He never knows where his children are anymore.
“No lawyer?!” bellows Sterling Green. “Are you out of your mind? It’s war, boyo. She’ll screw you unless you screw her first. Clean out your bank account, hide your assets, valuables, tax statements, cancelled cheques, diaries, debit and credit card receipts, anything she can use to establish a level of consumption that’ll justify a level of alimony. She’s probably photocopied stuff already, her and her lawyer are probably putting together a financial picture. And no way do you move out.”
“I already have.”
“Are you nuts? She’ll argue abandonment, which gives her claim to the house and everything in it.”
“It’s only a trial separation.”
Sterling eats more of his Double Whopper. “Wait till she starts talking to her lawyer.” He drinks more of his Coke. Everything about Sterling is more. He won’t settle for less. Reese didn’t want to work for Sterling, Sterling wanted him, thought he would bring credibility to his fundraising-without-morals operation. “You should have driven her out, I’m telling you.”
“It’s not like that,” Reese says. “It’s not adversarial.”
“It’s always adversarial, boyo. Even if it starts out niceynicey.” He drops an Alka-Seltzer into a glass of water. “And what’s with the wetlands people? They’re pished, won’t get off my ass about you.”
The “wetlands people” are gunmen posing as environmentalists because they want to hunt ducks.
“I took their leader out for a brew to cool his jets,” Sterling says, “and he got rat-arsed. I had to drive him home. For an environmentalist he’s got a pretty pristine lawn, even had one of those little pesticide signs on it.”
Reese nods understanding, as he always does, while reviewing results. He has 120 callers working part-time throughout the afternoons and evenings. The call centre seats fifty-two. Some of them barely speak English. They’re not supposed to eat at their booths but they do, stashing foreign foods in unlikely crevices. The dialler, a half-million-dollar refrigerator-sized computer, keeps them working non-stop. It is a thankless, repulsive job and only the desperate or truly naive can stand it, and even they never last. Staff shortages are constant. Serge Hollyduke, who supervises the callers, is a sadist and therefore effective at managing for-profit fundraising. They raise money for hospitals, advocacy groups of the right or left, child sponsorships, the Federation of Anglers & Hunters, any disease going, the Humane Society. When a caller’s performance is poor, Serge Hollyduke issues warnings and disciplinary notes before terminating them. But there is a pretty girl who has been exempt from his boot camp approach. After checking the data, Reese has no choice but to remind Serge of the response goal of 5 percent. “Has she hooked anybody?” he asks.
“She’s got a name,” Serge says. “Avril Leblanc. And she just started.” Serge has a new haircut, very short, revealing a bullet-shaped head.
“She’s been here three weeks,” Reese says, which is a considerable amount of time at such a repulsive job. “She’s spending a lot of time on the phone. What’s she talking about?”
“She makes them comfortable. They like her.”
Sterling takes a swig of Alka-Seltzer. “They just don’t cough up credit card numbers.”
Serge fondles the short hairs on his head. “I’ve got her chasing some lapsed donors. Just give her a chance.”
“Fess up,” Sterling says, “you get a boner looking at her. It won’t do, boyo. We’re not here to jack off.”
The arteries on Serge’s neck begin to bulge.
“Let’s reassess in a couple of days,” Reese suggests. “I’ve got mail to write.” He must come up with some shift incentives for the dwindling marketers; tickets to brainless events usually go over well. And he must talk to his client service people.
At the coffee station, Avril Leblanc spoons honey into her herbal tea. “Hey,” she says.
“Hello.” She smells of oranges. She’s probably been eating oranges at her booth, dripping juice, leaving sticky fingerprints.
“I’m really enjoying the job,” she says.
“Good.”
“I like talking to people.” She dribbles honey on the counter before licking the spoon.
“Good.”
He would like to slide his hand under her skirt. He would like to take her here, on the floor only vaguely dry-mopped by the night cleaners. He would like some distraction.
Clara’s birth was difficult, different from the boy’s. Reese and Roberta had been holding hands when she’d had Derek. When they had the girl they’d been arguing about knives. Roberta wanted to buy a hundred-dollar knife, said that a kitchen without a good knife was useless. Reese had been carving chickens with Canadian Tire knives all his life and saw no need for a hundred-dollar knife. Her contractions started while they were testing blades. They went home, timed the contractions, and waited, barely speaking to each other because of the knife debate. He prepared spaghetti for Derek with a Canadian Tire knife because Roberta said she wasn’t hungry and was in too much discomfort. She didn’t call it pain because that would have sounded negative. He offered massage but she couldn’t keep still. “Why aren’t they speeding up?” she said re the contractions. “They should be speeding up.” She paced, squatted, breathed heavily. Derek watched in amazement and fear. Reese tickled him and offered to play horsey. The boy climbed onto his back but remained uncustomarily mute while Reese trotted around. Roberta, presumably also wanting to hide her torment from her son, continued her pacing in the backyard while Reese and Derek built Duplo spaceships. Still they could hear her gasping and blurting expletives.
“Is Mummy going to die?”
“Absolutely not, sweetpea.”
“Is it supposed to hurt?”
“Yes.” Reese pulled him onto his lap and kissed him, holding him tight because at that moment it felt as though Derek was all he had, that he must shield him from whatever lay ahead. Or die trying.
“Why?” Derek asked.
“Why what?”
“Why’s it hurt?”
“It’s just the way humans are built.”
Derek wriggled from his grasp to search for Play-Doh.
Their obstetrician, the one they’d carefully selected, was not on call. They were faced with a frizzy-haired, apparently bored tennis player fresh from tennis camp in Boca Raton who introduced himself as Dr. Cam Phibbs. The woman waiting for a baby in the other bed was also at the mercy of Dr. Phibbs. She won his favour by admitting that she was a financial planner and offering tips on the NASDAQ. Reese feared that the financial planner would take precedence over Roberta, that Roberta would be left with a fetus in distress while Cam Phibbs reviewed his portfolio. But Roberta, contrasting her behaviour at home, was acting with calm and fortitude, and it occurred to Reese that she was attracted to the sporty, tanned hairiness of Cam Phibbs and wanted, therefore, to impress him. The tennis player did at one point address her. “Yo, how’s it goin’?” he asked, to which she replied, smiling bravely, “Not bad.”
“It’s gonna come out,” Cam Phibbs said, “don’t you worry about it.”
“I’m