her left thigh. "I don't know," she said slowly. "My gut feeling is he's got a good case if he wants to pursue it, and we all know if we terminate him he will. I think we should see what kind of accommodation we can make, tread lightly, and hope he accepts it."

Schulke folded his arms and his chair creaked as he leaned back to look at the ceiling. "I can't believe what I'm hearing," he said. "He doesn't have any damn disability. He's maxed out on performance warnings. He's maxed out on attendance warnings and conduct warnings, and he has a DML for helping a cocaine addict cheat on a drug test. Now he fakes a freaking headache, disrupts our operation during a major storm, and we're going to let him off the hook? Are you shitting me? He should be fucking terminated."

"Language, Tom, language," Clarke said.

"My apologies," Schulke said, with a nod toward Mickleson. "But dammit, Mr. Clarke, if he had a disability, doesn't he have to tell us? Can he wait until five seconds before he's terminated, spout out a bogus disability claim, and walk free as though nothing had happened? He never said a word about a disability, not once, and if he didn't, that means he's responsible for what happens, not us. He's a terrible worker, a complete joker who's a cancer on this entire company, and he should be fired, right here, right now. Anything less is unacceptable."

Mickleson started to speak but Clarke waved her off. "I'll determine what's acceptable and what isn't, Tom. I may have problems terminating a union employee who's claimed a federally-protected disability, but I'll have no problems terminating an insubordinate supervisor if I choose to do so. Are we clear on that point?"

Schulke held his frown, but nodded.

"There's a lot here you don't understand," Clarke continued. "We don't want an arbitration case that drags on forever followed by a lawsuit that goes on even longer. It's a waste of the company's resources, and it's the type of public brouhaha in which nobody wins. Our standard is 80-20, Tom. If we feel we have an 80 percent chance of winning, we move forward. If not, we settle. It's the smart way to proceed."

Clarke snatched a nineteen-cent pen from his desktop and stuck the end in his mouth. After chewing for a few seconds, he tossed it and its misshapen blue cap into the wastebasket.

"Brianna, you started to say something a minute ago?" Clarke said.

"There's no way we can terminate him," Mickleson said. "Just by claiming a disability, he forces us to do an investigation, and when we do an investigation, don't forget, the agreement that put him in stores all those years ago mentions something about bugs. I'll have to dig it up, but I'm certain it refers to the time he was attacked by fleas when he was a meter reader, and correct me if I'm wrong, Morris, but I even think you were new when it happened and your signature is actually on the agreement."

"I was, and it is," Clarke said.

Mickleson turned to Schulke and Shepard. "The law protects him if he actually has a disability, but it also protects him even if he's perceived to have a disability. I know it sounds strange, but it's true: if it's commonly believed that Claude's afraid of bugs, then he's protected by the law whether he's actually afraid of them or not. As I see it, that's the real hurdle, that our own paperwork shows we believe he has an insect phobia. Plus, I'm sure he'll have no difficulty getting his union brothers to testify in agreement, right Jim?"

"Don't be so sure," Shepard said.

"In any event," Mickleson continued, "I recommend we send him to our company doctors, have them spell out what he can do and what he can't do while he's on the job, and ask him to sign something. We've got to get something in writing, something in which he acknowledges the accommodations we're making and promises he won't sue us as long as we make keep our end of the bargain and abide by the accommodations."

"One for termination, one for bringing him back," Clarke said. "Jim, your thoughts?"

For the first time all afternoon, Shepard's jaw clenched. His eyes widened. He slammed an open palm on the coffee table next to his chair.

"I can't believe you," he said. "I can't believe the horseshit I have to put up with as president of Local 7917. It's so damn ridiculous I should have it on film to show at our national convention."

Clarke flinched. He looked to Mickleson, then to Schulke, and saw they were as shocked as he.

Shepard pulled his elbows to his sides and held out his palms. "Amognes says he has a disability, right? He says he's afraid of bugs, right? The stockroom is loaded with insects, right?"

Although Shepard expected the string of questions to place the answer in the three heads of the people staring at him, their expressions told him it hadn't happened. As the silence lingered, Shepard thrust his arms straight out to the sides.

"So duh," he said, "put him out on disability. Give him a permanent medical restriction that prevents him from working. Pay him his sick time and his vacation time, and put him on 60 percent of his pay until he's 65. It's not a termination, so I'm happy because then I don't have to deal with national over the stupid video. It gets him out of Tom's department for good, so he's happy. It acknowledges his claim of a disability, so it makes you happy. And it's a goddamned sure bet it makes Bugsy happy —he'll be doing cartwheels for a week when we offer him this."

Clarke looked to Mickleson, who smiled. Clarke smiled. Mickleson and Clarke turned to Schulke, who didn't smile but whose expression showed he was not only on board, but relieved to be there too. Clarke started to chuckle.

"Honestly, Morris," Shepard said, "sometimes I wonder what you'd do without me. You should put half of what you earn each year straight into my checking account."

"I guess it'll work," Clarke said. "Brianna, what do you think?"

"Well it definitely won't work on the fully-insured side."

When Schulke's expression turned puzzled, Clarke rotated his hand in a series of circles, telling Mickleson to explain the company's insurance structure.

"With the unions, Tom, we negotiate actual insurance against disability, just like a policy you'd take out on your home or your car," Mickleson said. "The disability company's actuaries figure the incident rate among our union workers and then establish a per-person premium, part of which is picked up by the company and the rest of which is paid by the employees. If someone becomes disabled and the disability company pays benefits, it's their money, and like any insurance company they're going to watch every dollar closely. If they don't believe a claim is legitimate, they'll deny it.

"But on the non-union side, our rate of absences is so low that it makes sense for us to be self-insured. That means it's our money, with no middleman needing to pay benefits plus make a profit. We pay every penny of every benefit, plus a small administration fee. The disability company likes it because on the self-insured side it's impossible for them to take a loss, and we like it because in the long run it's cheaper. And because it's our money, we can overrule any decision made by the disability company."

"That also means there are a lot fewer people we have to get on board with us," Clarke said. "Dr. Bosticco, but I wouldn't see that as a problem. If anyone challenges Dr. Bosticco, he can always pass the buck by pointing to the original diagnosis Dr. Jangro made twenty-something years ago. And that only leaves upstairs, which shouldn't be a problem. I'll tell them Amognes signed away a lawsuit he was certain to win, and they'll believe me. They'll be thrilled. I'll probably get a big pat on the back for saving them so much aggravation."

Clarke stood, and the other three did too. Clarke leaned over the desk to shake hands with Shepard, then Schulke, and beamed.

"Brianna, draw up the paperwork," he said. "Request a check for all Claude's sick pay and whatever vacation time he still has left, and have payroll get it to us on the double. And just to be sure, call accounts payable and have them cut a check for $5,000, which we'll give Claude if he agrees in writing to waive all claims to future lawsuits. I'll talk with Dr. Bosticco this afternoon, and will run it by Munson just in case. Tomorrow, we put this thing to bed for good."

### Chapter 36

When he arrived home, Claude searched for Malcolm's phone number, but found nothing in the book between Knox, Katerina and Knox, Samuel. A call to information yielded no Malcolm Knox in Rhode Island. As he lit his third cigarette since coming through the front door, Claude flipped to the yellow pages and hunted for the Victory Tavern, looking under bars & grills, restaurants, taverns, inns, and diners—and even under dumps—but came up empty. Although he couldn't remember a phone at the Victory Tavern, it had to have one, he thought, tucked away somewhere behind the bar in case someone needed to reach Hal, or contact Bots, or leave a message for Greg, or just ring up and shoot the breeze with Walt.

"Shit," Claude said out loud. "There's no fucking phone there."

He lit another cigarette and flopped into his recliner. For a second he thought to reach back for the phone book and start looking up lawyers, but figured there'd be a zillion of them and he wouldn't know which one to pick anyway. He needed Malcolm. But would Malcolm laugh in his face if he stopped in and asked him about being disabled?

"If he does I'll just have to lay the ol' Amognes charm on him," Claude said.

Claude scrawled a note that said he'd be late and instructed Joan and Jamie not to wait up, leaving it on the dinner table where they'd be sure to see it. He hopped in his truck and drove downtown, parking again near the state house, walking again past different faces from the same general scene, but when he reached the Victory Tavern the door was locked, and no sign was posted to explain why. Claude asked people in neighboring businesses, and on the street, if they knew why the place was closed. Nobody did.

He leaned up against the building and lit a cigarette. In the window of the joint across the street he saw his reflection and thought he struck a pose like Jon Voigt on the poster for Midnight Cowboy, except for the hat, and the boots, and maybe the dude-ish clothes, and of course Jon Voigt's strong physique and blond hair. The cigarette matched, though, as did the posture. That was good enough for now. Still, without the Victory Tavern, Claude had no options, since he certainly wasn't showing up at the Dub after what he'd gone through that morning. Going home didn't appeal to him, either, since no matter how he sanitized what he was up against Joan would assume it was worse, and she'd probably cry, and he'd have to start yelling to convince her everything would be all right, and Jamie might ask a whole lot of questions he didn't want to answer, because until he knew he was fired he didn't want either of them to know it was even a possibility.

He walked back toward the truck, stopping on his way to buy a case of beer, and drove to a small pond in the rural part of the state. From four in the afternoon until ten at night, he sat on the shore and drank. Although he made a wrong turn on his return trip, he managed to keep the truck from swerving too far from his own lane and made it home without incident. In his recliner, he found a note from Jamie: "Partying on a school night? Missed our cribbage game. Look forward to playing tomorrow. Love you. Good night."

### Chapter 37

7

Brianna Mickleson had all the paperwork laid out on the coffee table of Clarke's office by 8:30 the next morning. She set a brand new pen in the center of the table next to an empty folder in which Claude could put copies once everything was signed.

A one-page document explained the sick and vacation payout: 22 weeks of sick pay minus three weeks used within the last year equaled 19 weeks of sick pay; five weeks of vacation minus three already used equaled two weeks of vacation pay. Together, 21 weeks. Gross amount: $18,622.80. Net amount, after taxes: $12,104.82.

A second document, this one stretching over two pages, explained the conditions of the $5,000 bonus. In exchange for it, Claude waived his right to sue over the matter in question, and also agreed never to file any action to try to get his job back. He agreed to become permanently disabled and permanently unable to work for Rhode Island Electric.

The final document, a thick pack of papers, explained in detail Claude's disability amount and outlined how his certification as disabled effected other benefits offered by the company. While on disability, the company would pay his health insurance premiums to age 65, when he'd have to formally retire and enroll in Medicare. He would no longer accrue vacation pay, sick pay, or holiday pay, and would no longer be eligible for company bonuses. His benefit, equal to 60 percent of his current base pay, would never increase. The terms of the agreement required him to file for disability status with Social Security, and said that if he were approved any benefit from Social Security would be deducted from the 60 percent benefit he received from Rhode Island Electric.

Mickleson pulled a calculator from the top drawer of Clarke's desk and sat down to double-check the numbers one last time. Claude earned $22.17 per hour, or $886.80 in a forty-hour week. There are 52.143 weeks in a year, giving him an annualized figure of $46,240.41. Dividing by twelve left a monthly amount of $3,853.37, and 60 percent of that equaled Claude's monthly disability benefit: $2,312.02. He'd have to scrape by on $27,744.25 a year, Mickleson snickered to herself. She took a yellow marker and highlighted the part that said his benefit was taxable.

The last page of the packet was a letter from Munson, expressing his sorrow for Claude's condition, congratulating him for his excellent service to Rhode Island Electric, and wishing him well in the future.

#

Despite a modest hangover, Claude rose on time and left the house without seeing either Joan or Jamie. On his way out the front door he closed his eyes and crossed his fingers.

"Gimme a good day," he said. "One good day, that's all I ask."

A trip to a coffee shop around the corner from Rhode Island Electric killed the hour and a half Claude needed to kill, and although neither the giant cup of coffee he drank nor the chocolate donut he forced down sat well in his stomach, Claude gathered himself together and made it past the company gates on time. He arrived in human resources at ten minutes before nine, a full five minutes before Clarke opened the department door so Schulke and Shepard could enter.

"Good morning, Claude," Clarke said as the door clunked shut behind him. "Come on in to the office. This shouldn't take long."

Something he picked up in Clarke's demeanor made Claude exhale, made his chest muscles loosen, made his breathing and heart rate move toward normal. He stood and followed the three men to Clarke's office, where Mickleson already sat.

"Well Claude," Clarke said even before everyone was seated, "we've evaluated your disability claim and have decided it is legitimate. After reviewing your medical records, Dr. Bosticco issued you a permanent restriction against working anyplace where there might be insects, and since that covers pretty much every inch of space we own, we have declared you completely and permanently disabled. However, since the medical community is subject to fads and sensationalism like any other community, we've taken the extra step of drawing up a formal agreement, because I understand that particularly with phobias the accepted standards of treatment can change virtually overnight. Rather than subject you to a hassle if the trend-of-the-moment in the medical community turns, we've taken precautions to see that you're protected not just today, but down the road as well. If we all agree we have a fair arrangement, and if we all sign on the bottom line, then technically this agreement will be an amendment to the current labor contract, though of course it will never be included in the contract copies we distribute. Brianna, will you run through everything?"

Mickleson moved between Claude, Shepard and Schulke and detailed each document. She held up the checks as she referred to them, but didn't hand them over. When she finished, she asked if anyone had questions, and spent the next ten minutes convincing Claude that his disability benefits would indeed be taxable income, and that however much he disagreed come April he was going to have to settle up with Uncle Sam. Clarke stood, and the rest followed suit.

"Brianna, Tom, let's give Claude and Jim a moment alone so they can discuss if this is what they want to do," Clarke said.

Claude held up a hand. "No need," he said. "I'll sign everything you got. Hand me over them checks."

He sat down and signed each document. He handed the pen to Shepard who also signed, and leaned back in his chair as Clarke bent over the table and signed too. Mickleson gave Claude both checks, and took from him his company identification card and his access keys. Clarke and Shepard shook Claude's hand and wished him well.

Schulke kept his own hands deep in his front pockets. "Take care," he said. "I've got to run back to the department. Jim, I'll have Scotty get the new posting to you this afternoon. See you later."

He left, closing the door quietly behind him.

Shepard smiled. "Bet you won't miss that horse's ass, eh Bugsy?"

Armed with his two checks and a folder full of photocopies, Claude walked to stores to clean out his locker and say his final good-byes, only to find everyone was at morning break, save Schulke, who puttered around the office. Claude crept along the walls until he reached the locker area, carefully peeled a picture of Jamie from inside the door of his locker, and stuffed his personal belongings inside an old company sweatshirt, tying the sleeves to keep what he could from falling out. Although Claude had worked up a hankering for a farewell hug from Felicia, he left. He'd still see the guys he cared about at the Dub. As for the others, well, leaving them without saying good-bye suited Claude fine. As his truck neared the front gate, he stepped on the brake and looked over his shoulder at the Rhode Island Electric complex. The attendant saw him stop and walked to the drivers side window.

"Hey Bugsy," the attendant said. "Help you with something?"

"Yes," Claude said. "Can you give a message to Munson when he drives in?"

"Um, I suppose. What is it?"

"Waaaaaaahooooooooo!"

#

Back in stores, Schulke caught Scotty as he punched in from break and told him to round everyone up for a brief meeting. After the meeting from which Claude never returned, Darezzo started a pool to guess the correct day and time stores would be told of Claude's termination. Everyone who paid the $5 to enter picked the current morning, except Dan Noonan, who gave it an extra two days, and Junior, who chose a date twenty years in the future because he liked Claude and wanted to give him a show of support, but also because Darezzo made a rule that you had to guess the time without going over, giving Junior an edge if Claude's employment happened to linger more than a couple of days. In stores, everyone in the union participated except Frank and Scotty. Even John Carrollton, who normally didn't go for that sort of thing, ponied up a fiver to get in.

When the whole department arrived at the time clock, Darezzo pulled out the wad of cash he'd collected.

"What's that about?" Schulke said.

"Just a little pool we've got going boss. Go ahead and start your meeting."

"Well, thank you, Dave, I think I will. This won't take long. I called you together to tell you Claude Amognes will no longer be with us."

"Ding ding ding, we have a winner," Gino said. "I believe the time clock now reads 9:38, which makes me $110 richer."

John and Felicia slapped Gino on the back as Darezzo handed him the money. Gino kissed it, held it over his head, and stuffed it in his front pocket.

"All right, that's enough," Schulke said. "Scotty, I need you to get a posting ready to replace Claude. Everyone beneath Claude in seniority will temporarily step up, and the new person will come in at the bottom."

"What do you mean temporarily?" Frank said.

"Well, that's how the contract reads, doesn't it?" Schulke said. "A posting to replace someone on sick leave can't be permanent because there's always the possibility the person will come back, although in this case I think that possibility is slim."

A murmur rose within the group.

"Sick leave?" Scotty said. "We all thought Bugsy was terminated."

"No," Schulke said. "He claimed the headache he had wasn't faked at all, that it was caused by a disability he has that he's been hiding from us for all these years."

Frank burst out laughing. "What, did he tell Clarke stupidity's a disability?"

Everyone chuckled, including Schulke. Schulke ran his hand from his forehead back to the base of his neck. He shook his head.

"No," Schulke said, "Claude told Clarke he has an insect phobia. Said Warren used to squish bugs for him, and that's the only reason he could concentrate enough to do his job right, and that's why he gave Warren piss to beat his drug test. Since stores has insects, Clarke had the company doctor put Claude out with a permanent disability. He isn't terminated, but I doubt we'll be seeing him again."

"And Clarke bought a cock-and-bull story like that?" Frank said.

"He did."

"Well that's horseshit," Elton snapped. "He doesn't have any damn disability. What the hell did that bastard ever do to deserve a honey deal like this? I mean it, Christ, the guy never did shit around here, pulls one of the worst acting jobs I've ever seen in the middle of hurricane duty, and this is his fucking reward? Sent home with disability benefits for the rest of his days? Nobody around here has any balls, but this is too much. It's joke. If free tickets are that easy to get, then put me down for a headache too. Put us all down for one."

Schulke held up both his hands. "Calm down, everyone, calm down. I think it's bullshit too, but what's done is done, and the bottom line for us is he's no longer here and we need to replace him. Shepard can give you all the details on what happened with Clarke, but apparently there are legal standards to consider. Don't forget the reason he came to stores in the first place. You do call him Bugsy, after all."

Schulke asked if there were any more questions, and there were none. He adjourned the meeting and sent everyone back to work.

As Frank walked toward the back wall, Scotty went with him. Frank walked slow, forcing Scotty to pause with every other step to keep from outdistancing him, and as they moved Scotty looked up to the ring of windows surrounding the department near the roof, to the light of a bright blue sky that turned so quickly to dismal gray a few feet within the walls of the stockroom.

"Geez, you know, I feel a little guilty now, calling him Bugsy all this time when he had a disability," Scotty said.

"He ain't got no disability," Frank said.

"I don't know, Frank, the flea thing, all his problems at work, the more I think about it, the more I think it's possible. It makes sense. I'm not saying for sure, I'm just saying it's distinctly possible."

"No it isn't," Frank said. "Nobody who fishes that much can be afraid of bugs."

"Hmm, I never thought of it like that. Maybe you're right."

"Doesn't matter. He's gone. When you get right down to it, I'm happy for him. It's not quite winning the lottery, but it's a good enough second prize, not having to deal with Schulke day in and day out, and it proves what I always said, that Bugsy's had an angel on his shoulder from the first day he walked in here. Just when we all thought it was over, here he comes, pulling another miracle out of his ass. Twenty-something years we all worked together, and now it's over, just like that. You know, I'll miss the old boy. I'll really miss him."

They reached the base of the ladder and stopped. Scotty put a hand on the shorter man's shoulder.

"So will I, Franko. So will I."

PART III

### Chapter 38

For the second night in a row Joan Amognes came home to an empty driveway, and for the second night in a row as she shifted the Buick into park Joan thought about the pork chops she'd removed from the freezer before going to work the day before, good, thick pork chops she wasn't about to waste. Husband or no husband, the pork chops in the fridge were going into the frying pan, and if Claude missed dinner again he could eat his chops cold, by himself, along with cold peas, cold mashed potato, and whatever tapioca pudding remained, which wouldn't be much since Joan promised to finish off the bowl herself before leaving any for him to enjoy.

After unlocking the front door, Joan went to the family room to hang her jacket in the closet. The answering machine light blinked, so she tapped the play button and paused to listen.

Beep: "Hi, this is Dr. Uribe's office. Jamie's due for her next cleaning. Please call our office at your convenience and schedule an appointment. Thank you."

Beep: "Hey, Claude, this is Scotty. Listen, I just want to apologize for the way I've acted the last couple days, and hope you understand. I'm real sorry to hear about your disability, and I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to say good-bye. Stop by the Dub and I'll buy you a beer. Look forward to it. Bye."

Disability, Joan thought. What the hell's he talking about?

Beep: "Hi Bugsy, it's Frank. Congratulations, you old dog. I'm so happy for you, and hope everything works out well, though I gotta tell you it's gonna be strange being in stores without ya. I'll swing by some time and we'll shoot the shit, or come by the Dub this Friday and I'll buy you a pitcher. Take it easy."

Joan flopped onto the couch. Did her husband leave Rhode Island Electric for another company? Was he in the hospital? Did he finally pass the stupid lineman test? Maybe he won the lottery. The word disability ran through her head over and over. After a few minutes, she climbed off the sofa and headed for the kitchen.

When she turned the corner from the living room, she saw two bottles of champagne on the table, one resting atop a folded-up scrap of paper, both surrounded by three wine goblets. She tugged the scrap of paper until it popped free.

"I'll explain when I get home. Claude."

Again Joan sat and pondered. Although she nagged herself to stop thinking and start making dinner, she didn't move until she heard a car pull into the driveway. She scurried to the breezeway window, but it wasn't Claude, it was Jamie and Peter Greeley.

"Hi mom," Jamie called as she came through the front door. "Peter and I are going upstairs for a while. When are we eating?"

"About an hour, I hope," Joan called back. "But come out here first."

Jamie complied, followed by Peter. Joan showed them the champagne and the note, then led them to the family room and replayed the tape for them to hear. When the machine beeped at the end of Frank's message, Jamie grabbed her mother and jumped up and down.

"We're rich," she said, "we're rich, rich, filthy rich. Daddy won the lottery, after all these years he finally won the lottery."

"Are you sure?" Joan said. "What about the disability part Mr. Williams mentioned?"

"Daddy doesn't have any disability," Jamie said. "Mr. Williams must've meant the headache and the ambulance ride. He sounded pretty upset when I talked to him on the phone, and when I went to get the truck, I saw a bunch of the other guys, but not Mr. Williams. Besides, what else could it be?"

Joan said she didn't know, asked Peter Greeley if he liked pork chops, and invited him to dinner when he said he did. He thanked her, but said he had things to do and couldn't stay long. Jamie and Peter went upstairs to Jamie's room. Joan went to the kitchen to fix dinner.

Upstairs, Jamie caught Peter by an empty beltloop and pulled him from the chair he was headed for to the edge of her bed. She pushed the door until only a crack of light shone through, then stepped in front of Peter. She took his jaw in her hands and kissed him. When they separated, she flipped on the radio and hopped on the bed beside him.

"Who were those people on the answering machine?" Peter said.

"A dentist is a person who cleans your teeth, and who fixes cavities when you get them. You should check one out sometime."

"You so funny," Peter said.

"I know," Jamie said. "I should be on television. Mr. Williams is my dad's shop steward, and Mr. Dombrowski is one of my dad's union brothers who drives the huge crane in the stockroom."

"Does your dad like being in a union?"

Jamie looked at the wall and ran a knuckle beneath her chin. "He hates it because he loves it."

"What does that mean?"

"Well, it means I don't think there's anything in this world he'd like to love more than his union, but it's disappointed him so many times that he can't. Each time he expects it to rub his belly, it punches him in the gut."

"Sounds rough," Peter said.

"Nah," Jamie said. "He takes it way too seriously. Union officials aren't any different from class officers in school. They don't have to do what everyone else does, so they can strut around thinking they're a big deal, when the truth is most of them are petty, selfish, conceited morons. God, the crap my dad tells me about, you wouldn't believe it. And he gets it from my grandfather, who used to be president of the union. Whenever my dad thinks of his dad, all he sees is a guy who was president of the union, glory be, he never sees a guy who drank himself to death because he couldn't stand going back to his job and doing real work, not after sitting in a union office pretending to be important, not after being the great Jackie Amognes, the guy who could get you a job with a wave of the hand or fix it so you could get paid for sitting around doing nothing all day as long as you were willing to kiss his ass and make it look like you meant it. My grandmother hated the union, and wished my grandfather had never had anything to do with it, but in the end, she said she had to let him keep at it, because he loved it so much. She always hoped everything would work out, but it never did. He was pretty miserable toward the end of his life."

"My stepfather's like that," Peter said. "He's been overlooked for a promotion like five years in a row now, and he takes it out on us. If you haven't got a job at all and you're letting your family down, well yeah, be miserable. But to turn your life into never-ending torture because you're a half-step below where you think you should be on some company ladder, I mean, Christ, lighten up already. Your family's eating. They have clothes. It's like he's always cursing the bastard twisting his thumbscrews, without ever realizing the bastard is him."

Jamie set a palm on the top of Peter's head. As she began a gentle stroke toward the nape of his neck, the palm pulled away and the tips of her fingers pressed through his hair to follow the contour of the bone. She repeated the stroke. Peter smiled.

"When we're rich, maybe you and me will take off somewhere," Jamie said. "No parents, just us. Someplace warm."

"With no drinking age."

"And coconut trees and pretty sunsets."

"And topless beaches."

#

When Jamie heard someone pull into the yard, she jumped from the bed and raced down over the staircase to the living room. She opened the door, saw Claude's huge grin, and bounced up and down. Joan hustled in from the kitchen. Peter Greeley came to the bottom of the stairs and stopped.

Claude stepped through the door. "I'm home free," he yelled. "Free, free, free, I'm home fucking free."

"Did you win the lottery?" Jamie said. "Are we rich?"

"We're not rich," Claude said, "but you could definitely say I hit the lottery."

"Well what happened?" Joan said.

Claude paused, held an index finger in the air, and disappeared into the kitchen. He returned with the bottle of champagne and four wine glasses.

"Hold your horses," Claude said as he poured.

He gave the first glass to Jamie, the second to Joan, and the third to Peter after he'd waved him into the group. Claude poured one for himself, drank it down, and refilled the glass.

"What?" Joan said. "What happened?"

"The electric company," Claude said slowly, attempting a dramatic pause, "thinks I have a disability. They have offered to pay me sixty percent of my salary for not working, with free health care, until I turn 65."

"You don't have any disability," Joan said. "What disability could they possibly think you have?"

"Well my dear," Claude said in the same affected voice as before, "recall an incident I had as a meter reader many years ago, an incident in which I was attacked by insects."

"Yeah, so?

"So last week, just before I had that awful headache, the one I had to go to the hospital for, I had spiders on me. The boss himself saw them. When Clarkie, the H.R. man, called me into the office, I told him about the spiders, and after he looked at the doctor reports, and interviewed my co-workers, and talked about my hospital tests with the medical staff, they decided I have a fear of insects, a phobia, they call it, and since they can never be sure they've gotten rid of every insect in the stores department, they decided the potential risk was too great, and have offered to pay me not to work. I signed the papers today."

"But daddy," Jamie said. "You aren't afraid of bugs."

"I know, Princess. But they think I am."

"But you're not."

"I have papers that say I am."

Jamie turned and set her still-full glass of champagne on the windowsill. "I don't care what the papers say, it's dishonest."

Claude stepped back. He realized he wasn't seeing the smiles he expected.

"What's the matter?" he said. "Aren't you happy for me?"

"How are we going to manage?" Joan said. "Forty percent of your salary is a big chunk to lose."

"We can manage," Claude said. "Plus, I can always get another job if I feel like it."

Peter moved through the group. When the three sets of eyes turned to him, he tossed his arm forward to separate his wristwatch from his sleeve, and spent an extra count looking at the time.

"Daddy, you're not disabled," Jamie said. "If you work someplace else, isn't the electric company going to be mad? I mean, if you can work, you should work there."

Claude's change of expression conveyed his annoyance, and Peter took it as his cue to move.

"Well, Mr. Amognes," he said, raising his glass, "congratulations. I hope your early retirement brings you years of happiness."

"Now there's someone talking good sense," Claude said.

He and Peter downed their champagne. After Peter wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he gave the empty glass to Jamie. Claude lifted the bottle and took a long swig. Peter edged toward the door, but before leaving leaned back inside and mouthed to Jamie over Claude's shoulder that he'd call her later. Claude wheeled around and grabbed the doorknob. Peter flinched.

"Am I blocking you in?" Claude said.

Although he already knew his answer, Peter took a quick glance toward the driveway for Claude to see. "It's tight, but I can make it. Have a good night."

"Okay," Claude called. "Good night."

"He'll never get out," Joan said. "Claude, go move the truck."

"He's fine," Claude said. "So who wants to celebrate? Let's finish this champagne and go out to dinner. Best restaurant in town. You name it, we're there."

Joan and Jamie exchanged looks. "I have pork chops ready to go into the pan," Joan said.

"So chuck 'em," Claude said. "We're not going to the poor house. We're going to live just like we always have, you'll see. It's gonna be great. Here, look what I bought."

He pulled from his pocket a colorful, glossy flyer and handed it to Joan.

"A boat?" she said.

"Not just a boat, a Princecraft Pro 166, aluminum, deep vee hull, sixteen and a half feet long with a 90 horsepower motor, a five-piece top, and the full fish package. A dream come true."

"We can't afford another loan," Joan said. "We haven't even paid off the truck you wrecked, let alone this truck and the Buick. Our mortgage rate went up again this year, and we're behind on all our credit cards. We can't afford it. What were you thinking?"

"I wasn't thinking shit. Rhode Island Electric gave me a check for vacation time I've earned but haven't used, plus a nice bonus for all my years of loyal service. I didn't take out a damn loan. I paid cash. Now are we going out to celebrate, or what?"

Joan fought back tears. "I don't think we should waste good pork chops."

"Fine," Claude said. "Have your fucking pork chops. I'll go celebrate with people who care. Don't wait up."

He slammed the door. Joan and Jamie noticed his jacket on the back of the chair, but knew he wouldn't return for it. When Joan pulled back the curtain, she saw the odd angle of Peter Greeley's car as he tried to extricate it without hitting either the truck or the garage. Claude climbed into the cab, slammed the drivers side door shut, and blasted backwards into the street and off toward the city. Peter backed slowly out of the driveway, tooting once before driving away.

Joan cooked the pork chops. When Jamie smelled them, she set the table. Joan didn't turn around or talk to Jamie, and when she sniffled over the sizzle Jamie knew why.

"I'm sorry," Joan said as she turned from the stove with the pan. "I'm trying not to cry."

Joan slipped a pork chop onto each plate. She returned the pan with the remaining two chops to the stove and turned off the burner. The microwave timer beeped, the screen blinking 'end' until Joan set an unopened jar of applesauce and two dinner rolls on the table. She pushed the microwave button to unlatch the glass door, removed a steaming dish of peas with the tips of her index fingers, and shoved the glass door closed with her elbow. When she could no longer avoid her daughter's eyes she smiled and shrugged as two final tears dripped over her cheeks.

"It's all right, mom," Jamie said. "We'll be all right. Honest. I can chip in if I need to."

"It's not that," Joan said.

"Then what is it?"

Joan slipped into her chair as Jamie poured them each a glass of milk. "It's our family. A family can be poor if there's love and trust. You and I could live poor. Maybe you and your father could live poor. But I'm terrified that your father and me can't live poor, not now, not with the way we're used to spending money. I'm just scared to death about what this is going to do to us."

"It's only money," Jamie said. "We've got so many things we don't need it isn't funny, so I'm sure it won't be that hard to live on a little less. Plus, like I said, I'm willing to help out. I should be getting a raise soon, and I think I can get more hours if I ask, and heck, if I need to I can go back to babysitting when I'm not working. Anything I can do, if it helps, I'm happy to do it. You know that."

"I do know it, and I appreciate it. Your father and me, we're important to you, and you'd make whatever sacrifices you could to help us get along a little better. But you see, Jamie, that's sort of what I'm looking for from your father."

Tears returned to Joan's eyes. She put her fork next to her as-yet-untouched plate and used her napkin to sop her eyes.

"Lord knows your father can be one selfish son of a bitch," Joan said. "Maybe he learned from his father when he should have been learning from his mother, I don't know, but I've got to tell you that no matter how much trouble he got into at work, no matter how much he ignored me or did stupid things with our money, no matter what disgusting thing he did to get people calling him scum, I could always hold my head up and say he's a provider. For all his troubles, he always provided, he always cared enough about us to get up and go to work, at least when he absolutely had to, and keep his nose clean, at least when he absolutely had to, and bring home a paycheck for us to live on. Look at me, Jamie, look at me: have I ever asked for anything luxurious? Do I own anything expensive or glamorous? Every toy we own is for your father or for you—and I'm not saying anything bad about a single thing you own, don't think that—all I'm saying is I never once complained, because all I ever asked from your father is that he do one thing to show me he cared about me, and I always thought it was work. Whenever he had no more wiggle room, because of warnings or playing hooky or because he was fighting with someone in the department until you could feel the tension coming off of him, he still went to work, and I always thanked the lord for that, because I thought your father was doing it for me. I thought it was a gift from both of them, I really did, and it felt good. But now your father's not going to work any more, and the truth is I'm not sure where that leaves me. I don't know if there's anything he does because he cares about me. Maybe not a single thing. And maybe it's been that way for a long, long time."

Joan stared down at her plate, but no more tears rolled. With eyebrows raised, she looked to Jamie and smiled. Jamie returned the smile, then rose and stepped to her mother's side, laying a hand on her shoulder.

"Everything will be all right," Jamie said. "You'll see. Everything will be fine."

"I hope so," Joan said. "Come on, sit down. Let's eat."

### Chapter 39

The new boat arrived Tuesday, already registered, the gas tank full, a shiny blue fiberglass treasure begging Claude to float it over a rustic lake surrounded by October-colored trees and footpaths. The cabin in Maine, Claude decided, offered the perfect setting, and although he couldn't reach Armand Fecteau, he didn't think Armand would mind a one-night visitor, so he packed his fishing gear and a bolt cutter, bought a ten-dollar lock from a hardware store, and before the next sunrise pointed the truck north for a two-day inauguration of his life of leisure.

With the help of a cashier from the lake's general store, Claude loaded his boat with gear and launched it from the nearby public landing. A stumble over a large rock submerged him to his chest before he caught his balance, so prudence and comfort dictated he park the truck quickly and motor straight to Armand's to change clothes before making his first cast. Since the dock had been removed for the winter, Claude slipped out of the boat in knee deep water to tie up at a metal rod jutting out from the cement wall, and once done, transferred his sleeping gear and extra clothing to dry land. With the bolt cutters he snipped the lock to the storage area beneath the porch—no sense breaking into the cabin itself, since the water had been turned off weeks earlier—spread his sleeping bag on the concrete floor, and with the door slightly ajar for sunlight peeled off his rubber waders and wet clothes, laid them flat on the upside down hull of the rowboat, and put on dry garments. He wiped down the inside of the waders with a towel before putting them on again and pronounced himself ready to fish. He slid the new lock through the clasp, whistling a Neil Young tune as he snapped it shut.

On the water a stiff wind created choppy conditions. For a half hour Claude just drove, revving the motor, zigzagging, bouncing the bow of his new toy off the waves. When at last he cut the engine, he didn't move for his rod, opting instead to bask in the crisp autumn air. He donned sunglasses, lit a cigarette, and cracked open a can of beer. The sun warmed his face. He moved from the steering column to the middle seat, crossed his feet on the side rail, and shifted from left elbow to right as he puffed and sipped, puffed and sipped.

After drifting for an hour Claude opened his tackle box and baited his line. He didn't expect to catch much, a perfect mindset as it turned out, since in the first forty-five minutes of trying he caught nothing. Now nearly two hours since his initial beer, and in the middle of his seventh, Claude really needed to use a bathroom, but didn't feel comfortable standing and delivering out in the open. On the other hand, three-quarters of a lake lay between him and Armand's cottage, and the shores nearby offered few if any unoccupied spaces where relief could be secured. He settled on a small cove with a row of apparently empty cottages and a cluster of birch trees hanging over the water. He stepped to the bow, grabbed a birch, and took his chances. When finished, he smiled, downed the remainder of beer number seven, and started beer number eight.

Claude spent the entire day on the lake, caught five small fish and tossed them all back, smoked two packs of cigarettes, and drank 20 of his 24 beers. Dusk at the lake faded quicker than he expected, forcing him to make his return to Armand's cabin slowly, along the shoreline, in the dark. He had some difficulty securing the boat in the moonlight, but concentrated through the alcohol and climbed toward the cabin confident he'd tied the craft tight.

Though it was only six o'clock, Claude changed into sweatpants and a sweatshirt, laid down on the sleeping bag, and fell asleep. When Claude's bladder awoke him, 9:34 shone from his glow-in-the-dark digital watch. He fumbled through his duffel bag for a pair of sneakers, slipped them on his bare feet without tying them, and turned on the big flashlight. It went on, but blinked out. Claude whacked it with his palm until it came on again. He stepped through the door, snapped the padlock shut, and wandered over near the wall to relieve himself. Though the wind had died down, it was cold. The weathermen said temperatures would likely dip into the high twenties once the sun set, and the half-asleep, half-drunk Claude decided it was at least low thirties already. As he finished his business, the flashlight blinked out again. He smacked it some more, but it didn't come on, so he said the hell with it and headed back by the light of the moon. Without thinking he pulled the door, and noticing it was locked, tried to collect himself enough to remember where he'd put the keys. Neither his sweatpants nor his sweatshirt had pockets. He realized he'd locked himself out.

At first he simply closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the door. Sleep and warmth, he thought, just give me enough heat to sleep.

Once he absorbed the consequences of his error, however, he punched the door hard with a closed fist before taking the knob and rattling it pointlessly with all his might. As quickly as anger came upon him it subsided. His eyebrows raised. He dropped to his knees and felt the grass near the house, finding it a little damp, but nonetheless laid down on his side, thighs pulled up against his chest. It was no good, though, he couldn't sleep unprotected in the cold. Resigned that a resolution couldn't wait the night, he stood up and pondered his options. He was happy he'd put on shoes.

Breaking into the cabin seemed the best alternative, so Claude checked for unlocked windows. Although the cabin had no heat, Armand fitted it with storm windows, meaning Claude would have to break multiple panes to enter, which didn't appeal to him, especially after peering in and seeing the beds stripped of blankets. He figured Armand had turned off the gas, so even if he got in he had no blankets and no stove to use for heat. For a moment he reflected about the curtains, surmising that together they might keep him warm enough to sleep the night, but on some level, beneath the booze and weariness, perhaps even beneath the realm of Claude's normal cerebral capacity, lingered the notion that breaking into Armand's cabin just wasn't right, that he could approach Armand with a new lock key the next day and explain how he'd borrowed a night on the concrete floor of the storage area and Armand would understand, but that attempting to explain why he'd smashed two windows to get into the cabin might provoke an altogether different, and justifiably more unpleasant, reaction. Instead of breaking in, Claude scoured the grounds for shelter. Finding none, with the cold air stinging him through the alcohol, Claude started walking to the store to call Joan.

On the way he checked for lights in other cabins. Since it wasn't even ten o'clock, he wouldn't hesitate to knock on a door and request a hacksaw or a pair of bolt cutters if he found an occupied cottage. It didn't strike him as useless, though in soberer moments it might have, this idea of one of Armand's neighbors handing a hacksaw this late to an underdressed man who smelled like the keg room of a college fraternity. In the end it was moot. On this particular midweek night in October, nobody was around.

At the pay phone near the store, Claude dialed the collect number he remembered from television, followed by his own phone number, and spoke his name when instructed to by the mechanical operator. Before long Joan came on the line.

"Hello?" she said. "Claude?"

"Hi, it's me," he said.

"How's the fishing?"

"Good. Listen, I've got a little problem here. I locked myself out of the cabin."

"Hold on," Joan said. "I'll get Armand's number."

"No no," Claude said loudly, to bring her back. "I already tried him. His answering machine says he's out of town and won't be back until next week."

"Who leaves a message broadcasting they're out of town? Doesn't sound like something Armand would do."

"Well he did."

"And how did you lock yourself out? You need the key to lock both the front door and the back. The door to the porch, too. You did tell Armand you were coming, didn't you? Claude? Are you there?"

Claude brought the phone into his sight line and gazed at the receiver. As he returned it to his ear, he pulled his free arm into his chest and rubbed one leg up and down the other.

"Yes, yes," Claude said, "I told him I was coming."

"You're slurring. Are you drunk?"

As if on cue, Claude lost his balance and dropped the phone, which rattled off the post before he reeled it back in.

"I am not drunk," he shouted into the receiver. "Alcohol's got nothing to do with anything."

"I wish I could believe that."

"Look, I've got other things to deal with right now," Claude yelled. "Can you stop yapping about alcohol for five seconds? Five seconds, that's all I ask."

Joan hung up. Claude dialed the number again, but after a pause a live operator came on and told him the other party would not accept the charges. He hung up and tried again, with the same result. After hopping up and down a few moments to try to keep warm, he realized his position and called again. When asked to speak his name, instead he said "honey, I'm sorry," and Joan picked up.

In the ensuing conversation, Claude lied, telling Joan he'd spoken with Armand's granddaughter Brenda the day before. Armand was in Las Vegas, Claude told Joan, and Brenda wasn't sure which day he planned to return. She was in nursing school (which was true), and wasn't often home at night. Because the last tenants of the summer did not return the cottage keys, Armand changed the locks on both doors, but Brenda didn't think he'd put them on the big key ring hanging over their kitchen counter, since none of the new keys looked shiny. She suggested, Claude told Joan, that Claude snip the lock to the storage area, sleep on the concrete floor, and drop the key to the new lock in their mailbox on his way back to Rhode Island. For a $10 lock, he could have his room for the night.

After the story, Claude told Joan he'd exhausted all other options and was nearly freezing to death. Joan agreed to drive up. She and Claude would find a motel room, and in the morning buy another pair of bolt cutters and a new lock. She told him to stay at the store and said good-bye.

As he hung up, Claude's attention turned to the disagreeable prospect of three more hours in the cold. Although the town had no police station, Claude considered calling the head cop anyway, but decided against it. For one thing, Claude disliked the story he'd have to tell the officer after rousting him from bed. For another, what would the cop do, take Claude back to his own house until Joan arrived? Help him break into the cabin? Call Armand? Screw it, Claude thought, I'd rather freeze.

The town had no full-time fire station either, just a small building for the volunteer firefighters' equipment, locked and dark, a few hundred yards from the general store. The nearest open-all-night public building, of any sort, had to be twenty miles away.

From the phone booth Claude wandered behind the store, where to his delight he found a long strip of bubble wrap and two dozen or so empty cardboard boxes, some big that held disposable diapers, some small that held bottles of beer. He broke up the boxes and brought them to the truck. The bubble wrap served as the blanket against his body, with the stacked-up boxes providing insulation for his legs and chest. It worked. He stopped thinking about the cold, and soon fell asleep.

Around one o'clock Joan pulled into the store parking lot and tooted the horn. Claude removed himself from the pile of boxes and ambled over the side of the truck. As he crawled into the Buick, Joan handed him a coat.

Neither spoke as Joan wheeled the car down Route 5 toward a white motel she passed seven miles back. Claude snuggled into the coat, leaned against the window, and resumed sleeping.

"You're welcome," Joan whispered.

The next thing Claude knew, Joan stood outside the car tapping his window. He followed her through a red door to a small room.

"I have to go to the bathroom," Joan said.

Joan wasn't long, but she wasn't quick either, and when she emerged from the bathroom she saw her husband in bed, wound tightly in blankets and already snoring softly.

#

At eight the next morning Claude rose and woke Joan.

"Are you hungry?" she said as she stretched and batted her eyes.

"Not really," he said.

"Well I am. Let's hit Rodney's Roost, if he's even open this time of year. I've never been there except on Memorial Day weekend."

Claude looked at his wife. "I kind of want to get this lock thing sorted out."

"All right," she said. "Let's do that, and then we'll eat."

They found a hardware store and bought the necessary items, then drove to the cottage. As Claude cut the lock with the new snips, Joan wandered to the water's edge.

"Jesus," she called, "look at all those empty cans. Did you drink all that yesterday? You really shouldn't drive a boat with all that beer in you."

"Please," he said. "I'm not in the mood for lectures."

"It's no lecture. You just oughta be careful. How about taking me for a ride?"

"Can't. Only have one lifejacket."

"There are twenty under the house."

Claude scowled. Joan smiled and walked toward her husband.

"Notice anything different about me?"

Claude looked her over. "No. I don't think so. What's different?"

"I'm not mad about anything. Didn't you notice? I'm not mad about driving three hours in the middle of the night because my drunken husband locked himself out of a cabin. I'm not mad about you lying to me on the phone—I called Brenda last night and she said she hadn't talked with you. I'm not mad about burning a vacation day I was saving for Christmas week, and I'm not even mad that after all I did for you you won't take me for a ride in your new boat."

"Bully for you," Claude said. "Let's hope it's not just a passing fad."

Joan put her hands behind her back and raised herself to her toes before letting herself fall gently to her heels. "Do you want to know why I'm not mad?"

Claude looked at her. "Okay, Joan. Why are you not mad?"

"Because I'm happy."

Again Claude stared at her. She smiled at him, and raised to her toes again. She spun around and walked toward the open door to the storage area beneath the house. For a moment she disappeared into the darkness. When she returned, she held a plastic convenience store bag. After she kicked her shoes off and rolled her pants up over her knees, she walked to the boat, climbed in, and began emptying the stale remnants of beer from the bottom of the cans into the lake. She put the empty cans into the bag, tied the handles tight, and stepped back into the lake and onto the shore, not bothering to dry her feet before slipping back into her shoes.

"Ready for breakfast?" Joan said.

Claude slammed the bolt cutters to the ground. "Look, I don't know what the hell you're up to with this charmy-smarmy routine, but I'm really not in the mood to play around. All I want to do is celebrate the fact I don't have to work any more, relax on the water in my new boat, drink a few beers, maybe catch a fish or two. That's all. I'm not interested in silly mind games—oh Claude, see how happy I am when I should be mad? I'm so happy, just so happy. Isn't it grand? Please, enough already. Just leave me be."

Joan lost the smile. "That's why I'm happy, dear husband, because I am leaving you be. All to yourself. Last night I called Connie and asked can I spend some time at her place, but on the ride I decided to give you one more chance, one last freaking chance to be decent, but no, here you are being a total ass. I haven't yelled at all today. I haven't started nothing. And this is what I get. This is how much you care. Well screw you. While you're having a relaxing day on the lake I'll be using my vacation day to pack my things and bring them to Connie's. Don't worry, I won't take Jamie, though she's free to come if she wants. And you'll be happy, because from now on you'll have everything you've ever lived for: yourself."

The inner ends of Claude's eyebrows squeezed the skin above his nose. His mouth slid to one side.

"What are you talking about?" he said. "You're not going anywhere. A husband and wife stay together, forever. That's the way it's supposed to be. That's the way it is with us. We're a family."

Joan climbed the cement steps toward the Buick. At the top of the stairs she took a left, disappearing behind the house, but a few seconds later re-emerged at the summit of the needle-strewn plateau. She opened the passenger door of the car and tossed in the bag of cans. After closing the door, she paused to look down the hill to her husband, snapped off a derisive salute, and walked to the drivers side door, taking the long way around the back instead of the short way around the front.

"Don't you worry about a thing," Claude called from the lakefront. "Everything's going to be great, better than ever. You'll see. When I get home, you, me, and Jamie, we'll head out to the best restaurant in town, and I'll buy you the biggest steak you ever saw. With all the trimmings. Can you hear me? I'll see you tonight."

When the car started Claude saw Joan still had the blinker on. Throughout her slow, gradual turn away from the lake, the blinker never clicked off.

#

At the spot where the river met the lake the water did not run deep enough to hide the grass rooted at the mucky bottom. Claude moored his boat to the dock of an empty-looking cottage, and with his waders slung over his left shoulder spent a moment taking inventory before beginning the half-mile walk to where the water ran like a river should. In his left pocket he had a pair of wool mittens with fingertips that hung open or velcroed shut; he hoped he wouldn't need them. Around his neck hung a piece of styrofoam on a string, styrofoam into which he stuck five dry flies. His other pocket held a thermometer, a jackknife, a pair of nail clippers with the lever removed, and a small pair of pliers. A net dangled from a coathook sewn to his belt. He climbed onto the dock, made sure the boat was well-fastened, and with his tackle box in his left hand and his rod in his right, set off.

Although he knew which bend in the river he wanted, the spot offered two fine places to fish, and he hadn't yet decided which to harvest. The first came before the bend, where two large rocks poked up from the middle of the main current. The rocks turned the clear surface of the river into a bubbly white froth—nice cover for a trout—and provided a stagnant spot where a fish could linger without expending much energy. At the same time, the rocks did not interrupt the flow of insects floating downstream, and a dry fly like a Blue Dun or a Light Cahill might land a good-sized trout.

But it didn't feel right. Sure, flying bugs still roamed the October air and died in the chilly river, but not in the quantities of spring and summer. Nope, Claude decided, a fish that staked out the rocks this time of year and waited for what floated by was likely to be on the skinny side. Instead of the rocks, Claude chose a pool just around the bend, where the current had eroded the bank beneath a tree. The tree jutted straight out toward the river for five feet, then bent up toward the sky. In the bank, under the tree, lived ants, thousands of them. Each day many fell, or were knocked, or carelessly wandered, from the bark to the water, where the current carried them around the corner and into the pool.

Claude reached his spot on the bank opposite the jutting tree, set down his tackle box, and struggled into his waders. Although he knew the water wasn't anywhere near warm enough to dissuade its trout from feeding, he found a sunny spot and dipped in his thermometer. After a nod at the reading, Claude removed the ant from his styrofoam flyholder—black twine in lumps around a metal hook was all it was, but it sure looked like an ant, and when caught in a current it moved like one too. Claude attached it to his leader. He found a place in the shade and eased himself into the water. The jutting tree was a good twenty yards away, but Claude believed fish could sense changes in water flow from that distance—farther even—so he made sure to move in exaggerated slow motion. His boots barely rippled the water.

Claude poised his rod. With his left hand he tugged line from the reel. He wagged the tip of the rod, and the fly began to swing. Slack in the line ran up the pole. Claude's forearm motion graduated from a roll to a snap, and before long the antlike fly at the end of the leader looped in long arches above the gurgles of the narrow river. And in! The ant landed at just the right spot, well short of the tree. It floated down the secondary current and disappeared behind the bank.

With the tip of his rod almost touching the water, Claude played the line with his left hand, subtly, so the ant wouldn't hop or drag, but felt nothing beyond the pull of the current. As he continued to play the ant, he adjusted his rod so it pointed not where he cast the fly, but toward the fly's present position downriver. A fish swam between Claude and the jutting tree; he could see the adolescent stripes on its side. He reeled the ant home and whipped it overhead to dry it out. Then he plopped it again in front of the jutting tree. From a not-too-distant cabin, the smell of wood stove reached Claude's nostrils.

On his fourth cast a fish struck. Claude set the hook with a gentle tug and let the fish run, interceding only to discourage the fish from swimming toward a submerged log. As the fish tired itself out, Claude thought of Warren Taylor. They'd fished this very spot together once, about this same time of year. Warren caught the biggest trout that day. He landed his ant firm on the eroded bank, and then nudged it little by little until gravity tumbled it into the water. Back in the stores department the following Monday, Warren wowed the guys with his tale of conquering the Great Trout of Southern Maine.

"Did he really catch one that big?" Frank asked.

"Yes," Claude said, "but he dapped it."

"Cheater."

#

The fish netted by Claude twenty minutes after his fourth cast was also a large trout, as beautiful as it was big, and after Claude set it free he climbed from the river, emptied his pockets into his tackle box (except for the wool gloves; it was getting nippy), and with his rod again pointed behind him headed back toward the shiny new boat.

This time he thought of Joan. What does she mean, she's leaving? She isn't going anywhere, she's staying right where she belongs. Her place is home, with her husband. She supposed to cook, and clean, and sew, and vacuum, and fuss in the garden, and take Jamie shopping. She's the woman, and home is where she's supposed to be. I'm the man, and I'm supposed to be...

Claude stopped in his tracks. He stood as if swapping arguments with himself.

Well, he thought, it's okay if I'm not at work. It's not my fault. The company gave me a package.

### Chapter 40

When Claude arrived home that night, he left the boat hitched to the truck and decided to unload his gear later. Although it was 7:30, the Amognes could still catch a good meal if they hustled, and Claude was ready to hustle, since he hadn't eaten all day. He opened the front door and saw Jamie standing near the hallway to the stairs, arms folded, mouth closed, staring into his eyes. She didn't say hello.

"Hi Princess," Claude said. "Hungry? I promised your mother we'd eat at the best restaurant in town."

"She's not here," Jamie said. "She took her stuff and went to Aunt Connie's. She said you knew."

Claude closed the front door. He moved slowly into the living room, and took off his jacket without breaking eye contact with Jamie. He set the jacket on a chair.

"She mentioned it," Claude said. "But I thought she was just blowing off steam. Why she's so upset about me getting to retire early, I'll never know."

"You've got to call her. She packed up a bunch of stuff, and she made me decide whether to go with her or stay here. When I told her it would be too hard to try to get back and forth to school and work from the seashore, she starting crying and told me how much she'd miss me and how much she loved me, and made me promise to call whenever I wasn't working and set aside at least a day a week when she could visit. She was hugging me and saying goodbye like she was going forever. Like she's never coming back."

Jamie's eyes watered. She looked little. The arms that had come apart to gesture as she spoke now folded across her tummy again. She leaned against the frame of the wide entrance to the small hall, her knees bent, her shoulders slumped, her head drooping forward so her eyes could see the floor. Claude wished for the wisecracking, in-command Jamie to return so they could go have a nice meal. He searched for words that would dismiss the emotional Jamie, the one he didn't necessarily care for and certainly didn't understand, but nothing he liked popped into mind. He had to say something, though, because the silence was becoming awkward. Move to hold her? Make a joke? Use a serious tone? He couldn't decide.

"Aw, Princess," he said, in a gentle voice, at last. "Don't cry. We'll get through this. Maybe spending a few days at Connie's will be good for her. She's not gone for good. We're a family and families stick together. She'll come back."

"Will you call her?"

As Claude stared at her face, his head moved once to the left and back to the center. "I can't," he said. "I didn't walk from her, she walked from me. A man has to have the respect of his wife."

He dug the fingernail of his index finger sharp across his hairline.

"Rhode Island Electric put me out on disability," he said. "That isn't a crime. I done nothing wrong, and I'm not crawling to her to beg."

"She won't come back unless you call her."

"She will, Princess, she will."

"She won't!"

The feelings Jamie'd been squeezing exploded from her. She slid down the frame until she slumped on the floor and sobbed like a fire trying to burn more fuel than it could handle. Claude crept toward her and knelt to the floor, but didn't touch her, fearing contact would set off something even worse. The sobbing raged. Twice Jamie lifted her head to speak, and twice she returned her eyes to the floor without uttering a recognizable word. Claude said nothing. Slowly, Jamie's breathing stopped shaking her. The gushing tears trickled instead. She found her father's eyes.

"Why should I have to choose?" Jamie said in soft, barely-audible voice. "I go to school. I work. I'm not a slut or a druggie. I do what I'm supposed to. I didn't cause this, and there's nothing I can do to end it, but I have to choose, my father or my mother, and it isn't fair. I didn't do anything to deserve it. It's not fair."

Jamie and Claude shared their spot on the floor in silence a few more moments, until Jamie rose and walked to the downstairs bathroom. Claude shifted from his knees to his butt and pulled his legs in close to his chest. He listened to the water from the bathroom faucet as Jamie let it fall to the porcelain sink. She interrupted the flow to wet her hands and splash water on her face. Her heard the suctiony sound of lathered-up hands rubbing damp cheeks, and thought he smelled her lilac soap all the way from where he sat. Before long, Jamie emerged from the bathroom. Her eyes remained red and puffy, but better, much better, than before.

"I'm not up for a restaurant," she said. "How about we order pizza instead?"

### Chapter 41

Jamie and Claude agreed she'd do the laundry and he'd do the dishes. They agreed to share the cooking duties, but instead fell into the more convenient routine of sandwiches, take-out food, and microwave dinners. Joan took the checkbook, and in a letter addressed to Jamie said she'd had all the important bills forwarded to Connie's house and would pay them each month from there. She asked Jamie to tell her father to make sure the money for the mortgage, the two truck loans, and the minimum payment on his credit card were in the checking account. Since food money always came from her paychecks, she'd make sure she got it to Jamie, either by mail or in person, each week, along with the coupons she clipped from the Sunday paper, and although clipping coupons was a little like throwing snowballs at a heat wave, she wrote, every bit helped.

At the end of the month Claude's first disability check arrived, and to his horror $647.37 came out in taxes, leaving him a net of just $1,664.65. It couldn't be. He called the disability company, and then Brianna Mickleson, and both confirmed the figure was correct.

Claude grabbed a pencil and started scratching. Mortgage, two loans, $100 for his credit card—he'd have $61.11 to spend each month. _Each month!_ Many a weekend night he'd spent that on parking, beer, Chinese food, and a dozen games of Keno, just tossed it away and not given it a second thought. It was $25 to take Jamie to a movie. And baseball, hell, he always went to Fenway Park once or twice a year, plus another four or five trips a year to McCoy Stadium. Now what? A single trip to see the Red Sox would cost him two months' spending money. Two goddamn months!

Then he thought about Christmas, lurking just around the corner. He never knew what he spent on Christmas, but he always spent it. Three years ago, after Joan showed him an emerald bracelet she bought Jamie for $150, Claude rushed out and bought Jamie one with diamonds for $275. Two years ago, he bought Jamie a suit and matching shoes for $320. Last year, he didn't buy her one big gift, he recalled, only a collection of "small" gifts: her own DVD player, four compact discs, two sweaters, a pair of blue jeans, a board game, a winter coat. Christmas, the ultimate family holiday, the one time of the year to show people you care about them, and he'd do it on $61.11? Funny.

Good thing for credit cards, he thought.

Although it was only 10:30 in the morning, he twisted open a bottle of vodka and poured himself a screwdriver. By noon, he'd had four tall glasses of the mixture and had grown some kind of pissed off about the number 61.11. He was already broke, while Joan had a full paycheck to party with each week. Well, minus food money. And minus the Buick payment. And minus car insurance and her own credit card payments and the loan to get a new furnace. Even so, that left her...Claude reached again for his pencil, but once he'd picked it up realized he had no idea how much Joan made at the department store. Well what could it be? Fifteen bucks an hour? Seemed low. He crawled under the bed and pulled out the box in which Joan kept her old financial records. He didn't find anything recent—the box was full, so she must've started a new one—but did come across a year-old check stub indicating Joan made $12.05 an hour.

That's all?

Claude emptied the orange juice carton into another glass of vodka, and stewed. Though he didn't actually do the math, it was clear to him that while he sat in the family room with $61.11 a month to spend, Joan sat at the beach with $200 or $300 a month to spend. It wasn't right, and she was going to kick in to make things even. He was still the man of the house, and no man of the house had less to spend than his wife.

But with his next exhale, Claude's furor left him. He knew he'd never convince Joan to give him money, because to do so he'd have to convince Connie, and that wasn't happening any time soon. He considered demanding the money on Jamie's behalf, but chuckled at the very thought. Jamie had more money in the bank than he did. What's more, she hadn't asked for money from her parents since the sixth grade.

This is just great, Claude thought. No money, no wife, no vodka. Just great. I'm really living the life, ain't I?

#

A week passed and although Claude had plenty of groceries he still didn't have enough money. Already he'd switched to generic vodka, a fair savings, it turned out. But it wasn't any good. Finally, he had the time to do whatever he wanted, and here he was, sitting around the house day after day because he couldn't afford to do anything else.

One morning as he giggled at a particularly hokey television ad for a local lawyer, the words "workers compensation" rang in his ears, and in his mind the light above his head went from dim to bright. I was hurt at work, he thought. I could collect workers compensation benefits. It's legit.

He called the 800 number on the television screen and was transferred by the secretary to Curt Moran, one of the junior attorneys at O'Brien, Borelli, & Hopkins, who set an appointment for 10:00 the next morning and asked Claude to bring all the paperwork given him by the company when he left. When Claude arrived at the law office, he was invited to sit but paced the floor instead. He smiled. When escorted to an inner office, he told Curt his whole tale, from the fleas at DiCecco's Pizza to the hurricane headaches and the spiders that caused them, gave Curt the names of doctors and hospitals, and waited while Curt photocopied the paperwork from Rhode Island Electric. He signed authorizations to allow Curt to get his medical records. He agreed in writing to pay Curt a third of any award he collected. At the end of their meeting, Curt told Claude he wanted to do some preliminary checking and would call in a day or two to discuss their chances.

The call came that afternoon.

"Mr. Amognes, this is Curt from O'Brien, Borelli, & Hopkins. I have some good news and some bad news. Well, bad news, mostly."

Claude remained silent.

"In reviewing the paperwork, I see you accepted a check for $5,000 on the condition you waived your right to sue Rhode Island Electric. Is that correct?"

"Well, yes, but we're not suing, are we? Aren't we just applying? There's nothing in my paperwork that says I can't apply for anything, at least that's my, um, understanding."

Curt sighed into the phone. "Sure, Mr. Amognes, you can apply for workers compensation benefits. My secretary has already filled out the paperwork and sent it to both the state and to Rhode Island Electric. But I have to be frank: without the ability to sue, there's very little I can do for you. Rhode Island Electric will likely deny your claim, and okay, you can appeal it, but once they deny the appeal that's it. You agreed you wouldn't sue them."

"But the paperwork says I'm afraid of bugs. It says the building I work in has bugs. Their own paperwork says I got this condition from getting attacked by bugs. How can they possibly deny that this is work-related?"

"Watch them. I've seen it a hundred times."

Now Claude sighed into the phone. "So where does that leave me?" he said.

"As I indicated," Curt said, "we filed the paperwork, because it's worth a try. We won't even charge you for it. But anything I do from now on I'll have to bill you for, and our rate is $110 an hour. I'm afraid your prospects are not good."

Claude dragged himself to the truck and drove to the liquor store to buy more vodka. While in line he saw an array of lottery tickets, and his eyes lit up at the odds and grand prizes: 1 in 4 a winner, 1 in 7 a winner, 1 in 3 a winner. Top prize $30,000, top prize $15,000, top prize $100,000. There were dozens of games, and rolls of cards for each game, in every color.

"Four bottles of vodka," the cashier said. "Will there be anything else today, sir?"

"Yes, my good man," Claude said. "One of those green scratch tickets, right there."

The scratch ticket cost five dollars—Claude expected it to be a buck—and Claude was lucky he had enough money on him. Five dollars! He trembled the entire way to the truck. The game had a baseball theme, nine innings for the home team and nine innings for the visitor. Scratch all nine innings of both teams, and if the visitor scored more runs than the home team, the holder won the prize in the bullpen box. Claude scratched the bullpen box first: $2,000.

He about dropped his scratch nickel. Two thousand dollars. He was just a few flicks of the wrist from the best Christmas he'd ever had. Claude started on the top line, with the visiting team. He scored two runs in the third inning, one in the sixth, and four in the eighth. Not bad, he thought, seven runs wins most baseball games. He then scratched the bottom line: zero, zero, zero, zero, one, zero, zero, zero.

"Bottom of the ninth," he said out loud. "I got a six-run lead and my closer is ready."

He scratched the ninth inning: ten. Ten? Ten! What a fucking rip-off! Who scores ten runs in the ninth inning? It's almost impossible. It'd take a grand slam with the score tied. He ripped the card in half and threw it out the window.

Then it hit him. _I just spent five dollars on that card._ He opened the truck door and leaned out to pick up the pieces, which he still owned, which he could use to mark his place in a book or scribble a phone message on or start a very small fire, should he ever need one. As he started to reach, though, he stopped.

"What the fuck am I doing?"

#

To Claude's relief, the only customer in the Rhode Island Electric credit union was an old retiree describing his recent surgeries to the helpless teller, who tried every conversation-ending phrase she knew without success. Although technically separate entities, the credit union was housed between the company's customer service department and its relay department, and everyone at the company knew Archie the head of the credit union, Michelle the loan officer, Greta the old teller, Tawny the young teller, and Rachel the secretary. Claude didn't recognize the face behind the glass, however. When the old man finally left, Claude stepped to the window.

"Hi there," he said. "You new here?"

"Yes," the woman said. "How can I help you?"

"Is Michelle in?"

The teller disappeared, but before long returned with a thin blonde woman wearing a blue pinstriped skirt with matching jacket. A buzzer rang. Claude pulled on the lone door in the bulletproof glass, and followed Michelle to her office. She removed a stack of papers from a chair, invited Claude to sit, and walked around the desk to sit herself.

"So how you doing, Bugsy?"

"Good, good. How's everything here?"

"No complaints. What can I do for you?"

Claude fidgeted. He promised himself he'd be cocky. Instead, he felt uncomfortable, like he wanted to scratch but had no itch.

"I'd like to raise the limit on my credit card," he said. "I think $5,000 should do it."

Michelle punched his account to her computer screen. "You're almost at your credit limit now," she said. "Looks like you paid the minimum due each month—oops, there's once you were late. There's another. But no months missed. Mortgage, same thing, nothing missed. Looks like all in all your record is good. Let me print this information and take it for a signature. Shouldn't be a problem."

"Terrific."

Michelle took the pages from the printer and said she'd be right back. She wasn't. As five minutes turned into ten, and then to fifteen, Claude resumed fidgeting. Finally, Michelle poked her head into the office.

"Hey Bugsy, are you out on disability?"

"Um, yes."

"That's what Archie heard."

"That shouldn't be a problem, though," Claude said. "I don't really need the money, I'm only applying for it just in case. You know, as sort of an insurance policy. Tell Archie I'm good for it. We've known each other a long time. He knows I'm good for it."

Michelle left again, and when she returned a short man with salt and pepper hair accompanied her. Claude stood. The man offered his hand, and Claude shook it.

"Hi Arch," Claude said.

"Hi Bugsy. How's tricks?"

"Not bad."

"Listen," Archie said, "I understand from Schulke that you're out on disability now."

"The company felt it was in my best interest."

"Be that as it may, it affects your application. It's an income hit. I can't tell you how many guys have gone out on disability and within three months are in here looking for more credit. They're used to spending at a level up here, and all of a sudden have to get used to spending at a level down here. It isn't easy. I wish matters like this were none of my business, but unfortunately they're very much my business. I can't approve $5,000. I'm sorry."

"What can you approve?"

Archie looked to Michelle. He picked a pen from the top of her desk and drummed it on the stack of papers. He frowned, and tossed the pen onto the blotter. "Give him $2,000."

He looked back to Claude. "It should be zero. But Joan's a hard worker, and if she's okay with it I'll go out on a limb for you this once."

"Thanks Arch," Claude said. "When will the two grand be there?"

"Three business days."

### Chapter 42

The extra credit arrived on time, but aside from $40 worth of vodka and orange juice, Claude left it alone. He looked at the wall calendar in the kitchen and counted backwards twelve days to the last time he saw Joan. He sat at the table and drew the smell of steaming coffee into his nostrils. Used cups, unwashed dishes, empty cracker boxes, and crumpled napkins cluttered the counter in front of him. A lone fruit fly hovered above a black banana in the fruit bowl on the table. Near the fridge, a can that had slid from the pile in the recycling bin rested upside down on the floor.

"Ah fuck."

Claude stood. He picked up the phone, dialed information, and asked for Connie Farley in Matunuck. He vowed not to hang up if Connie answered. She's just a woman too, he told himself, she's just a woman too.

"Hello?"

Claude smiled. "Joan?"

"Claude."

Claude pulled the long phone cord around the front leg of his chair and sat down. "Look, I'm sorry about not taking you in the boat. I'm sorry I made you drive all the way to Maine because I locked myself out. It was dumb. I'm sorry."

Joan said nothing on the other end.

"Joan? Did you hear me?"

"I did."

Again, silence. What the Christ, Claude thought. I friggin' call and apologize, and this is the shit I get?

"So what's the story?" he said. "When are you coming home?"

"When my improved self-expression helps me become more self-respecting and self-sufficient."

"What are you talking about? Self-respecting? When are you coming home?"

"My counselor says I'm not ready."

Claude lept to his feet and squeezed his left hand as hard as he could around the plastic phone. "Counselor?! You mean a shrink? You're seeing a shrink? Unbelievable! I'm running our home all by myself and you're spending your days talking about me to some stranger?"

"It was Connie's idea," Joan said. "She thought it would be good for me to go, and she was right. I'm a good person. I should feel good about myself. My counselor's very nice, and I really like her. Mostly she just listens, but once in a while she tells me what she thinks."

"I'll tell you what I think. I don't like you running off on your family and badmouthing me to some do-gooder with three college degrees on the wall. Your place is here, in your home, where you belong, here, in your family room, in your kitchen, in your garden, not 45 minutes away at the beach while your husband and your daughter do your chores on top of their own. A man and a woman stay together, for better or for worse, because they vow that they will, and you vowed it and I vowed it. You vowed. But Jesus, I'm the only one paying attention to vows around here, because you, you're..."

"Put a sock in it." Connie's voice loosened Claude's grip on the phone as it tightened every muscle between his two elbows.

"Now listen, mister," Connie continued. "Joan will be back when she's ready and not a moment sooner. Not one moment sooner. Is that understood?"

Claude said nothing.

"I said, 'Is that understood?'"

When the pause became unbearable Claude hung up. He kicked the plastic recycling bin, sending four more cans off the wall and onto the kitchen floor. As a can spun in a circle, he kicked it through the doorway to the breezeway. Claude snatched an open bottle of vodka, splashed some into his coffee mug, and tried to gulp it down, but on his third gulp the burning sensation overwhelmed him and he cast the mug against the wall as he dashed to the fridge for something cold. The orange juice carton he grabbed had a tear near the opening, so as much juice dribbled down his cheek as made it down his throat, but the burning stopped, and Claude stared at the inside of the refrigerator as he paused to collect himself. He turned to look at the table area, where a puddle of alcohol-tainted coffee soaked itself into a week's worth of mail. Five drip lines ran down the wall. Pieces of ceramic mug littered the table, chair, and floor.

Claude peeked into the carton to see how much orange juice remained. He tucked the vodka bottle beneath his armpit, pulled a not-too-dirty-looking glass from the pile in the sink, and headed to the family room.

### Chapter 43

As November passed, Claude saw less and less of Jamie: she worked late, she wrote papers at the public library late, she worked on projects with Betty late, she spent weekends at Connie's.

As Thanksgiving approached, Claude slept later and went to bed earlier. When he wasn't in bed, he drank. Occasionally, he barked out loud at the television, at Joan, or at himself. He thought of funerals, and how sorry Joan would be if he died during the current silence.

At noontime the day before Thanksgiving, the phone rang, and Claude scrambled to answer it. He held the receiver to his ear and called hello, but nobody replied.

"Joan?" he said. "Is this you? It's me."

At last he heard a voice. "Is Mr. or Mrs. Claude Amogg-knees home?"

"No!" Claude shouted. "Mr. Amogg-knees is definitely not home!"

He slammed down the receiver. Claude needed the outside, something, somewhere, as long as it wasn't the family room or the kitchen or the living room. He showered, dressed, and hopped in the truck to troll Pawtucket for a dive bar in which to get drunk.

His search didn't take long. With his credit card on the bar, Claude drank Wild Turkey, played pool with a retired Navy man, and gnawed on a terrible roast beef sandwich. By 8:30, only he and the bartender remained. Claude watched television until midnight. Because he did, he missed the phone call Joan made when her day at Home & Yard ended.

When he returned home, he also missed the lock with his key, several times. He summoned enough mental clarity to ask himself how the hell he'd driven home, fumbled with the lock some more, and finally let himself in. He didn't notice the outside light was on, and didn't turn it off. He fell asleep with his jacket on.

The next day, only football got him up. He took off yesterday's clothes and put on sweatpants and a sweatshirt. When he went to the kitchen, he saw a piece of paper and two twenty dollar bills on the table. He read the note:

Claude,

There's a half chicken in the fridge. Here's a little money for a treat. Jamie's staying until Sunday.

Joan

Claude called information and had the mechanical operator dial Matunuck for an additional sixty-five cents. When he heard Connie's voice he asked for Joan, then realized he'd gotten the answering machine. He hung up without leaving a message.

#

The Friday after Thanksgiving, the Amognes always decorated the house for Christmas, dragging a plastic Santa to the front lawn, framing the house with strings of gaudy colored lights, setting up and trimming their artificial tree. Claude and Jamie handled most of the outside work while Joan pulled her Santa Claus collection from the basement and set up the dolls and figurines in every room in the house. Joan had 121 Santas, of all sizes. One came from Australia, Joan liked to brag, though in truth all she did was order the outback Santa from a knicknack shop in Wickford. Jamie always concluded the decorating spree by placing the star atop the tree. Once the tree stood fully trimmed the Amognes toasted each other with Joan's ultra-cinnamon eggnog.

Claude left the tree in its box in the crowded basement. But he carried Joan's crates of Santas upstairs, and over the next four hours set each Santa, as best he could recall, in the spot Joan always placed it.

On Monday, after the long weekend, Claude didn't relish another day on his own, so he jumped in his truck and drove to a diner on the opposite end of the city where he knew he could still get breakfast at 10:30. When he arrived, instead of taking a table in a corner, he grabbed a stool at the counter. The sun shone through a row of windows running along the front of the mock dining car, and already a haze of smoke hung in the air. After a hearty whiff of the tobacco smoke, Claude reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it. The nearest ash tray rested in front of an older woman two stools down, and without thinking he tossed the extinguished match from where he sat. It landed in her scrambled eggs.

"Jesus, I'm sorry about that," Claude said.

The woman pulled the match from her plate, puffed her own cigarette, and dropped the match into the ash tray. She had prunish wrinkles along her jaw and up into her cheekwells, and sags of skin hanging from each elbow. She wore a tee-shirt-like jersey over her enormous chest, and a beige short-sleeve smock over the jersey. Although her eyebrows were mostly white, her hair was a dull orange, with a touch of maroon, it seemed. The wrinkles from years of smoking extended from the corners of her eyes all the way to her womany sideburns.

"Don't sweat it, fella," the woman said. "With all the nicotine and soot I've drawn into my lungs since high school, I'm not worried about a little carbon in my eggs."

She pushed the ash tray toward Claude. He smiled.

"Thanks."

A waitress came and Claude ordered. The waitress poured him a cup of coffee. Claude and the woman stared straight ahead, took deep hits off their cigarettes, and exhaled their smoke at angles that crossed. Claude looked to her, and she smiled.

"The name's Franny," the woman said. "Never seen you in here before."

"Oh, I've been here. Lots of times. Usually earlier though. The name's Claude."

"Well Claude, nice to see you. What do you do for a living?"

Claude set his cigarette on the edge of the ash tray and squirmed out of his coat. "I work at the electric company."

"The electric company? Well what're you doing here, in the middle of the morning? You're too young to be retired. You on vacation?" Her voice rang like a siren from behind the huge chest.

Claude sucked on his cigarette before answering. "I'm out on disability."

Franny tapped an ash from the tip of her cigarette. "Please?"

"I said I'm out on disability."

The woman stared at Claude with an open mouth. At last the corners of the mouth rose, and a smile formed. She chuckled. Her head fell, and when she picked it up again she looked straight into Claude's eyes and chuckled some more, punctuating the final gulp of laughter by slapping her palm on the counter between the two plates.

"If you're out on disability, then you don't work at the electric company. Don't say you do, because you ain't got nothing to do with them nor them you. Take it from me. I worked as switchboard operator at FirstLine Insurance all my life, right up to a few years ago when switchboard operators weren't really needed no more, but for years and years they still kept me on until one day they told me I either had to retire or they were going to fire me—I had to make way for progress is how they put it. And just like that, I don't work there no more. Just like that I don't belong, after forty-three years on the switchboard, and now I want to meet a friend for lunch and they won't let me in, me, who hardly missed a day of work in forty-three years. I've got to stand in the lobby until my friend comes out, and we have to eat in some crummy joint down the street even though they have a nice cafeteria right there. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous."

She sipped her orange juice, then returned the glass to the counter. "You ever go back to your old place?"

Claude looked off into space, as if the question required him to comb the depths of his brain. He looked back to Franny. "No. I haven't been back once."

"Good for you," she said. "Don't start, neither. Me, I keep in touch with my real friends, sure, but even so there's another thirty or forty people who may not be close friends, but who are good folks all the same, and I'd love to see 'em and say hello and have them say hello to me, but outside of the insurance company there's no occasion to. That's the place to do it. Just a smile and a brief chat, that's all I'd like, a smile and brief chat like good people do. Nothing more. But the insurance company won't have it. Don't get me wrong, it's not that anybody's rude or anything, it's just an attitude they got. They give you looks. They hold that fake smile while they're nodding and listening. They slap you on the shoulder—you know, the entire time I worked there I don't remember getting slapped on the shoulder once, but as soon as I retired just about everyone I meet smacks me a good one before walking off. When I went there, I mean. I don't go no more, because I don't belong. It's hard, and for the life of me I can't see how it makes any sense, how the retired Franny is one bit different than the working Franny, but it's a fact, so I deal with it. After I retired, every time I went there I felt like an intruder, so the hell with it, I don't go. You shouldn't either. Remember that."

Claude's food arrived. He snuffed out his cigarette. The coffee smelled good, so good he waved it beneath his nose before sipping. He drew in the smell of bacon before lifting a strip to his mouth and chomping off half.

"I don't really want to go back," Claude said with his mouth full. "Too many jerks. But if I did go back I'm sure a lot of people would be happy to see me. Real happy. It might be nice, I guess, to see them and say hello. It might be nice."

Franny dropped her fork beside her plate but didn't speak until she swallowed a big mouthful of scrambled egg. "I can tell you ain't the brightest bulb on Broadway."

Claude recoiled. "What makes you say that?"

"You haven't understood a damn thing I've said."

Franny waved for her check. With her big handbag in her lap, she dug through her purse for three dollar bills and a handful of quarters. She scrunched the butt of her cigarette into the ash tray, smiled quickly at Claude, and slung the handbag over her shoulder.

"See you, toots," she said as she walked toward the coat rack.

Claude looked to the waitress, and shrugged when he caught her eye. "Is she something, or what?" he said.

The waitress smirked. Claude returned the smile and resumed his breakfast. He thought about the guys at work. It would be great to see them, really great. He made a pact with himself to stop by the Dub on Friday and see everyone and how they were doing. But his lack of funds made him think again. He decided if he showed, he wanted to show in style. Maybe the Christmas party, he thought. Maybe I can take some of the money I'll have for Christmas and use it for a few drinks with the boys at the company Christmas party. That's a good idea, he thought. No, it's a great idea.

When he arrived home, Claude called Rhode Island Electric, asked for human resources, and learned from Clarke's secretary that the Christmas party was scheduled for the second Friday in December at Sparta-by-the-Sea. He asked Clarke's secretary to mail his free ticket to his home address.

### Chapter 44

Alcohol, cigarettes, and money. In them Claude had a triangular puzzle he couldn't solve. When he drank, he wanted to smoke. When he smoked, he chewed up spending money too fast. When he chewed up money too fast, he wanted to drink. He decided he needed to choose two of the three: booze and money, cigarettes and money, or booze and cigarettes with long stretches in between. It didn't take long. He could live without cigarettes, or at least with far fewer cigarettes than he'd been smoking lately. He vowed a course of drunken discipline. When he drank, he would place a ration of cigarettes on top of the television, and would not smoke from the pack when the t.v. was bare, no matter how great the urge, no matter what rationale his body tried to sell his brain or vice-versa. It seemed to work. He smoked a little less, drank a little more.

"Still got it, Claude ol' boy," he said out loud. "A little thinking, a little planning, and that brain of yours can figure out anything, damn near anything."

His brain kept working all right. It noticed the way the furnace made a rolling thud when it shut down. It noted the metallic clicking the refrigerator made when it kicked on. It focused on a dripping outside the family room window, tap, tap, tap, tap, one drop after another of the previous night's snow melting, rolling down the roof, falling somehow not into the collection gutter and down the pipe but over the gutter and through the air until it struck the cheap, hollow aluminum pipe with an amplified _thwack!_ that pierced Claude's brain and contracted the muscles in his shoulders and back. God damn. Still, Claude didn't get up to investigate, to pull the ladder around to that side of the house and see the clump of frozen leaves forming the trickle bridge that led the water past the gutter, through the air, and to the tinny gutterspout below. Nah, he'd have to put on shoes for that.

And that might require more hunt than he had in him, what with the mess he'd created in the family room. Week-old dishes, clothes of all kinds, newspapers, magazines, empty vodka bottles, three or four chock-full ash trays—somewhere there were a pair of shoes or two, but under what, he didn't know.

I wonder what the guys are doing, he thought. Let's see, 1:15, the poor suckers are probably unloading a delivery, or are stuck in the stacks getting ready for 2:30 when the trucks roll in. The snow was light, and didn't come with much wind, so there probably weren't many outages. He pictured Frank leaning on his safety bar, doing nothing in particular, Scotty scurrying around with printouts, Darezzo cat-napping on his forklift. He thought of Felicia. Mmm, Felicia. Such beautiful black hair, the blackest. Dark eyes, with irises no lighter than her pupils. Strong, thin, arms and shoulders. Perfect little cans. That ass. Mmm, Felicia.

Hell I could be mentoring her, teaching her everything there is to know about stores, showing her how to dodge Schulke and when to scoot up to the nest for an afternoon breather. Show her the Sharon Room. Mmm, Felicia and the Sharon Room. For twenty minutes, he invented scenes of Felicia in his head.

When the Felicia daydream broke, Claude pondered his replacement. He tried to think of linemen and meter readers with enough seniority to get into stores, but no names came to him. Maybe they hadn't filled it at all. Maybe it was still open. The corners of his mouth rushed down, and his eyebrows rushed up, stretching the cheekskin between. But then he shook his head. Nope, he thought, I don't want nothing to do with that hellhole. I'm better off here.

He looked around, at the sticky dishes and the dirty socks and the bottles emitting tiny gulps of evaporating vodka, and the smartass in him pounced on his own straight line.

"Oh yeah," he said, "I'm a whole lot better off here."

He grabbed the remote control and flipped through the channels, watching an hour of television without spending a full minute on any single show. On one of the all-news stations he caught something about the Supreme Court modifying the Americans With Disabilities Act. A reporter from Washington gave the details.

"Labor groups and disability-rights organizations were stunned by the ruling, in which the court asked if the inability to do specific job tasks made a worker disabled. The unanimous answer was no, that for an impairment to qualify under the ADA it must significantly impact, in the words of Justice O'Connor, the types of manual tasks of central importance to people's daily lives, end quote. People who can wash themselves, make the bed, and brush their own teeth may no longer fall under the protection of the ADA umbrella even if they do have an illness or injury that prevents them from performing certain functions of their job. Of course, the verdict was hailed by business groups, which have long complained that the scope of the ADA had been broadened by the nation's courts beyond the original intent of Congress when it enacted the law in 1990. Analysts I spoke with off the record say American businesses will save hundreds of millions of dollars over the coming decades by increasing productivity and reducing the costs of replacement workers and workplace modifications. But the real losers, Bill, are those men and women who are disabled today, but will be forced to go back to work tomorrow—or face termination if they don't. From Washington, I'm Carlos Lima for Newswatch Today."

Claude squeezed the mute button. _Or face termination if they don't?_ Shit. Is that me? But they can't. I have it in writing. I'm disabled, now and forever. They can't fire me just because stores has spiders. Or can they? Screw it. If they say I'm not disabled, I'll go back to work.

### Chapter 45

Claude shaved for the first time in days while Jamie ironed his clothes for the Christmas party. He wore a pair of straight leg dark blue Dockers, with a white short sleeve dress shirt and a red tie with a winking Santa on it. He felt both Christmassy and patriotic at once. When Jamie forbade him to wear work boots to the party, Claude didn't dare cross her, and dug as instructed under the bed to retrieve a pair of misshapen but unscratched oxblood loafers. Even after he managed to force his feet into them, the tip of the left loafer pointed skyward.

The party began at 7 but Claude was ready at 5. Since he figured it'd be cheaper to get a head start at home, he poured a big screwdriver and slugged it down. Still, he couldn't wait. He paced until 5:30, then grabbed his coat and hopped in the truck. Although he took the long route, he arrived an hour early. The front doors weren't yet unlocked. He waited in the truck, figuring others would pull into the parking lot and wait with him, but no one did.

At 6:20 he saw a waiter come through the front door and light a cigarette, so he walked down the hill from the parking lot to Sparta-by-the-Sea's main entrance. The waiter smiled as Claude passed. Inside, bartenders made final preparations, cutting limes here, counting the cash box there. After checking his coat, Claude ordered a beer. Although he was the only customer, once he'd been served nobody paid him any attention, so he leaned on the bar and watched waiters in black and white scurry around. Despite his urge to down his beer, he nursed it. After ten minutes at the bar he decided to walk around the place.

Sparta-by-the-Sea was technically on the ocean, as long as an inlet of Narragansett Bay qualified as the Atlantic, but Sparta-by-the-Sea didn't need the ocean to succeed. It had beautiful lawns—in the summer anyway, not in December, when the grass clumped in the mud of melted snow—vine-covered trellises, bench-lined walkways, and a double row of trees leading down to the bay. During wedding season it was booked at least a year in advance, sometimes two years. The bigger your party, either in numbers of guests or in social importance, the more likely you were to book Sparta-by-the-Sea.

The lobby wasn't anything spectacular, just a bar and coat rooms and rest rooms and doors to the kitchen, but once you stepped from the lobby to the main hall, either from the first floor or by taking stairways on the flanks to the balcony, you stepped into the nineteenth century. The hall was simple, without fancy carvings or ornate metalwork. The white walls were bare. A white rail with fence-like slats fronted all three faces of the balcony, and behind the rail lay a ring of two-person V.I.P. tables. One step up was another ring and more tables, and one more step up was another ring and more tables. Behind the third level of tables, another white rail separated the V.I.P.s from the traffic of the boardwalk-like promenade.

There were modern touches, of course: the stage was too large, with too many electrical outlets, to be nineteenth century; the maroon tablecloths departed from the general tone of the decor; and the black-cushioned four-legged chairs looked as though they'd been purchased on sale from an office supply megastore. A disco ball also hung over the stage.

But opposite the stage hung the piece of Americana that brought forth images of political bosses, of men in striped suits holding tall signs for McKinley/Hobart and Bryan/Sewall, of non-voting women in hoop skirts and wide hats holding Renoir painting parasols, of gosh and golly and watching daytime baseball for a nickel a ticket. Opposite the stage, suspended between two white pillars, was an American flag, a giant one, ten feet high and twenty feet wide. But it wasn't cloth. It was wood, a big, thick slab of wood, cut into a curl as if rippling in a stiff August breeze. Red, white, and blue paint had been applied in the right places. Red and white light tubes outlined each curling stripe, and in the field of blue small white light bulbs represented stars. At one point the flag had been a wonder of innovation, no doubt about it, despite its eight stripes and sixteen stars, and one could easily imagine the collective gasp a marveling throng made in the dawn of commercial electricity when that beautifully painted piece of wood suddenly lit up in vibrant red and white. Indeed, the cultural eyeblink that was America's transition from flame to light bulb trumpeted Sparta-by-the-Sea's heyday: the flag came from the days when the country moved from horse to auto, from still photos to silent movies, from a tentative, expanding nation to a country ready to flex its muscles on the world stage. The lessons of the robber barons of the Gilded Age had been learned, with Congress passing laws to curb corporate greed. The lessons of sweatshops and killer coal mines and the value of a day's work were beginning to be learned too, with worker unions rising to demand safe conditions and a living wage. Before long, a great economic collapse would force governments to mitigate volatile capitalism, to trim wealth from the handful who held it and toss it down to those who didn't, and more lessons were learned. More lessons were learned.

Claude looked up at the flag. "About time they dragged you to the dump, ain't it old boy? Your time's no longer."

He climbed the stairs to the balcony and meandered the promenade, looking out the windows and glancing down to see if anyone else had come into the main hall. Claude downed the remainder of his beer and headed for the lobby.

When he descended the stairs he saw a large man he didn't recognize. As he ordered another beer, Felicia Lopez emerged from the coat room and sidled up next to the man.

"Felicia," Claude called. "How are you?"

When his beer arrived, Claude walked over to Felicia, stepping so close that she had to back away from her date.

"How do you like stores?" Claude said. "Have you learned everything there is to know? Say, who replaced me—I mean, not who moved up into my slot, but who came in on the bottom?"

"Bugsy, I'd like you to meet my fiance, Brad," Felicia said.

Brad extended a hand. Claude missed a little in his grasp, and ended up with only fingers in the heart of the other man's paw, which felt a little feminine, but rather than regrip and do the whole thing over, Claude simply drew his hand back and put it in his pocket. Felicia used the handshake to slip to the bar and order two drinks.

"So what do you do?" Claude said.

"Police officer," Brad said.

Claude waited for some elaboration, but it didn't come. Felicia returned with the drinks. After handing a scotch and soda to Brad, she turned to Claude.

"So Bugsy, nice deal you got for yourself, eh?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know, fake headache, sweetheart deal from human resources. Pretty slick."

"I didn't fake a headache," Claude said. "It's all legit. But you're right, it's a sweetheart deal. Miss me?"

Felicia fought back a laugh. "Oh, sure, you bet. It's just not the same there without you. That's the truth, too."

Claude beamed. The three sipped their respective drinks. Brad put an arm around Felicia's shoulder.

"You want to walk the promenade?" he said.

Felicia nodded, and they turned toward the side stairway. They shifted their drinks so they could hold hands as they ascended the stairway. At the top, Brad held the door open so Felicia could pass to the balcony, but when he let go of the door, it didn't close as he expected. He turned and saw Claude.

"So who replaced me in stores?" Claude said.

Felicia mumbled the answer. When Claude fired another question about work, then another, and another, Felicia picked up her pace, leading Brad, and Claude, to the center stairs, down them, and across the floor. Once in the lobby again, Felicia announced she was going to the bathroom.

"Women," Claude said to Brad. "Can't hold two sips of liquor without running to the can."

Brad stared at Claude. "Um, excuse me," he said. "Excuse me."

He turned to walk away, but when he saw Claude begin to follow, he wheeled back around and placed a hand against Claude's chest.

"No," Brad said. "Excuse me."

He walked into the main hall. Claude shrugged his shoulders. By now more guests had arrived, though most were management. He saw a fellow union brother, George Mara and his wife—Hilda? something horrible like that—across the room and strode toward them.

"Hey, Georgie boy," Claude called. "How's life in the meter department?"

"Same old, Bugsy, same old. Geez, I didn't expect to see you here. I thought you weren't at the company any more."

"I'm still an employee," Claude said. "I'm just on disability."

"I heard. Have you met my wife, Hazel?"

Hazel held out a tiny hand. "Years ago," she said. "You're the son of the old union president, right?"

"That's right," Claude said. "Jackie Amognes, the best president the UUW ever had."

Hazel nodded her head and held her smile. George slipped his arm around Hazel's waist and moved her toward the bar even though they both had drinks already.

"Hey, Bugsy, can I buy you a drink?" George said.

"Sure, George, sure, that's awful nice of you."

"Okay," George said. "Wait here and we'll be right back."

The Maras left. Before they reached the bar, they were stopped by Ian McCoy and his wife. Hugs and handshakes were exchanged, and with a big smile George moved again toward the bar. The crowd started to thicken. Claude watched as George spoke to a bartender, saying something that elicited a laugh. The bartender turned away. George leaned on the bar, removed a bill from his wallet, and set it near his elbow. The bartender returned with two drinks. George took them to the McCoys, and the Maras and McCoys left the lobby without a glance toward Claude.

The smile left Claude's face, and he watched the door to the main hall for a moment to see if George would return. When Claude realized he wouldn't, he glanced quickly to his left and right to see if anyone witnessed the scene. No witnesses, at least none he could see. He downed his beer and edged to the bar to order another.

As he waited for service, Claude saw couple after couple come through the front door and burst into smiles upon running into another couple. Groups of four laughing faces turned into six, ten, twelve. People shook hands and kissed cheeks. Little begloved wives touched the exposed shoulders of other little begloved wives. The noise level rose and the happy energy flowed. Bartenders buzzed to keep up with orders, pointing to the next customer before the current customer had collected his bottles and paused to map a path back to his group. Although it seemed some of the bartenders had overlooked Claude, he didn't mind, because as long as he held an empty beer bottle, he was safe at the bar.

But his new beer arrived, forcing Claude to step through the crowd to find friendly faces. He bumped into Dan Thompson, who didn't mention the disability and seemed genuinely interested in talking about fishing. Claude and Dan chatted until Dan's wife, Terry, pulled him by the elbow to come talk with the Fitzgeralds. Dan apologized to Claude, and rolled his eyes to tell Claude, well, got to please the wife. Claude smiled and sipped his beer.

For a few minutes Claude stood by himself. He saw Gino and Elton arrive, but didn't move to greet them. Then he saw John and Jane Carrollton come through the door, and back came Claude's smile.

"John, Jane, how are you?" he said before they'd even closed the door behind them. Claude spoke with Jane while John dropped off the coats and fought his way through the crowd at the bar. Jane asked about Jamie and Joan, and Claude put a good spin on life at home, badmouthed Schulke a little, and talked about how great it was to not have to go to stores every day. By the time John returned Jane hadn't spoken, but for her initial question and a series of "yups," "uh-huhs," and "I sees."

"John, dear," Jane said, "I think we should go in and find seats."

John agreed, and Claude followed them toward the main hall. Each table sat ten people. John paused a second upon entering the main hall to scan the room, then headed for the far corner where Felicia and Gino sat with their dates and Elton sat with his wife. John sat next to Elton. Claude jumped into the seat next to Jane and launched into chatter with her, asking about her kids, her yard, what she planned to buy for Christmas. While talking with Jane, he avoided eye contact with the others at the table. Before long John interrupted to bring Jane into his conversation with the MacGibbons, and Claude immediately stood and walked to the bathroom.

He did have to go, but his real purpose was to run into Scotty or Frank, or even Junior. After Claude entered the men's room, the crowd behind him forced him into line for one of the urinals. But when Claude's turn came, nothing happened, even though he was on his third beer, and with all eyes upon him he had to endure the embarrassing moment of zipping up without going. Guys snickered as he passed through the door.

Again he downed his beer. While he waited for another, he found himself next to Brianna Mickleson.

"Hey Brianna," he said in a loud voice."

"Oh my word, it's Claude Amognes," she said. "Well, Claude, how are you?"

"Oh, you know, doing all right."

"Well I'm so glad you have the courage to come to events like this. A lot of people don't, you know."

Claude twisted his face a bit. "Well, I'm still an employee."

"Of course you are. And I think it's terrific you've decided to come."

Claude slid a five dollar bill across the bar as he ordered another beer. "Hey, Brianna, you guys do the guest list for this shindig, right?"

"We do."

"Are Frank Dombrowski and Scotty Williams coming?"

Brianna snorted. "I have no idea. Hey, nice to see you. Have fun."

She left. With a full beer, Claude walked slowly toward the main hall and thought of what to say to get himself into a conversation with Jane, or John, or Felicia, or Brad. It didn't matter. When he returned to the table in the far corner of the room, the other couples had moved. Rather than search them out. Claude sat, with his back largely to the party, and nursed his drink. When the entertainment began, he turned to watch, but kept his gaze on the stage. Dinner arrived. He ate quickly. Now the big screwdriver and the three beers really kicked in, both in his head and his bladder, so Claude rose and walked without running to the bathroom. This time he had no difficulty going, with nobody watching, and was well satisfied when he picked his beer from the sink and headed back to the lobby.

At the door to the main hall, though, Claude paused. The empty table seemed a lot farther away than it did a minute ago. When he left, he didn't have to face anyone, but if he returned there'd be no avoiding it. He'd see every smirk and chortle. Moreover, once he sat down again, he'd be stuck there, through dessert, through the speeches and awards. To sit and then leave would be worse than not going back at all. From the edge of the doorway, he scanned the entire room for someone to plop down next to, but Dan Thompson was about the only candidate and his table was already full. He found the stores table, which had two empty seats, but it was smack in front of the stage. As he debated whether to go or not, he saw Gino spot him in the doorway. Gino nudged Elton, and all heads at the table whipped around toward Claude. Felicia covered her mouth as she laughed. Brad leaned back and adjusted his belt, a big grin across his face. Claude stepped out of the doorway, back into the lobby, tilted his beer, and sucked it down. No one else was in the lobby, bartenders included. Claude set the empty bottle on the bar, scooped up two dollar bills someone had left as a tip, and collected his coat from the check girl, handing her the two dollars with a gracious smile.

Outside it was cold.

### Chapter 46

Christmas came and went, and New Year's too, without Joan. To Claude's chagrin, Jamie spent most of winter break with Joan and Connie. She had a date with Peter Greeley New Year's Eve, and came home early enough to squeeze in a game of cribbage with Claude before she ironed, showered, and dressed, but that was the longest single stretch he'd seen her since Christmas. Jamie told Claude she'd be spending New Year's Eve at Connie's, which annoyed Claude, who figured she'd told Joan she'd be sleeping at home so she could spend the night with Peter. That's what he'd have done. But he said nothing.

I guess this is hard for her, he told himself. She's a good kid. I bet she is sleeping at Connie's after all.

On New Year's Eve, Jamie left at 7. Claude drank alone, watched whatever bad comedy he could find on television, and passed out in his recliner at 11:30. The next day, he ate canned spaghetti and watched college football. His one resolution: to drink his vodka with cheap kool-aid instead of expensive orange juice.

After a wet December with frequent snows and melts, a cold snap came in with the new year and stung the area for three weeks, but the cold didn't bother Claude as much as the January darkness. The sun gave people energy. It spurred them to bundle up, shovel the walk, scrape the car, do things. Darkness sapped them. It lulled them into doing little, sitting lots, and watching television. Claude longed for the return of the sun, and cursed 4:00 in the afternoon, when sunny day slipped into freezing, windy night. On the other hand, he didn't fight the night. He did little, sat lots, and watched television.

The day he looked forward to was the 24th of January, a Thursday Jamie promised to spend with him. She'd finish her last final exam by 4:30—in a fanciful attempt to appear academic, West adopted the prep school calendar of semesters ending in January—and said she needed a night to veg, to sit and play cards and just relax. But Claude noticed she didn't say it with her usual smile. Instead, she moaned it. Even so, Claude was so happy to spend an evening with his daughter that he tidied up the family room and for the whole day left the vodka out of his vodka and kool-aid. He vacuumed. He chipped the ice from the base of the ladder and put the aluminum thirty-footer back in the garage. He pulled back the cover of the boat to make sure no snow had snuck inside and no ice had formed on the floor or seats. When he returned to the family room, he cleared everything off the card table except the cribbage board and the cards. The phone rang, but Claude didn't answer it, figuring it was a telemarketer. He almost picked it up when he heard it was a woman asking for Jamie, but since didn't recognize the voice or the name, he let it be. As the sun started to dip toward the trees, Claude clicked off the television and put a compact disc into the stereo. Although he started with his own music, he went up to Jamie's room to grab two of her favorite CDs, so when she sat down to play cribbage she'd see them on the table and would know he was thinking of her.

When he heard Jamie come through the front door, Claude rushed to the living room to escort her to the card table. She muttered that she'd like to remove her coat, so Claude held the collar as she slipped out of it. While Jamie continued to the couch, Claude hung the coat on the doorknob of the hall closet.

"Are you all right, Princess? You look tired."

"I am. I studied until one last night. Plus I'm crampy. Plus I bombed my last final."

"Well, I bet a night with Claude Amognes will be just the tonic to put the dander back in your diapers."

Jamie forced a smile, and sat up. She set her elbows on her thighs and hunched over to rest her chin on the base of her palms.

"Maybe it will," she said. "Let me get some caffeine in me, and then we'll play."

"Stay where you are," Claude said. "I'll get you a soda. Diet or regular?"

"Regular."

"Some Chinese lady called you today. I didn't catch what she wanted, but it's there on the machine."

Claude went to the fridge and grabbed two cans of soda. When he returned, Jamie was standing, holding a pad and pencil while the end of the message played. After it beeped off, Jamie wheeled around and thrust both her thumbs near her father's face.

"Wow, thirty seconds ago you were dragging around like a lizard through the morning frost," Claude said. "Now you look like you're gonna do cartwheels out the front door."

"I know," Jamie said. "It was Evelyn Tagaki. She wants to talk to me about a job that will be part-time now and full-time once I graduate."

"Who's Evelyn Tagaki?"

"My boss at the Dixwell Center. And she's Japanese-American, not Chinese-American."

Claude shrugged. "You ready to play?"

"Just let me call her first."

Jamie went to the kitchen. Claude sat at the card table and cracked open his soda. As he shuffled the cards, _Rubber Soul_ finished in the stereo. Claude took the disc from the tray and replaced it with _Fush Yu Mang_. Of all the music Jamie owned, Claude liked Smashmouth best.

As the last notes of "Walking on the Sun" faded, Jamie bounced into the room, hopping a circle around the recliner and the card table, waving her arms and pumping an occasional fist.

"Great news," she said. "I took the job. It starts in February, four days a week after school. I can pick which four days I want. When I graduate, I become an assistant job coach. And get this: they pay 90% tuition for college, so I can start night school in the fall. Isn't it awesome? It's a dream come true."

She tapped a button on the stereo and "Walking on the Sun" played again. She closed her eyes and danced, moving not to the beat but to every other beat in controlled, flowing motions, as if she were a tall piece of sea grass responding to multiple currents on the ocean floor. When the song ended, she sat at the table and motioned for Claude to give her the cards.

"So. Are you excited for me?"

"Sure, Princess," Claude said. "But aren't you forgetting something?"

"What?"

"Softball. You can't work and play softball too. Couldn't you play softball in the spring and take the full-time job in the summer?"

"I didn't ask," Jamie said. "But screw softball. I'd rather work."

Claude leaned over to the stereo and hit the stop button. "I can't believe what I'm hearing. You made the varsity last year. This year, it's your turn to be a starter."

"So?"

"So call the woman back and tell her you'll start in June."

Jamie put the deck of cards down. "No way, daddy. Softball isn't that important to me."

"Well it is to me," Claude said. "I can't sit in the bleachers and watch you work at the Dixwell Center."

"Oh so this is about you."

"No, Princess, no. It's about you. Why be so eager to start working? You've got your whole life to work. If you don't play softball, you may regret it for the rest of your life."

Jamie leaned forward and put her hands on her thighs, with the thumbs pointing toward her hips. She shook her head twice and winced.

"Regret it for the rest of my life? As opposed to a chance for a college education? As opposed to starting a real career when everyone else in my class will be flipping hamburgers or working at the mall? Look, when it comes to advice about work, you're not exactly on the A list of people to consult."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Claude said. "I'm still your father, and that puts me on the A list of advisors. About everything. Work included."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, daddy, but you are faking a disability so you don't have to work, are you not? For crying out loud, I had clients at Dixwell who wanted to work more than you do, people with I.Q.s in the fifties, people who were blind, people in wheelchairs who were so shriveled up they could hardly talk, but they didn't bitch and moan all day about work like you did. They wanted to work! I'm talking about people who are certifiably disabled, not chicken-poop make-believe disabled like you, and they'd do anything you asked them, all day long, for half the minimum wage, and if you were kind enough to pat them on the back and thank them for doing a good job, my word, they'd stick labels or sort screws like there was no tomorrow. And you who has ten times the ability of any one of them goofs off and gets in trouble and pretends to have a fear of insects so he can sit home and do nothing. Please, don't tell me about work, because I'm not interested in hearing it."

Claude swiped the cribbage board off the table and leaned forward to put an index finger near his daughter's face. "Now you listen here," he said. "What I do at work is my own business. I didn't ask them to offer me early retirement, they just did it, and I only did what was smart to do. When my father said something, I didn't argue, I listened, and I did what he said, and now that I'm the father, the same rules apply. This is still my castle, and I'm still king. I put food on the table. I put cars in the garage and keep a roof over your head. I buy you clothes and toys and CDs and jewelry and anything else you want, and don't you ever forget it."

"Oh yeah? Since when? Mom pays the bills. Mom gives us food money. You're king of nothing. You're not even king of yourself. All you do is watch t.v. and get drunk, like that fabulous father of yours, the one who never did anything wrong, Mr. Perfect, the one who ignored you so he could play politics with his union buddies, the one who embarrassed Grammy every stinking day, yelling at whoever happened to be in the room whether it was me or you or mom or one of Grammy's friends, hollering whether he had a reason to or not. Great freaking shoes to follow in, great freaking shoes."

Claude slapped his palms to the table and stood. "Don't you ever talk about your grandfather like that. He clawed and scratched to get to the top and was the best union president Rhode Island Electric ever had. Guys could count on him. He didn't leave people high and dry like the bastards running the union do today. He was loyal, and you could count on him, and he was a great man. Don't you ever say he was anything but a great man. Ever."

Jamie put her own palms to the table and thrust her face into Claude's. "He was a bum! Do you hear me? A drunken, obnoxious bum, and you are following in his footsteps, because you're a goddamn drunken bum too. Your wife doesn't live with you —do you understand that?—your wife does not live in the same house with you, and yet you won't call her to make up, even though all she ever wanted is for you to be nice to her, to show her you cared about her in the teeniest way, and you can't even do that, not even a little, never mind do it right and show her in a big way, because you don't care about anything but yourself. It's mom's fault. It's the boss's fault. It's the union's fault. It's never your fault. It's never your fault! You're the perfect worker. The perfect father. The perfect provider for the perfect family. Well, I've got news for you: from now on, the perfect family includes you and you alone. I'm going to Aunt Connie's and I'm not coming back. Good-bye."

She ran from the room. Claude started after her, but caught himself. He slammed the recliner with his fist, then sat down and looked away from the door. Behind him he heard Jamie, in the kitchen, trying to explain to Connie through her sobs, trying to spit out a request to have Joan come get her as soon as Joan returned from work. From there Claude heard Jamie run up the stairs and slam her bedroom door. Since her bedroom was directly above him, he heard her scuffling around as she packed what she'd be taking. When the scuffling stopped, he heard Jamie's sobs. They wafted through the closed door, down the stairs, through the living room and hall, and into the family room, and were well muffled by the time they reached Claude's ear. Still, he heard them, the loudest portions anyway.

Within an hour, Claude heard a car pull into the driveway and honk. He heard Jamie walk slowly down the stairs, and heard the thump-thump-thump of whatever she dragged behind her. He heard the front door open, but for the click of the latch he didn't hear it close. He heard the sound of a car backing slowly into the street. He heard the louder sound of a car driving away.

Claude turned off the lights in the house. After he slipped out of his shoes, he lifted the covers of his unmade bed and laid beneath them. He slid his left hand beneath his pillow, and pressed his forehead into the crook of elbow, massaging the elbow twice to remove a wrinkle in the sleeve of his sweatshirt. For six hours he kept his forehead against his elbow. The next thing he knew, it was light in the room; during his sleep he had rolled to his other side, but still his forehead pressed his elbow. His pantleg had twisted around, but he didn't adjust it.

At two o'clock in the afternoon, Claude climbed from the bed, showered, and dressed in clean clothes.

### Chapter 47

By three o'clock that day, some bounce had returned to Claude's step. He climbed into the truck, stopped at the drive-through of the burger joint, and ate his first meal in almost a full day. Three blocks from Rhode Island Electric, Claude stopped again, for a cup of coffee he barely sipped. It will work, he told himself, it will work. He had an opening he liked. He had a rationale that seemed sensible. He had a good speech if things became rocky.

He worried a group of union guys would be hanging around the UUW office, so he was relieved to see Jim Shepard sitting alone, jotting something onto a notepad. He tapped his knuckles on the open door and dropped his voice to an exaggerated baritone.

"Excuse me, sir," Claude said.

"Mr. Amognes," Shepard said. "Well top of the morning to you. Come in, please, come in. What brings you here this freezing winter day?"

"Just want to know if you have a second. Can I sit down?"

Shepard rolled a chair toward Claude and swung his own chair away from the desk. He grinned, like a ten-year-old stepping onto a roller coaster after a long wait in line, but Claude didn't notice, immersed, as he was, in final rehearsal of his opening statement.

"I just want you to know, Jim," Claude said, "that I've been working through my fears. I, um, think I've begun to have some success, that is, I've made very good progress, and in fact, I've turned some important corners, yessir, some important corners, and, well sir, I feel as though I'm cured—or at least ninety-nine percent cured—and I feel great about it, yessir, just great."

Shepard smiled and maintained eye contact, but didn't speak. Claude noticed himself wringing his hands and broke them quickly, but then thought the action too unnatural and buried them beneath his thighs.

"I, uh, you know, fishing helped," Claude continued. "It did. I tied flies, and gradually got comfortable, then moved on to real bugs. I was surprised how well I did. Then I figured, what the heck, I'm going to lick this entire problem here and now. And I did. I dug in my heels, and now I'm cured."

Again Claude stopped, hoping Shepard would jump in. Although the smile lessened some, Shepard remained silent.

"So what do you think?" Claude said when the silence became awkward. "How soon can I get back into the stores department?"

"Not going to happen."

"Why not?"

"Because you signed a piece of paper saying you'd never return."

"It's just a piece of paper," Claude said. "We signed it when I was disabled, and I'm better now. If I can work, I should work here, not at some hardware store or shoe factory."

"You might as well try the hardware store or shoe factory," Shepard said, "because you can't work here."

Now Claude said nothing. He leaned forward and put an elbow on his knee and a hand on his hip. He looked to the corner of the office. The lips above his teeth tightened.

"Dammit, Jim," he said, "when is this union ever going to work for me? Why does it always work against its own members, time after time? You know it wasn't like this when my father ran things. Back then the union took care of its own. Back then being in a union meant something."

Shepard clasped his fingers together and set them atop his head, his elbows pointed out, his snug polo shirt showing the flabby contours of his belly.

"My father was loyal to his members," Claude continued. "He was the best fighter this union ever had. You could be the same kind of fighter, Jim. You could sit down at the table and show the brass who's in charge here, and believe me, everyone will be behind you, from the line shed all the way to the national office. I know you can get me back if you want to."

"Well thank you, Claude," Shepard said softly. "You know, in many ways your father was indeed a master. He certainly knew how to get the bombast to work in his favor—no one will ever match him in that regard. And for the most part he understood power and politics. He knew when to squeeze, and he knew when to let the people in his clutches have a breath. He knew his limits."

"He was the best," Claude said.

"Except once," Shepard said. "He went against his better judgement one time, when he went out on a limb for you. Although I don't really know, I suspect Jackie understood what he was up against that time, understood there was a good chance the limb would break and he'd come a-tumbling down. Oh he'd never admit it, because people will only follow you if they see conviction in your every movement, but he was no dummy. He had to see it.

"And that's what separates him from you. You don't see anything as it really is. That agreement you signed has nothing to do with any disability—you don't even have a goddamn disability, and never did, and everyone knows it. It was bullshit from the word go, but you know what? It was convenient. In the end, it was convenient, a convenient way to get rid of a problem employee, an indolent fuckup who didn't work hard, sassed off to everyone, and thought whatever passed his lips was the uncontestable truth, no matter how ridiculous, no matter how out and out stupid."

"Watch it, pal," Claude said. "You're treading on a lawsuit."

"Shut up Bugsy," Shepard said. "What kind of idiot do you think I am? You think you can walk in here after all this time off, with benefits and a big bonus, and get your job back? No fuss, no muss? Well I'm not fucking insane. You spent twenty years giving this union a bad name, and now that you're gone nobody wants you back—and don't confuse that with my ability to get you back. Sure, I could get you back. If you were Junior, you'd be back already, because I'd crawl to Munson on my knees and lick his damn bootsoles to get Junior back, because Junior busts his black ass for this company. He cares about his job, he cares about everyone he works with, union or management, and he's earned my respect, and that's why I'd put my career on the line to save Junior. But put myself on the line to save you? Hell no. Shit, I'd be as embarrassed to suggest it to management as you should be to suggest it to me. You're a laughingstock, and you're never going to work at Rhode Island Electric again. And you know the best thing? You'll spend the rest of your life blaming me or Schulke or Clarke or MacGibbon, when the person who's really to blame is you, Claude Amognes. Now get the hell out of my office."

Claude rose from the chair and stormed out the door. Shepard beamed. He folded his arms on his chest for a moment, then lifted his feet and spun his chair in a complete circle, head back, fists to the ceiling.

"I love being union president," he called to the empty room.

#

Claude returned home. After brooding in the family room for the rest of the afternoon, Claude counted the bills in his wallet and headed for the Dub. At the bar sat two joes from the neighborhood. At the back table sat three linemen from Rhode Island Electric: Jeff Ostrom, Desi Curtis, and Chuckie "Bubba" Nason. Claude took a seat at the bar.

"Howdy stranger," Maury said as he placed a coaster in front of Claude. "I hear you're home with a disability now. What's the matter, doctor cut beer from your diet?"

"Nope," Claude said. "Gimme an Old Dawkins on draft and a shot of Wild Turkey."

Claude fired down the shot, and the beer almost as fast. He ordered another of each.

"Now that's the Bugsy we all know and love," Maury said. "So what have you been up to?"

"Not much."

"Done any fishing?"

"Not really."

"Well that's not like you. You're usually pulling 'em out of the lake one after the other. You mean to say you've had all this free time and haven't even taken the rod from the garage?"

"A little."

Maury set the new beer onto a coaster and the new shot on the bar. Claude drained the Wild Turkey, following it with a long swig of beer.

Maury started to talk about an ice fishing excursion he and some friends made the previous weekend, but Claude didn't react. Maury waved a palm past Claude's face.

"Sorry Maury. What was that again?"

"That's okay, buddy," Maury said. "I can see you're not in the mood for conversation. Let me know when you're ready for another."

"I will."

Claude drank quietly and stared at the television. A half hour later, Jeff set two empty pitchers on the bar and asked Maury for refills.

"Hey, Bugsy," Jeff said. "How's it going?"

"What's it to you?" Claude said.

Jeff recoiled slightly. "Say what?"

"If it wasn't for pricks like you I'd still be at the company. You had no right to run to Schulke like a schoolgirl and shove it up my ass because someone else screwed up and put 477s on the wrong shelf. If you were half a man instead of a dink, my daughter'd still be living at home now."

"Fucking Bugsy, that was a fucking year ago."

"Piss off."

Jeff collected the pitchers and paid Maury, but kept an eye on Claude as he turned toward the back table. Claude sipped his beer and looked at the television.

Fifteen minutes later, Desi slid onto the barstool next to Claude. "Hey man, I don't know what you said to Jeff, but he's steaming. You'd better watch yourself."

"Fuck him," Claude said.

"I'm just telling you. Jeff's had a few tonight."

"If he's got a problem, I'm right here. He can submit his grievance in person."

Desi returned to the table, and not long after he sat down the three men erupted in laughter. Jeff began making loud bird calls and animal noises, with Bubba echoing each sound and Desi howling with laughter.

"Chickies," Jeff sang, "chickies for Jeffy. Who has chickie babies for me-too-dee-too tonight?"

He downed his beer and turned toward Claude. "Hey Bugsy," he said in a loud voice. "Daughter left home, eh? Too bad. I bet she has a nice tight pussy. Why don't you bring her over so I can bang her a couple of times. Whaddya say, for old times sake?"

Claude fixed his stare on the television and drank from his mug.

"Is she a fuckup like her poppa?" Jeff said. "Does she know where to put a thick, ten-inch piece of wire, 'cause I've got some thick wire and I'll be happy to show her where it goes."

Maury drew a finger across his throat to tell Jeff to stop. Claude put the mug down and smacked his lips, but refrained from looking Jeff's way.

"Leave him alone," Desi said.

"You're right," Jeff said. "Poor guy. Scared of spiders. Pig for a wife. Whore for a daughter. Hey Bugsy, maybe if you send your daughter around the office on her knees, Shepard will put in a good word for you with Clarke and Munson. You know, you get your job back, and she gets a tummyful of brotherly love."

Claude picked up his mug and fired it at Jeff. He missed, and the glass shattered against the back wall. Everything went quiet. Claude charged Jeff and landed a left on Jeff's cheek and a hard right to his chest as Jeff struggled to free his legs from beneath the table. Jeff grabbed Claude's throat with both hands as he took Claude's punches to the face, and in Bubba's haste to get between Jeff and Claude Bubba sent a full pitcher of beer crashing to the floor. At last Jeff gained his balance, freed his right hand, and whaled Claude on the side of the head. Claude shielded himself from the pummeling by tucking his head under his own left arm as best he could, and rained rights at Jeff's eye, but the bigger, younger Jeff used leverage to gain the best punching position and pounded Claude with vicious shots to the nose before Desi, Bubba, and Maury pulled the two men apart.

Blood poured from Claude's nose. Already his eyes puffed up and began turning color. Maury sat him on a barstool and went to get a towel and some ice. Claude stared at Jeff, but Jeff stood with his back to the bar as he straightened himself out and assessed the damage. He felt sore around the eyes but didn't seem to be bleeding, and although his right hand trembled he could make a fist and open it without pain, so all in all Jeff concluded he'd emerged from the fray in better shape than Claude. With a flick of the head, Jeff signaled for Bubba and Desi to leave with him.

Bubba led the way, and Desi held Jeff by the arm as the two left the table area. Jeff refused to look at Claude and Claude refused to look anywhere but at Jeff as they passed. When Desi and Jeff were two steps beyond him, Claude picked an empty mug from the bar and slammed it into the back of Jeff's head.

The mug exploded, and Jeff hit the floor. Blood formed a puddle before anyone moved. Maury dialed 911 and screamed for Claude to get to the back of the bar, and after hanging up the phone rushed to Jeff with more towels to press against the cut. Claude, still holding the handle of the broken mug, moved slowly to a back table and sat down. The two neighborhood joes sat wordless and watched. Before long, an ambulance arrived, and the emergency medical technicians applied temporary stitches, controlled the bleeding, and loaded Jeff into the vehicle. Bubba climbed in to accompany Jeff to the hospital. Desi turned and walked toward Claude, who bristled at the approach.

"Don't want trouble," Desi said. "Just making sure you stay put until the cops get here."

The ambulance siren went on and the remaining Dub patrons listened to the pitch change as the vehicle moved through the city toward the nearest hospital. Two police officers, one tall and one short, descended the steps. Maury walked over to them and explained. The tall one jotted notes into a pad while the other nodded and cast an occasional glance toward Claude.

The tall officer finished his notes, flipped the book closed, and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. Both he and his partner walked toward Claude. When they reached him, the tall officer took the mug handle and read Claude his rights. The short officer stepped behind Claude, handcuffed him, frisked him, and led him toward the door.

"Hey," Maury called. "He owes me for two beers and two shots."

The tall officer pulled Claude's wallet from his back pocket, gave Maury a twenty, and waited while Maury made change.

"What do you want to leave for a tip?" the officer said.

Claude didn't respond.

"I'm serious," the officer said. "What do you want to leave for a tip?"

"Two's enough," Claude said.

#

At the police station the officers allowed Claude to clean up before they put him in a holding cell by himself. After forty-five minutes, a sergeant came to the cell. Claude lay on a cot with his face to the wall.

"Hey pal. You want to call anyone?"

Claude said nothing. Even when the sergeant entered the cell, Claude continued to face the wall.

"Belting a guy when his back is turned, eh? Pretty low, Mr. Amogg-knees, pretty low. But nothing I haven't seen before. You'll get drunk and disorderly and simple assault, but I doubt the charges will get more serious than that. Bail will likely be $150. When you're ready to make your phone call, let us know."

Claude spent the night on the cot.

#

At six the next morning Claude called Frank, who came down before work with the bail money. Claude asked Frank to swing by an ATM so he could use his credit card to get the $150, but by then it was 6:45 and Frank needed to get to work to punch in. Claude gave Frank the $34 in his wallet and followed him to his car to get a ride back to the truck. Along the way, Frank heard Claude's version of the story. As he listened, Frank decided to keep the tale to himself once he reached Rhode Island Electric. Desi and Bubba would spread the word at the line shed this morning, and by noon half the UUW would be cursing Claude Amognes. Frank did not want any part, however small, in the story as it made its way around the compound. He pulled into the lot next to Pablo's XXX Video, stopped beside Claude's truck, and shifted into park.

"You don't look too good," Frank said.

"Don't feel so good, either," Claude said softly. "Hey, thanks for coming to get me. I'll get you the rest of the money tonight."

"No rush, buddy."

"Frank, I need a damn job. You were right. You told me everything your kids have is because of the crane, and you were dead on. No crane, no nothing. But I can see now the crane isn't just for the kids. It does a lot for you too."

"Yes it does."

"I've had enough of being broke, bored, and lonely. I'm sick of my chair, and sick of t.v. I may not become president of a company or president of a union, but I can be good at something, and I don't give a shit whether it's union or not as long as it pays a little and is something my family can be proud of. If it ain't union work, I'll probably be a whole lot happier. One less rope around my neck looking to hang me. And you, Frank, when it gets warm again we're going fishing, once a month, no less than that, and to ballgames, and once in a while to a movie with the wives. I mean it, Frank, once a month, at least."

A smile formed slowly on Frank's lips. "You call any time, Claude. I'm always ready. Go get your own crane, but Jesus, go to a hospital first, because your face is a mess. I'm glad to hear the way you're talking, and I want you to know I think everything's gonna work out fine. You're still a young guy. You got a lot of life to live, and I'm glad you've decided you're gonna live it right. Good for you. If you say giving me the money tonight is the right thing to do, okay, then I'll make sure I'm up til midnight so you can give it to me, so the first thing you set out to do gets done right. A hundred percent right."

For a moment the two men looked at each other but didn't speak. At last Frank slapped Claude atop the shoulder, and gave him a pair of shakes as they both smiled.

"I gotta get off to the crane," Frank said. "I'll see you tonight and we can talk some more."

Claude got out of the car and Frank drove away. As he slipped behind the wheel of the truck, Claude weighed calling Joan. When he saw himself in the mirror, however, he had second thoughts. His eyes were little slits, with dark purple bulges beneath them. His nose was crooked. When he tilted back his head he saw dried blood on the rims of his nostrils, and when he tilted it upright again he saw pink welts on his cheeks and forehead.

He backed into the street and shifted into gear. At the end of the street he stopped at a convenience store, where he used his credit card to buy three newspapers, a red pen, a cup of coffee, and a box of donuts.

As the young woman behind the counter waited for approval of the purchase, she put as much distance as possible between herself and the swollen-faced man using a credit card for a $6.77 purchase. When she slid the slip to Claude for him to sign, a hint of smile formed on his lips.

"You hiring?" he said.

### Chapter 48

Claude drove to Home & Yard. He noticed the sun hadn't risen high enough to melt the frost from the windshields of the two other cars in the parking lot and kept the truck running for the heater. Once he'd finished the first donut, he opened the window a crack, pushed the heater up a notch to compensate for the cold air coming in, and lit a cigarette. He had such trouble breathing through his nose, though, that he couldn't enjoy a casual smoke with his coffee like he did most mornings. Before he'd smoked a quarter of the cigarette, he snuffed it out—carefully, so he could someday finish it—and set the remainder of the edge of the ash tray beneath the radio.

By eight o'clock he'd been there 45 minutes and only five other cars had pulled in, but in the next five minutes the flow picked up, so he put down the third sports page and watched for Joan. At twenty past, she drove into the lot and parked on the opposite end. Claude turned off the ignition. As he stepped down from the cab, he slipped on the ice and nearly fell, so instead of running he scurried as fast as small steps would take him. It wasn't fast enough, because Joan was about to reach for the front door.

"Joan!" Claude called. "Wait! Joan!"

Joan turned, but kept her hand on the front door. When she saw the person rushing toward her, she squinted into the reddish sun.

"Claude? Is that you? Oh my, what happened to your face?"

"Little scuffle. Listen..."

"No," Joan said, "I'm not listening. I have no interest in getting you out of whatever trouble you're in. You're on your own. You got into it, you get yourself out of it."

"No, no," Claude said. "It's not that. It's about a job."

"A job? What about a job?"

"I'm getting one."

Joan's inner voice told her to get to work. But since she wasn't quite grasping the connection between her husband's presence in the Home & Yard parking lot on a freezing morning, his battered face, and his interest in talking about employment at this particular moment, she simply stood there holding the door. Only when another employee squeezed by did Joan break her stare.

"What job are you getting?"

"I don't know, but I'm getting one. Isn't it great?"

"I guess."

"Well, then, could you ask Jamie if she'd proofread my cover letters?"

Joan let go of the door and put a mittened hand to her forehead. "You're telling me you got out of bed at 7:30 on an ice-cold morning after everything that's happened to come here and ask me to ask Jamie to read cover letters?"

Claude tilted his head to the right, held it a second, and straightened it again. "Close enough," he said. "Ask her, will you? And let me know what she says, one way or the other."

Joan reached again for the door. "I have to get to work. Someday I'll want an explanation for all this."

"Ask her?"

"Oh all right."

Claude reached out and pecked Joan's cheek before she knew it was coming.

"Great," he said. "Talk to you soon."

#

Claude drove home, but within an hour one eye closed completely and the inner thump from his nose started to bother him. He cracked a dozen ice cubes from a blue plastic tray into a sandwich bag, went to the recliner, and set the bag so part of it rested on the bridge of his nose and part rested on his swollen-shut eye. It didn't seem to help. Plus, it was uncomfortable. With his head tilted way back, he couldn't breathe well. With his head in a more forward position, the ice slid off. At last he sprung from the recliner, slung his coat over his shoulder, and drove to the walk-in clinic up the street.

At the registration desk, Claude told his story, showed his health care card, and filled out half a dozen forms. When the check-in nurse asked him to take a seat in the waiting room, Claude was happy, because things were moving much faster than he'd expected. Maybe he'd be in and out.

Two hours later, he hadn't talked to a soul. He'd watched morning talk shows and held the ice bag to his face. Claude asked the check-in nurse how much longer it would be, and she told him just a few more minutes. A half-hour later he asked again, and received the same smiling lie in reply. He went to the car, grabbed the newspapers and the red pen, and returned to the waiting room.

Over the next half hour, he circled and crossed his way through seventeen pages of want ads. The airport needed fuelers and aircraft cleaners. Bartender sounded interesting; he could learn to mix drinks easy enough. Cleaning, no, construction, no, dump truck diver, no—make that a maybe. Education, engineers, environmental, all no. Factory maybe, but not at $8.50 an hour. Gutter installer, yes. Human resources? Couldn't be that hard; circle it. Inside sales, no problem. Plastics manufacturers looking for shift supervisors and blowmold operators. Hmmm, shift supervisor yes, blowmold operator, no, don't like the sound of it.

At one o'clock he was taken to an examination room, but the pace didn't quicken much. A nurse took his vitals, and after she left a doctor came in to prod, push, and pinch various segments of Claude's face and listen to him try to breathe.

"My guess is a broken nose," the doctor said. "We'll get an x-ray to be sure, but I think it'll show I'm right. Go back to the waiting room, and I'll have the x-ray technician come to get you."

"How long will that be?"

"Just a few minutes," the doctor said with a smile.

When x-rays verified the diagnosis, the doctor set the nose. He wrote prescriptions for two types of pills and a plastic nose protector. Claude waited in line at the pharmacy across the street, which had the pills but not the nose protector. He went home, took the pills, and climbed into bed.

#

Joan nearly screwed up her drawer at Home & Yard a dozen times, but the customers caught every error, even the ones in their favor. Because she dreaded the paperwork that came with an unbalanced cash drawer—paperwork with which she was well familiar—Joan pumped a fist when her end-of-the-shift count came out to the penny.

On the whole ride to the beach she barely noticed the traffic around her. What happened to Claude? she wondered. Why no apology? What was he trying to pull with this job stuff?

As Joan turned into driveway she noticed Connie's car was gone. She walked to the window near the corner of the house, reached behind the shutter, and slid the key to the front door from a small nail. After unlocking the door, she trudged back to the shutter to replace the key.

Once inside, she stood and looked at the empty cottage. Everything was where it belonged. No newspaper graced the arm of the couch. No slippers peeked from beneath the end table. No mail rested on the kitchen table. Every pot had its spot.

Joan slid her coat off her shoulders. After a quick glance out the window, she tossed the coat over the back of Connie's easy chair. After a second glance, she smiled, then kicked her shoes up onto the couch. She dropped her purse in front of the door. She reached under her dress, dragged her panty hose over her thighs, and pulled them from her feet.

Quick snack, she thought, then a quick shower.

With her panty hose draped over her shoulders, Joan peered into the depths of the fridge for the right thing to eat. Carrot sticks? Chocolate pudding? Celery? There had been some leftover Chinese food in there last night, still good because it was only two days old, but now she couldn't find it. It wasn't behind the orange juice, or the milk, or any of the cans of diet soda. Joan opened the small door beneath the sink and looked over the rim of the trash can. There they were: a half-full box of vegetable fried rice, a tin of beef and broccoli, and a box with three chicken fingers poking through the top. Joan sighed. She opened the next cabinet and perused the pots and pans. Since she'd come to Connie's, Joan hadn't cooked once.

She returned to the fridge, but as she reached for the carrot sticks, Joan heard a car pull into the yard.

"Oh my," she said.

She scurried to the front door to scoop up her purse, dashed to the couch to grab her shoes, and on her way toward the guest bedroom plucked her coat from the easy chair. Outside a car door closed. Joan scanned the area.

Where are the panty hose? Shit! Where did I toss the damn panty hose?

As she heard the gravel of the walkway krinkle, she caught a glimpse of the panty hose against the front of her dress and hustled behind the bedroom door. She placed the purse on the floor next to the dresser. She set the shoes down side by side in the small closet. She fumbled for a hanger, and didn't immediately find the arm holes of her coat, but by the time the front door opened and closed Joan had hung the coat in the closet and stuffed the panty hose into her purse.

"Joan, dear, are you here?" Connie called.

Joan took her dark green bathrobe from its hook in the closet and laid it over her arm. She slipped her index finger into the string loop of her bag of toiletries—shampoo, toothpaste, deodorant, mouthwash, makeup—and opened the guest room door.

"Just getting ready to take a quick shower," Joan said. "Where's Jamie?"

"Still out on her walk, I guess."

#

Joan closed the bathroom door quietly and leaned against the edge of the shower stall. She looked at the picture of Connie and Lou, which in this room was taken in Mexico and hung near the mirror. In the guest room it was taken in Switzerland and hung near the closet. In the kitchen it was taken right outside on the beach and hung above the sink. In Connie's room, and in the living room, there was no direction one could face without seeing a picture of the Farleys. Although the photos spanned different decades, all the frames were new.

As she gazed into Lou's sunglasses, Joan pictured Claude, passed out on his recliner, wearing a dirty shirt, surrounded by empty beer bottles and potato chip bags. She smiled. She closed her eyes and pictured Claude in other poses, laughing, playing with Jamie, helping her put out Santas. She pictured herself laughing, playing with Jamie, and putting out Santas.

A light tap came from the door. "Joan?" Connie said. "Everything all right? You've been in there almost ten minutes and I haven't heard any water yet."

Joan pulled the door open, and saw right away Connie hadn't expected it. Joan waved Connie in, then turned, walked to the toilet, and sat on the already-down cover. Connie stepped in. The door swung halfway closed.

"You all right?" Connie said.

"How long can I stay here?" Joan said, staring more at the hamper than at Connie.

"My word, you can stay here as long as you like. I love having you here, getting to know you again, and if your sessions aren't getting you where you need to be fast enough, don't fret at all. We've got plenty of time. You're welcome here as long as you like. Jamie too."

"I didn't mean that," Joan said, looking up to Connie's eyes at last. "I meant, 'How long can I stay?' You've been terrific. I think I've learned a lot from our midnight chats. My counselor's been a big help too, because I feel happy. I do. But I can't stay in my sister's bedroom forever, having my daughter sleep on a pull-out couch—not that we aren't grateful for the hospitality, I don't mean it that way—but it's just not right, not when I have my own home, my own pots and pans, my own garden that needs tending, a husband who needs me."

"But doesn't deserve you."

Joan pulled her eyes away from Connie's again, but this time let them wander up instead of down.

"I don't know," Joan said. "My marriage to Claude, it isn't yours to Lou, but it's okay. We ain't people who can't stand the sight of each other."

"Aren't."

"We watch television together, and eat together, and cuddle every now and then, and that doesn't even count all the things we do with Jamie, and boy sometimes the three of us get laughing, but you know, Claude and me, we laugh together when Jamie isn't around too. We do. You've said all along that he isn't the only thing in life, and you're right. I have so much more. It's just, except for Jamie, all of it's back home."

Connie folded her arms. "What about him faking this disability? Are you going to let him get away with it? If you condone this, what's next? Where does it stop? Can you afford to let him sink lower and lower and lower, however he sees fit?"

Joan stood from the toilet. She took in a full chest of air, let her arms flop to her thighs, and breathed out hard. She breathed in and out again, and started to smile.

"Joan?" Connie said. "Did you hear me?"

"That felt great."

"Joan?"

"Of course I heard you. Claude's screwed up before, but he's always known when he had to toe the line, or at least pretend to. He's been living on no money for a while now, but hasn't sold the house or raided Jamie's accounts or robbed any banks. He's tried to call. He's come to see me at work. Maybe he does miss me, and maybe he is sorry. Who knows, maybe he's ready to toe the line."

Joan tossed up her shoulders and held them high for an extra count.

"Or pretend to," Connie said.

"If he admits it and apologizes," Joan said, "we can go on. There's nothing separating us except us—I mean, he just needs to show me he cares, that's all. I've got no interest in divorce, and I feel better than I have in a long time, maybe ever, so I figure, hey, let's get it going. Claude, he doesn't have to be better than he can be, just better than he's been."

### Chapter 49

Early the next afternoon, Claude decided to try to find a pig-snout nose protector. He drove downtown, opening the truck windows to take in the unusually warm air. It was 60 degrees in the heart of winter, almost forty degrees warmer than the day before.

The pharmacy he tried had the snout, but once he'd paid for it he couldn't bring himself to put it on. Instead, he slipped it into his coat pocket and walked down the street to buy a sandwich for lunch. From there, he walked to the city park near the insurance building.

Despite the warm temperature, few people hung around, though five senior citizens sat on benches and gabbed. Claude selected a bench in the sun, opened his drink, and unwrapped his sandwich. Pigeons walked the brick in search of food. Claude devoured the first half of his sub.

Off to his left, a fat woman in a lime green sweatsuit spanked a rubber-booted three-year old with melted chocolate around her mouth. The girl wailed and stomped her feet, but didn't let go of her mother's hand.

"Claude! Claude Amognes. Is that you?"

Claude turned to his right. A man in sunglasses and a dark blue windbreaker waved, and Claude squinted through his swollen eyes to identify him as he approached.

"It is you. My god, what happened to your face?"

"Malcolm. Hey, how are you?"

Claude set his beverage on the pavement and stood to shake hands.

"How's everything going? How are Walt and the guys?"

"Nevermind that. What happened to your face?"

"Little scuffle. Broken nose, but I didn't get the worst of it. I suppose everyone says that, but they really did take the other guy off in an ambulance."

"Good going. How's life at the electric company?"

"Don't know. Don't work there any more."

Malcolm's eyebrows lurched up and he leaned forward, but a slight smile on Claude's lips told Malcolm Claude hadn't been fired. They sat down on the bench.

"Okay, I'm game," Malcolm said. "What happened?"

"I jigged 'em."

"Get out," Malcolm said. "For real?"

"Yup. Fear of bugs. Right after the hurricane. Sixty percent of my pay, vacation paid in advance, a $5,000 bonus for agreeing not to sue."

"Terrific," Malcolm said. "Absolutely terrific. It's great to know you're in complete control, isn't it? To know you have the money you need, the free time to spend with friends, all the things that make life so wonderful. Good show."

"Actually," Claude said, "it hasn't been all shits and giggles. I need to get another job. Sitting home all day ain't agreeing with me. God, I need another job."

Malcolm moved to respond, but Claude cut him off.

"How about you?" Claude said. "Keeping busy? Any weddings on the horizon?"

Malcolm smiled. "No, no, having too much fun. I'm dating two women. One I take to the theater, dinner, museums, all that. The other's more into action. We go skiing, snowmobiling, skating. It's been great."

"Do they know about each other?"

"Sure," Malcolm said. "They get along well. We've done lots of things as a threesome."

"I'll bet," Claude said.

Malcolm shook his head. "Not that. I'm lucky though. They're terrific women. I'm having the time of my life. Did you see that Hal died?"

"Hal died?"

"Yeah. Just before Christmas. The death notice was easy to miss. No obituary, no wake, no funeral. Walt tried everything to find a living relative, but in the end, he told the city to do whatever it does when people die alone. We were all he had."

"That's horrible," Claude said.

"Horrible is right. The first night Hal didn't show at the bar, we joked about whether we should check to see if he were still alive. The next night, it wasn't funny any more, but we couldn't bring ourselves to go to his apartment. The third night, we knew we had to. Hal never skipped three straight nights at the Tavern. Bots couldn't take it. He went home. Walt and I went up there and got the owner to let us in, and sure enough, there's Hal, dead in his chair. Liquor bottles everywhere. No curtains. No furniture except a bed, a couch, a chair, and a kitchen table. Clothes just lying in piles around the place. No television, just a tiny radio. And booze. It's no way to die, but only because it was no way to live."

"Poor guy."

Malcolm shrugged. "Shows what happens when you have nothing. Walt couldn't get over Hal's material poverty, but what bothered me was the poverty of his soul. He didn't have end tables and clocks and books and pictures on the walls, but so what? He didn't need any of that crap. He needed the intangible things. Curiosity. Pride. Confidence. Courage. Interest in life and learning. Friends."

As Claude listened, a tomato fell to the ground, but he didn't notice. Claude strained his neck to keep the sun behind Malcolm's head.

"If I had no friends," Malcolm continued, "I'd make some. If I had no money, I'd earn some. If I were sentenced by God Himself to spend the rest of my days alone, I'd still have high standards; I wouldn't let myself down, especially if all I had were me, and I certainly wouldn't drink my life away, because alcohol is no substitute for anything. That's why it's hard to think of Hal: drinking didn't make him happy, but still he did it. He hated his life, but where most people fight, he surrendered. Some might say the world unloaded on a man. I say a man didn't understand the world is there to grab if you only have the motivation, the courage, and the wherewithal to grab it."

Claude nodded. "Too bad."

Malcolm stood up. "Listen," he said, "I've got to run. I'll tell Walt and Bots and Greg you said hello. And hey, I know a guy who owns a carpet-cleaning business and is looking for a crew foreman. He's had one goof-off after another, and he'd really like to stop hiring kids and get someone a little more mature. Whaddya think, do you want his number?"

"Sure," Claude said. "Sure."

"I don't have it on me, so how about I call you tonight to tell you what it is? Are you in the book?"

"Yup. The only Amognes."

"Great. I'll call."

Malcolm laid an arm around Claude's shoulder, shook his hand, and said good-bye.

"Take care of that face," Malcolm called as he crossed the street.

#

Claude returned to the bench to finish his lunch, but took only two bites before leaping up and slamming the last bit of sandwich onto the ground.

"Shit," he yelled. "Shit, shit!"

He scooped the debris from the bench and dropped it in a nearby garbage can. He sprinted from the park, dashed across the street despite the city traffic, and ran four blocks before rounding a corner onto a side street, drawing the wallet from his back pocket as he did. Two buildings later, he buzzed himself into an automatic teller machine and withdrew $160 with his credit card. Although he did not run back to the truck, he scooted in an exaggerated walk.

When he arrived behind the wheel, however, Claude's frantic activity froze. He checked his watch: ten past two. Claude slumped in the seat as he realized panic had clouded his thinking. Frank wouldn't be home from Rhode Island Electric for another two hours.

#

Darkness fell and a nip returned to the air. Bertha Dombrowski answered the door in a white apron with large blue polka dots on it. She greeted Claude with a smile and insisted he come to the kitchen for a cup of coffee and a piece of her famous banana bread. Once she'd cut a thick slice for Claude, smeared it with butter, and poured a cup of coffee from a forty-year-old percolator on the counter, she led him to the living room, where Frank sat in his stocking feet watching a television documentary on the battle of Guadalcanal.

"That's some pig snout you got there," Frank said. "Makes you look like you're pledging a frat or something."

"Can't wait to get it off," Claude said. "Bertha's banana bread isn't the same when you can't smell it."

Bertha smiled and left the room.

"Did Jeff hold court?" Claude said.

"Didn't see him," Frank said. "I went right to the crane and minded my own business. I did see Bubba come in. He couldn't run to Felicia fast enough to tell her. She's never lonely, that girl."

"What did everyone think?"

"I don't really care. You shouldn't neither."

Claude took his eyes away from Frank's. "If you see Jeff, tell him I'm sorry."

"Come again?"

"Don't make a big deal of it, Frank, but let him know I wish I hadn't done what I done. It wasn't right."

Claude nibbled the bread and sipped the coffee. He looked for a place to set the mug down, and Frank waved that it was all right to put it on the coffee table. Claude put the piece of banana bread on top of the cup so he could reach for his wallet.

"Here's the money I owe you," he said, counting the bills to be sure he had the right amount. "Thanks for coming to get me. I really appreciate it."

"No problem, old buddy. No problem at all."

Their attention turned to Guadalcanal. Claude finished his banana bread and coffee. Frank motioned for Claude to leave the empty mug and plate on the table. At the next commercial, they both stood up. Claude held out a hand and Frank grasped it.

"Stay well," Frank said. "If you need someone to put in a good word for you when you go for a job, let me know."

"Thanks. And don't forget about getting together. Sometime soon. No excuses."

#

By the time Claude noticed the blinking red light on the answering machine in the family room, it was already ten o'clock and he wasn't far from calling it a night. Though comfortable in his chair, once he'd seen the message he couldn't ignore it. He crawled off the chair, tapped the play button, and heard Malcolm's voice:

"Hey, Claude, got that number I promised you: 401-334-9892. Ask for Russell. I gave him a call a few minutes ago and told him you worked at the electric company for twenty years, and he seemed interested in meeting you. Anyway, give him a shout, and good luck. Hope you get the job. Take it easy."

### Chapter 50

First Rate Carpet Cleaners shared a small, one-level building with a realtor and a karate school in Johnston, west of the city. First Rate's front door opened to a small reception area with a bright yellow carpet, a small, uncluttered receptionist's desk with no receptionist, and a row of three guest chairs. A sign on the desk welcomed visitors in English, Spanish, and Portuguese.

As Claude sat in the reception area, he fretted about explaining his broken nose. If he told the truth, Russell might think he was some type of drunken troublemaker. If he invented some household mishap, Russell might think he wasn't a safe worker. If he concocted some exotic tale, maybe one that painted him in semi-heroic fashion, he'd better be ready with a ton of backstory, with consistent details, and he just didn't have the energy.

It was warm in the office. Although Claude longed to take off his sweater, he couldn't for the wrinkled shirt beneath it. He felt his armpits becoming clammy, and imagined sweat forming on his forehead.

Before long a shortish Asian man with graying temples appeared in the doorway beyond the desk and smiled at Claude. Claude stood. The man walked across the carpet and extended his hand.

"Claude Amognes?"

"Yes. Most people don't pronounce it right."

"Russell Tagaki. Nice to meet you. Good golly, it's hot in here."

As he led Claude to the back office, Russell veered to the thermostat to turn it down. In the office, he held a chair for Claude to sit in, and then walked around a desk to his own chair.

"I understand from Malcolm you accepted an early out from the electric company, but already want to get back into the work force," Russell said. "That's good. I think I'm like you. I'd go nuts if I had to sit around the house all day."

Claude smiled.

"Let me tell you a little about the company, and the job, and myself, and then you can tell me about yourself. Do you have a resume?"

Claude's chest tightened. "No. I thought I'd write everything on the application."

Now Russell smiled. "No applications. Just as well, I suppose. Whatever we'd write on paper we can discuss just as easily now, can't we?"

Claude forced a chuckle, but sat forward, with his interlocked fingers between his knees and his shoulders stiff.

"We're a small company," Russell said, "but we do good work and have our share of loyal customers. In the last year, though, the more I've listened to my customers, the more they've told me I need to change my way of thinking. Ten years ago when I first started this business, we had customers who wanted us once a week, but nowadays hiring someone just to do carpets is a bit of a luxury. People want more for their money. So, a couple months ago, I made an agreement with Belltech to supply them with a four-person crew—daytime work, not second shift—to handle all their building maintenance issues, from facility repair to bathroom cleaning to snow removal. I'm not going to lie to you, Claude, it's been a rocky start. You know, when you're cleaning carpets at eleven at night and you have a problem with an employee, nobody sees it. If you need to work extra hours because someone up and walks off the job, you stay late and nobody knows the difference. But during the day, that kind of stuff can't happen. Plus, with daytime work you need someone who can work well with the Belltech people, you know, earn their trust. I have some hard workers, Claude, but I don't have that good lead person who can kind of do it all. The two people I tried there just didn't work out."

"Are you still going to clean carpets?" Claude said.

"Oh yes. But I'm going to pay a little more on the day shift to try to make it something for people to aspire to. I could stick with cleaning carpets and be safe for the time being, maybe for the next five years even, but eventually I want to put my emphasis on full service, because I think that's where the future is. I need a good foreman to help me get established."

Russell smiled, and leaned back in his chair. He waited for Claude to speak, but Claude said nothing.

"My foreman will have to coordinate assignments and check to see the work is done well. He'll have to respond to the day-to-day emergencies that pop up with a cool head. He'll have to deal with people from diverse backgrounds. But whoever takes this job will have my support. We'll agree on a list of written expectations by which to measure each other. We'll have regular conversations. I'll let you know what I need and you'll let me know what you need. Do you speak Spanish?"

"No."

"Well then, I'll get someone to teach you the basics. Maybe a few Portuguese phrases too. Most of my guys speak enough English to get by, but if you know a little of their language, it doesn't hurt. It's a small way to show them your respect."

"Are your crews union or non-union?"

"Non-union," Russell said. "If my people ever wanted to unionize, I'd feel I let them down. You shouldn't have to organize to get decent conditions and good pay, it should come with the job to start. That's my philosophy. Is that a problem?"

"Nope. Not at all."

Russell told Claude about his education at Rhode Island College, his wife and two sons, his passion for ice hockey, and his previous career in charitable organizations. When he finished he asked Claude to say a little about himself.

Claude smiled. "Well, there isn't much to talk about. My father was union president at Rhode Island Electric, so right out of high school I went to work there as a meter reader. From meter reading I moved to the stockroom, and all in all I was at the company more than twenty years, twenty good years with mostly good memories. But, like anywhere else, there's politics, and I guess I just got tired of it all. When they offered me a package, I thought I was the luckiest guy on Earth, but I was wrong. Dead wrong. Then when I ran into Malcolm and he mentioned this job, I felt like the luckiest guy again. This time I hope I'm right."

Russell moved forward in his chair and fidgeted. "Claude, I shouldn't ask this, but I've been dying to: what happened to your face?"

Claude's head swayed slightly as an internal debate raged. After ten silent seconds, he sat upright.

"I was wrong there, too," he said. "I had an argument with my daughter Jamie, and I was mad at the world. The wrong guy said the wrong thing at the wrong time, and I clobbered him. Problem was, he clobbered me back."

"Your daughter is Jamie Amognes?"

Claude's upper back stiffened. "You know Jamie?"

"Sure. She works for my wife. My wife has nothing but good to say about her. And she certainly thinks the world of you, too."

"Your wife?"

Russell smiled. "Jamie. Evelyn says Jamie talks about you all the time. You seem to mean a lot to her."

Claude searched for a response, but unexpected emotion rattled him for a moment. He looked Russell straight in the eyes. His own eyes started to water.

"She means a lot to me," he said at last.

Russell picked a pen and a pad of paper from his desk and turned in his chair so his back faced Claude. Claude wiped the corners of his puffed-up eyes and with a single strong sniff drew the watery whatever in his nostrils back to the cavity from which it had seeped. Russell turned the chair back toward Claude and handed him the pad. On it, he'd written $17.50.

"That's about $35,000 a year," Russell said. "We've got a pre-tax saving plan. I'll give you three weeks of vacation, plus five personal days to use however you want, for sick days or mental health days or whatever, no questions asked, plus the same holidays as Belltech. We have health care, too, though I admit the premiums are getting to be outrageous."

"I don't need health care," Claude said. "I have it for life from Rhode Island Electric."

"Then what do you say?" Russell said. "Can you start in two weeks?"

Claude started to nod, first a little, then harder. He raised his eyes from the desk to meet Russell's.

"You bet," Claude said. "Thanks."

### Chapter 51

On the last day of her mid-semester break, Jamie took a long walk on the beach. When marsh and rocks interrupted smooth sand, she backtracked until she found a narrow footpath leading through packed-down grass to the main road, an unpainted two-laner that curved along the contours of the ocean. A small convenience store caught her attention, so she crossed the road and walked the quarter mile to it, and once inside bought a cup of hot chocolate from a machine. She took the drink outside, sat on a bench with her back to the wind, and tried to think.

She knew what she wanted, but it seemed silly, since all she wanted was to be able to see what she wanted. She felt mad at her father, yet guilty about storming off on him. She felt glad to be back with her mother, yet sad her mother had left in the first place, and annoyed the months following their reunion would play out in Connie's house. She felt happy about her new job, but worried she couldn't afford an apartment on a social worker's pay, putting her back at the beach under who knows what kind of conditions or back at home under who knows what kind of conditions. The senior prom, graduation, working full time, college—until recently she'd been able to picture it all unfolding. Now, she couldn't see any of it, and that simple failure created something inside her, something she wanted to purge but couldn't. She didn't want the situation as it was. She couldn't change it.

She began to sniffle, and couldn't tell whether the wind or her parents had brought it on.

By the time she'd walked back to the footpath between the road and the beach, her sniffles had stopped. Jamie found her footprints in the sand and made new prints to match, the left shoeprint of the return trip snuggling into the curve of the right shoeprint already there. After a few hundred yards she decided to make closed circle prints. She brought her right foot over the top of her left and set it next to the right footprint in the sand, the heel of one print lining up with the toes of the other. With her legs crossed, she searched for the next print in the sand, then swung her left foot over to match it. After a few steps she started to giggle. After twenty yards, she laughed out loud. Jamie kicked the next footprint into history, scattering sand into the wind and back into her own face. She launched into a pair of cartwheels, then trotted over the next dune before settling into a brisk gait over the cold sand.

As she stuffed her hands deep into her pockets she looked up and saw in the distance a man with a long, thick pole surf-casting into the wind. She thought it odd. Unless he had a boulder on the end of his line, he couldn't possibly cast far enough out to catch anything worth catching. She walked and watched. The man looked to be sixty or so, a lanky guy with a white beard that looked like the end of a toilet brush. Not pretty. But he had a beautiful cast, smooth on the backswing and strong on the stroke. Even so, the wind knocked his line down after it had barely passed the wave point, where ripples in the ocean turned into crashing whitewater, and cast after cast landed in knee-deep, swirling surf. Still, the man tossed his line and reeled it home in an easy, steady rhythm, as if he were playing laconic bass to accompany the drumbeat of the Atlantic.

When she neared the man, Jamie stopped, not close enough to talk casually, but not far enough away where she wasn't in his presence. The man cast again without looking at her. The wind killed his line. He reeled in. He cast again. On the second reel he looked to her.

"Cold, isn't it? And just think how warm it was just a couple days ago."

She smiled. The man cast once more. Jamie thought she should walk on and leave him be, but didn't. On the third reel he looked at her again, only this time he delivered the smile.

"Catch anything?" Jamie said.

"Not in this wind."

Jamie flinched. "Why fish if you know you'll never catch anything? Isn't it kind of pointless?"

"Not at all. People cast about all the time without any tangible result. It doesn't make them stop."

"But if they know they'll never get anything, they will stop."

Once more the man snapped his line toward the ocean. As before he reeled in slowly.

"Will they?" he said. "Maybe the best part of life isn't holding a dead fish by the tail. If you're hungry, you need the catch. I'm not hungry."

He let the arm holding the rod drop below his waist, telling Jamie he wasn't set to cast again. Her eyes darted, and she decided to continue toward Connie's.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," she said.

"No trouble, young miss. No trouble at all."

#

The screen door opened, and the interior door too, but Jamie didn't enter until she'd shaken the sand from the cuffs of her blue jeans and set her shoes beneath the coat pegs on the wall. She hung up her coat and stuffed her mittens in the sleeves. Connie read a magazine at the kitchen table.

"Aunt Connie?" Jamie said. "I want to get my parents in the same room to talk this whole thing over. When mom comes home, will you speak to her with me?"

"No need, dear. Your mother called from work while you were gone. Your father stopped by Home & Yard and convinced her to meet him at your house after work. Should we do a big salad for dinner?"

"Sure. Did mom say why?"

"No. She said his face was a mess. Apparently he was beaten up in some bar. Probably has to go to court in the next few weeks. Needs money for a lawyer if he does. Sounds like same old same old to me."

Jamie went to the fridge and removed a can of ginger ale. "Same old same old. I could handle it."

#

Joan came through the front door quietly, and didn't call for Claude as she removed her coat. The house didn't look bad. She walked to the family room and saw him, asleep in his recliner, wearing the pig-snout protector, struggling to breathe through a wide-open mouth. The puff of his purple eyes reminded her of baby fat, and she smiled as she resisted the urge to press the swelling with her index finger. She surveyed the room more carefully: no clutter. A little dust atop the television, a pair of boots in the corner, but nothing near what she'd expected. Her spot on the couch remained disfigured. Her favorite magazine lay on the end table, right where she'd left it, though it had some kind of circular stain on it.

Joan sat on the arm of the couch. She watched Claude for a minute before nudging him awake, then decided not to nudge him at all. She went to the kitchen, searched the freezer for something to eat, and found amid the frost a package of chicken parts that still looked good enough to eat. She pulled out her pans. She was home.

Claude awoke when Joan used electric beaters to whip potatoes. As he scrambled to the kitchen to investigate, the whir of the beaters stopped and he heard something sizzling on the stove.

"Joan, I fell asleep. I'm so sorry."

Joan turned to him and smiled. "Don't you love the smell of fried chicken?"

"I wish," Claude said. "Right now my smeller's out of action."

"So tell me about this new job."

"Foreman of a cleaning crew. Non-union. But I think my dad would be okay with it."

Joan raised her eyebrows.

"Naw, it's bull," Claude said. "He'd be steamed. That company was everything to him."

Claude sat at his place at the table. Joan turned the stove to low and set the table with plates, glasses, and utensils.

"Maybe that's why I always tried to be such a good union brother," Claude said, "you know, to make him proud by doing my best for the UUW, to get an attaboy from him for walking the walk with the guys. The thing I ask myself, though, is why couldn't he be proud of me anyway? Why did I have to shine in the union to be something to him? Why did the company always come first?"

Joan slipped the chicken onto the plates and dolloped whipped potato next to the chicken. She let Claude's questions hang in the air as she opened the refrigerator door. She scanned the contents for a beer, but didn't see one.

"Pepsi for you?"

"Sounds good. Looks good too. Thank you."

Joan sat in her own place. She took a napkin from the holder on the table and set it on her lap. Claude took a napkin too. Neither began eating.

"This whole disability thing," Claude said, "it isn't what I imagined. It's been so hard, not having the guys to hang around with, not having anyone to joke with, not having nothing to do all day, not having no money. It made me appreciate a lot of the things I had at Rhode Island Electric. But not having you, and not having Jamie, that was a hundred times worse. Work is important, but it should never be more important than family. Until you left, even for a long time after you left, I really didn't get that, but I get it now. I'm so proud of Jamie, and so proud of you, and now I want you to be proud of me too. Really proud. Will you come back?"

Joan put a forkful of potato in her mouth and washed it down with a swig of soda.

"I'm already here," she said.

#

When Jamie saw a pair of headlights run across three walls of Connie's living room, she lept to the window and pulled back the curtain. Two heads. In the Buick she saw two heads. She turned to Connie.

"We're going home," Jamie said. "They wouldn't bring one car if we weren't going home."

Jamie opened the inner door and threw herself into Claude's arms.

"I'm sorry daddy. I didn't mean to yell at you. I'm so sorry."

"No, no, Princess, it's me who's here to apologize to you. I got lots more to be sorry for."

Jamie stepped back. "My god, what happened to your face?"

"Little scrape."

"Is that how you became a criminal?"

"Alleged criminal, princess, alleged."

Joan slid behind Claude and set her purse on the kitchen table. Connie appeared in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, leaning against the frame with her arms folded. She wore an odd smile. For a moment Joan looked at her, waiting for her to speak, but Connie said nothing.

"Your mother's coming home," Claude said. "I came here to ask you to come home too. I should've been more proud of your new job, though I'm not gonna lie to you, I'll miss watching you play softball, and I'm sorry for the way I acted after I wound up being home all day. You are the most important thing in the world to me, you and your mother, and this time I'm going to show you. I got a new job today."

"And not even at the electric company," Joan said. "Not even a union job."

"And guess who my boss is," Claude said. "Russell Tagaki."

"No way!" Jamie said. "You're working for Russell?"

"Yup. Start a week from Monday."

"And starting a week from Monday you're playing Bingo with Joan whenever she goes?" Connie said.

Claude smiled. "Well, let's not get carried away. But we'll find things to do, I'm sure."

Jamie pulled extended index fingers from imaginary holsters and with a flick of her thumbs shot her father in the chest. "Pop the trunk. I'm getting my stuff."

Claude helped Jamie load her things into the car. Upon their return Joan had two armfuls of items for them to bring outside. As they put them in the trunk, Joan put a hand on Connie's shoulder.

"I want to thank you for everything you've done for me," she said. "I know I've been a burden, and now I'm going home where I belong. I'm excited. I think Claude's really seen the light, about the electric company, about Jackie, about himself, even about me."

"You've been no burden," Connie said, "no burden at all. I was happy to get to know you again after all these years."

Tears welled in Joan's eyes, and with her bulky coat still on she reached out to hug her sister.

"Me too," Joan said.

Joan and Connie heard a horn honk, and Joan shrugged as she gave one last wave. She closed the inner door with a thump, and let the screen door slam shut. Connie turned to walk to the window to watch them go, but heard the screen door open again and wheeled around. Claude opened the inner door.

"I didn't want to leave without saying thanks to you too," he said without releasing the knob. "You been a big comfort to Joan, and I know she's glad. If it wasn't for you, I might have lost her forever. You'll come over for supper once in a while, won't you?"

Connie let her folded arms drop and grabbed her wrist behind her back. "Of course I will. Be good to Joan and Jamie."

"I'll try."

### Chapter 52

After a weekend of meals and resettling, the Amognes gathered in the family room like many a previous Monday. Claude and Jamie invited Joan to play cribbage with them, but she said she just wanted to sit back on the couch and veg. The television blared. Claude drank a giant lemonade. Jamie sat in gray sweatpants, her hair tied to a ponytail with a maroon velvet scrunchie. Joan saw the Rhode Island Electric logo appear on the screen, and called for everyone to look. The anchor of the local evening news looked grim.

"Today we open our coverage with breaking news of a tragedy at Rhode Island Electric, where two workers are dead and three are in critical condition after a shelf holding six tons of equipment collapsed on top of them. Newscenter 8's Maureen Kirkness is on the scene."

A thin brunette in a trenchcoat appeared, standing with a microphone about sixty feet in front of the middle bay of the stores department. Several types of lights—yellow, blue, red—twirled behind her. She too looked grave.

"Thank you Jill. Police have said a forklift struck the base of a forty-foot-high shelf at 2:30 this afternoon, sending at least a dozen half-ton transformers crashing onto five people. Hospital officials have confirmed two people are dead, but the names of the victims are being withheld pending notification of immediate family members. Here with me now is Rhode Island Electric spokesperson Grahame Ravitch. Grahame, what can you tell us about today's tragedy?"

"Well, tragedy is the right word, Maureen. These are hard-working people who keep the lights on for all the good citizens of Rhode Island. Our hearts and our prayers go out to the friends and family of everyone involved in this terrible tragedy."

"Police said the shelf collapsed when a forklift rammed into its base. Have you had any difficulty with forklifts before?"

"Our safety record at Rhode Island Electric is outstanding, Maureen, and we're very proud of the great pride all our employees take in safe work operations. Our employees have the finest safety equipment available, and are required to wear such items as helmets and protective eye gear whenever they work in any type of hazardous situation. I'm sure when our investigation is complete we'll find that even though this accident had tragic, tragic results, it might have been worse if not for the company's steadfast commitment to safety."

"So there will be an investigation?"

"Yes there will be," Ravitch said. "We'll demand proof from the shelving company that those shelves were put together correctly, and we'll demand records showing every forklift in our fleet met specifications when it was delivered. And if anything turns up that isn't one hundred percent satisfactory, we will do everything in our power to make sure those who caused this terrible, terrible, tragedy take responsibility for the damage they have inflicted."

"Thank you Grahame. Maureen Kirkness, Newscenter 8, reporting live from Rhode Island Electric headquarters."

The news anchor thanked the reporter, announced the address of a fund set up to help the families of the victims, and segued to the weatherman, who teased the audience about a winter storm making its way toward the area.

Claude flipped through the dials to try to find a channel still talking about the accident. He paced the back of the family room. At his recliner he took a long drag from a giant cup of lemonade. The accident must have been the top story on all the Rhode Island television stations, because the other newscasts were either onto something else or at commercial. Claude snapped his fingers, raced to the phone, and began dialing.

"Come on," he said, "answer already. Answer. Come on—Hello, Bertha? It's Claude. Did you hear about the accident?"

"Yes, Claude, thank you for calling. Frank's all right. He was in the crane when the whole thing happened."

"Did he say who was hurt?"

"They don't think Tom Schulke and Dave Darezzo are going to make it. It's just horrible. I can't believe it. Scotty's on the operating table now. Oh, Marge must be frantic. I started baking as soon as I heard, because Scotty and Marge love my apple pie."

"Who else was involved?"

"John and the new girl."

"Felicia?"

"I don't know her name. My timer's going off and I have to get a pie out of the oven. Shall I have Frank call you when he gets home?"

"Please."

"Okay, I will. Bye Claude."

"Bye Bertha."

#

When the eleven o'clock news came on, all three Amognes parked themselves in front of the television, leaning forward toward the screen. The anchors revealed few new details. Two were confirmed dead, but still no names had been released. The lieutenant governor affirmed the support of everyone in state government for the families of the injured, and called for Rhode Islanders to light candles the following evening at 7 in remembrance of the still-unnamed dead. Both Rhode Island congressmen weighed in live from Washington with their sympathy. Ravitch brushed aside questions about the accident itself to announce that a scholarship fund would be set up in the name of all those injured.

"Can't you call someone?" Joan said.

"I tried Frank. Bertha said he'd call when he got a chance, but I haven't heard from him. And Bertha said Scotty was one of the injured."

"How about someone else? Who are some of your other friends at the company?"

Claude shook his head. "Isn't it sad?"

#

The morning paper revealed the names of the injured: Thomas Schulke and David Darezzo dead, Felicia Lopez, John Carrollton, and Scott Williams seriously injured. A front page photo showed Darezzo's mother crying. In the story, his minister recalled him as a hard-nosed hockey player who went to church regularly.

At 9:30, the phone rang. Claude reached it before the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Claude? It's me, Frank."

"I'm dying here. What's going on? Where you been?"

"I been at the hospital. I been in Clarke's office. I been with Shepard. I been back to the hospital. Scotty's gonna make it. He lost a leg, but he's gonna live. Transformers pinned him backwards with his leg stuck behind him. Most horrible screams you ever heard. Felicia has head and neck injuries and isn't conscious, never was, from when the boxes fell to last night in the hospital. John's got a broken back and may not walk again. Elton's the lucky cocksucker. Goddam prick."

"What happened?"

"Strutterbugging," Frank said. "Fucking showing off for Felicia. Schulke was at some meeting, so Elton and Darezzo talked Felicia into riding a forklift with them. They're whipping around the department in a big circle, one time, two times, three times. Then with the fucker at full tilt, Darezzo decides to cut a right into the aisle heading toward meter reading. I see Schulke, Scotty, and John coming around the corner, so I lean on the horn, but it's too late. Darezzo swerves hard to avoid them and rams into the base of the number six shelf, and the whole thing comes crashing down. The jolt sent Elton flying, and that's the only reason nothing fell on him, but the others took the full brunt. I almost jumped off the fucking crane, honest Claude I almost did. I needed to be down there helping get shit off them, but by the time the crane reached the back wall, the rescue teams had already begun to arrive."

"Who sounded code blue?"

"I don't know. Gino, I guess. Schulke's head was crushed like a grapefruit. That's why they took so long to announce the names, because Winnie was at a conference out west. Darezzo was still twitching when they hauled him off. And you know what? We saw more fucking executives today than we have in the last ten years combined. Said they'd fire the first person that spoke to the press. Told us not to tell the family members anything—can you fucking believe that? Like I'm going to make Marge Williams rely on information from Ravitch, come the fuck on. Then when I get back from the hospital, the entire number six shelf is already removed, and Clarke calls me in and says it's because it was unstable and more people coulda been injured. I said did you take any pictures? He said a thorough investigation is underway. Then he said they were considering filing charges against Elton. I fucking exploded. It's your goddam fault, I said. Safety doesn't mean shit to you and never has. We say it's a problem and you wave us off. Whenever something happens, you cave if the union puts up the slightest fight, so the Ginos of the world think they can do anything they want and not get punished. You created the environment where this could happen, and now you pretend to be shocked? You go on the news ask how could this happen? You wipe your eye to make it look like you're crying and say, oh my god, how on earth is this possible? Fuck you, I said. Fuck you and everyone above you."

For a moment neither Claude nor Frank spoke. Claude clicked a button on the remote and muted the television.

"What did Clarke say?"

"What could he say? He said to go home. He'd talk to me tomorrow. The funerals should be Friday or Saturday. I'll let you know what time."

"Are you sure I should I go?"

"Hell yes. You're part of the company family. And visit Scotty. He's in Room 442 at Providence General. Hey, I gotta go."

### Chapter 53

A red sun cast its pink upon the morning as Claude and Joan trudged up the hill to Darezzo's funeral. The Methodist church to host it was a modest building, white with black trim, with stained glass windows on each side of an arched double doorway that served as the main entrance. The window to the left of the double doorway contained four clear panes, including one where the face of Christ should have been. A crumbling stone-and-cement wall ran the last twenty yards of the hill. A glass-encased marquee read "Welcome loved ones of David Paul Darezzo" in plastic white letters.

Two dozen people milled around the bottom of the stairway leading to the church, most with collars up and backs turned to the wind, now blowing straight in the faces of Claude and Joan. A woman with frizzy hair and thick glasses handed out yellow ribbons.

"Pin these on your lapels," she said. "To support the families."

Joan paused to pin hers on. Claude stuffed his in the front pocket of his coat. He scanned the group of people in front of the church, but only recognized Dan Thompson, who gave a quick, solemn wave. Claude waved back. He took Joan's left hand and led her up the stairs to the church.

Inside the double doorway, the little lobby was stuffed with people. To either side of the main entrance were stairs, presumably leading to balcony seats, but before Claude could move toward one side or the other he saw Frank and Bertha. He tugged Joan through the crowd toward them.

After the Amognes and Dombrowskis exchanged greetings, Frank leaned toward Claude.

"Clarke wants to see me after the funeral," Frank said in a low voice.

"About what?" Claude said.

"Not sure. Maybe he wants to give me my script for the investigation."

Claude smiled. The church had a center section of long pews and two wing sections of short pews. It did have a balcony, which in addition to fifty or so seats also housed a huge pipe organ. Frank led the others to the center of the church and sidestepped to the middle of the pew. Bertha sat next to him, followed by Claude and Joan. None took off their coats. At the front of the church, Claude saw a closed casket next to a table where photographs of Darezzo had been placed. Soft organ music played. He heard Frank say a muted hello, and looked left to see Seamus O'Leary, seated at the far end of the pew, smiling in their direction. When Claude looked away, he noticed Junior and his wife settling in on the right end of the pew. Claude tried to get Junior's attention without speaking, but wasn't able to. Elton and Gino sat in the wing section to Claude's left. Munson, Clarke, Ravitch, Mickleson and Feeney sat in the first pew of the wing section to Claude's right. Already sobbing could be heard from the front of the church. Joan whispered to Claude that she thought there'd be more union people at the funeral. Frank overheard her.

"They made us take vacation days to come," he said.

A minister in white emerged from a doorway behind the coffin and everyone stood. After welcoming the mourners, the minister asked them to sit and read a brief passage from the Gospel of John. He then said it was his privilege to introduce the president of Rhode Island Electric, Harrington Munson, to say a few words about David Darezzo.

Frank leaned across Bertha and called Claude's attention to Elton, who had clutched his coat and was quickly excusing his way past people to leave his pew. It took Claude a moment to see why: one row ahead, Brad, Felicia's boyfriend, knelt on his pew, facing Elton.

"I'm going to kill you," Brad mouthed. "I'm going to kill you."

Elton made it to a pew near the back as Munson made it to the microphone. Munson told a story of three men in the 1890's who were killed installing wires on the very street where this church stood. Those men were heroes, Munson said, because they gave their lives so their neighbors could enjoy the miracle of electricity. Like them, Darezzo was a hero, a good soldier who died in the fight to keep hospitals running, to power the halls where the nation's laws are made, to light runways and ballparks, to enable the communication systems that turned the world from an enormous collection of strange cultures to a single, easy-to-reach community. Four more times Munson called Darezzo a hero. As he closed, he vowed to root out those responsible for taking this fine lad before his time. Once their identity was known, he promised to hold them accountable.

Munson left the pulpit and the minister returned. "Next we're honored to have another close friend of David's speak about him, Mr. James Shepard."

Claude groaned. He leaned forward to speak with Frank.

"Close friend?"

"Bosom buddy," Frank replied.

As the men leaned forward, Joan leaned back and whispered to Bertha. "Did you get to walk up and see the casket?"

"We did," Bertha said. "Your arrangement arrived. It's over toward the right, between one from Dave's hockey team and one from Warren Taylor."

Claude heard the name and turned toward Bertha. "From Warren?"

Bertha shrugged and looked to Frank. Frank shrugged too.

Shepard's theme was management's lack of commitment to safety. Shepard suggested management chose money over safety and had done so for years. He said the union had shouted about safety for years, but those shouts had been ignored, ignored in spirit, ignored in practice, and ignored in the language of the UUW contract. He told Munson a short trip to a mirror and he'd have the person responsible for Darezzo's death. He asked Munson how many more deaths he'd allow, and how many more trips to Aruba Munson planned for his family. He called for the entire management team to be fired, an act he termed "the most positive discipline possible." No sobbing was heard from the front of the church.

The minister thanked Shepard, then drew nervous laughter when he asked if he could say a few words about the deceased. He spoke about Darezzo's love of hockey, his love of his mother, and his service to God and God's children through the church, praised Darezzo's spirit of adventure, and read another verse from the Bible. After a few additional remarks, he thanked everyone for coming and closed the service.

Claude stood, but Frank motioned him to sit down again. Once nearly everyone had left the church, the Dombrowskis and Amognes walked to the coffin, paused a few moments, and left too.

Outside the church Claude pulled out a cigarette.

"Ten o'clock tomorrow?" he said.

"At Saint Mary's," Frank said. "Across town."

"See you then."

#

The next day light snow fell on the two inches that accumulated during the night. Claude and Joan ran a little late, arriving at the church at five minutes to ten. When they opened the doors, they were shocked to see a full house. On the left, though, Frank sat with his eye on them, holding two empty spots with his coat. Without scanning for faces, Claude walked over and sat next to Frank. Joan sat on the end.

"My word," Joan whispered. "I can't believe how many people are here. This place is packed."

"You'll have plenty of room to spread out in a minute," Frank said.

The church was warm, so Claude and Joan removed their coats. Frank leaned to Claude.

"I talked with Clarke yesterday," he said in a hushed voice. "He offered me Schulke's job. Said I was the only person they knew could right the ship."

"Did you take it?" Claude said.

"You bet I did. Squeezed five thousand more from him than he first offered. But that's not all. I also talked to him about you."

Claude flinched. "About me? What did you say?"

"Told him the stunt they pulled to get rid of you was bullshit. Said if I was gonna take over, I needed experienced people at my side. Told him you're a hell of a worker when people treat you with respect, and that I intend to treat you with respect, and then I told him I wanted him to rip up your agreement, to stop paying you your disability benefits but let you keep anything else they gave you, and to bring you back with a clean slate. I said I'd personally vouch for you, if he wanted me to, because I'm sure after what you've been through you'll be a model employee. He said he'd consider it, and had to run it by Shepard, but I think there's a good chance they'll give it the okay. A very good chance."

The organist who'd been playing softly kicked the volume up a notch, and a priest and a deacon walked the center aisle. Everyone stood. The priest and deacon knelt at the altar, performed a silent blessing, and bowed their heads for a moment. The priest turned to the congregation, spread his arms, and welcomed everyone to the celebration of the taking of Thomas Schulke unto the arms of the lord and savior Jesus Christ.

The priest pulled his hands together and held them to his chest. "Please be seated."

Everyone sat. But as the priest began to speak, three-quarters of the congregation rose. The priest's mouth opened at he watched people step into the aisles and march toward the back of the church. Claude looked to Frank. Frank did not look back. With a firmly set jaw, Frank kept his eyes on the priest.

Claude turned to see. Elton and Gino. Bubba Nason. All the guys from underground lines. Men and women from meter reading. The union people in engineering. Five or six guys from the garage. UUW people from telecommunications, customer service, substation maintenance, overhead lines. Shepard held the door as they walked from their pews and left the church.

Claude surveyed the remaining mourners. Win Schulke sobbed, and members of her family and her husband's family dabbed their tears with handkerchiefs. Clarke and Munson mouth-to-eared each other on the opposite side of the church. The management team sat behind Munson and scowled. A group of old women Claude didn't recognize closed their eyes and prayed. At the back corner of the church, Junior and his wife stared at the closed coffin in the center of the altar.

The priest stammered. Frank fixed his gaze ahead. The mass proceeded. Claude and Joan stood when the others stood and shook hands with the people in the vicinity when the time came, but otherwise sat still as the Catholics knelt and recited and recited and knelt and ate the body of Christ and drank His blood.

Claude used the time to think about Schulke. He pictured him standing in his god-awful polyester. He looked over to Win as she fought back sobs. His eyes wandered to Munson, to Mickleson, to Junior. Claude took Joan's hand and smiled at her. She returned the smile.

When the mass ended and everyone stood outside, Joan and Bertha whispered about the union demonstration.

"Shepard's idea," Frank said. "Listen, can you excuse me and Claude for a second?"

The two walked a snow-covered footpath to the snow-covered parking lot.Frank reached into his pocket and took out a roll of mints. He offered one to Claude, but Claude shook his head no.

"Well, buddy, whaddya say?" Frank said with the mint tucked in his cheek. "Will you come back to the company if Clarke and Shepard rip up the agreement and give you a fresh start?"

Claude looked at nothing in particular and took a series of slow, deliberate steps before returning to a normal pace. Frank kept by his side. After another fifty yards, Claude broke into a wide smile.

"What?" Frank said.

"Franko, thanks for doing that for me. You've been a great friend, better than I deserve, probably, and I know you'll do great as head of stores. The last few months I've been thinking how being on disability wasn't really the lucky break I thought it was. For all the bad shit there was in stores, there was a lot of good too, and as much as I like my days off I gotta say that these last months there's a lot I've missed about working."

Claude grabbed Frank's shoulder. The smile beamed brighter than before.

"But I'm gonna have to give you a no, my friend. Now that I'm away from it, I can see Rhode Island Electric for what it is. It had its hooks in me for too long Frank, for too long, and now that I'm free from it I don't want to go back. It may sound weird, but I think being on disability was a lucky break after all, because Rhode Island Electric is one jig I never want to taste again."

### Chapter 54

At sunrise, thick mist hung low to the lake. As Claude paddled through the morning silence, he remembered telling Jamie on a similar Memorial Day years ago that clouds were just like people, that sometimes they hit the snooze button and slept in late instead of getting up and rushing to their work stations in the sky. Just like people.

Little whirlpools spun from his paddle. Claude watched one glide into the mist, then dipped his paddle to the water again and created another. A mourning dove cooed from the nearby shore, and the smell of bacon wafted from a small fire Claude could make out flickering through the fog. At the small island where the lake narrowed, Claude changed from long, effortless strokes and long, quiet glides to plunging strokes that moved the canoe quickly from one shore to the other. With land now on his left, Claude resumed casual paddling along the banks toward the river. When he started to see tall grass, he leaned hard on a paddle and braked the canoe, which turned a lazy circle before Claude brought it to a full halt.

"The short pole's for you," he said. "It's all set up. Just keep your eye on the bobber and don't worry about nothing. The current from the river will make your lure dance just enough. Put your thumb on the button like we practiced, and give it a fling."

Joan raised the rod until it nearly touched the shoulder of her lifejacket and rolled her wrist forward. Her lure arched high in the air and dropped into the water ten yards out.

"How's that?" she said.

"Not bad. Reel in the extra, and you'll be fine."

"If Jamie could see me." Joan stared at the reel as she turned it a click at a time. "What do you think she's doing right now?"

"Filling in on someone's paper route, probably."

Claude drew his own rod behind his head and cast. His reel whirred for a count of six. As a muted plop emerged from the fog, the line sagged into the water. He turned two revolutions of the reel to pull it up. From his shirt pocket, Claude extracted a pack of cigarettes. He tapped the pack on the base of the rod until a cigarette poked through the hole, nudged his index finger against it, then tapped the pack until a second cigarette emerged. With his mouth he grasped both cigarettes and pulled them free of the package. He reached beneath his seat for the open tackle box and ran his hand along the edge to find the back corner, where he kept a loose pile of wooden, waterproof matches. With a match in hand he sat up straight, struck the match on the base of the rod, and lit both cigarettes.

Without setting down the pole, he stood to a crouch and carefully stepped over the wooden support strut at his end of the canoe. The craft wobbled. Once Claude had set himself down on the lifejacket he'd opted not to wear, he slid the flotation device cushion from the caning of the canoe's back seat and put it on top of the thin puddle of water that rolled to and fro with the movement of the boat. He held out a hand to Joan.

Joan's step over the wooden strut wasn't as smooth as Claude's, but Claude held her firm and she maintained her balance. Once she plopped herself onto the cushion, he handed her one of the cigarettes. They both inhaled, and both blew a stream of smoke at the same time. Joan looked at Claude. He was chuckling.

"What?" Joan said as she smiled.

"I'm a janitor," Claude said.

"So?"

"A non-union janitor."

"I know."

Claude took a long drag from his cigarette and blew smoke out the side of his mouth. "I always thought that would make me a traitor."

Joan smiled again. She put her cigarette hand on top of Claude's rod-holding hand.

"There's lots of kinds of loyal," she said. "You're not a scab traitor janitor. You're a scab traitor janitor husband father, and that's okay by me."

##########

a note about the writer

Michael Burnham is a certified safety professional who began working in the utility industry in 1995. A native of Derry, New Hampshire, he lived for 17 years in Rhode Island, where he wrote _The Jig of the Union Loller_ , and now resides in Middletown, CT, with his wife and two sons. Michael writes as time permits. Although he has had many articles published in newspapers and magazines, _The Jig of the Union Loller_ was his first published novel.

