Revenge of the Cube Dweller (13 page)

I have trouble sleeping as I sort out all the information I discovered today. Did the LEAR really prove that Bishop was negligent? To me it does, but I am sure there are tons of legal and environmental loopholes that Bishop, with their infinite resources, can identify and exploit to their advantage. I don’t
know enough, and I am reluctant to disclose even to my closest friends what I have done, which I am quite sure is illegal.

I am up at six and make the coffee. It is raining, so I perch on a stool at the granite island watching the coffee drip. I have just poured a cup when Maria comes through the rear door, with a rain hat on her head and the
Chronicle
under her arm.

“Oh, Mrs. Lewis,” she says, “you should have called me to make the coffee.”

“No problem, Maria. I make my own every morning. I’m happy to do it.”

“Can I make you some breakfast?”

“Toast, please,” I answer.

“Oh, Mrs. Lewis, I am so sorry, but Mrs. McAfee, she does not like bread kept in the house.”

“Eggs?”

“Whites, yes.” With that, Maria gets busy pouring some clear stuff from a carton into a small bowl. I watch her add chopped vegetables, and by the time she puts it into the nonstick pan, it looks pretty appetizing. She cuts up some cantaloupe and opens a container of blueberries, and in minutes I have a low-carb, low-fat meal of the same type that keeps the McAfees, Mr. and Mrs., the envy of all those hoping to avoid the heartbreak of middle-age butt spread.

Beth comes down in her robe. Even with no makeup and her hair mussed, she looks great. If only Bishop subscribed to the meticulous preventive maintenance program used by Beth McAfee. It takes hard work and money to forestall old age, but clearly it is working in her case. She does not have that puffy look that so often results from too many procedures, and at sixty-two she looks much younger than I.

“I’ll have the same, please,” she tells Maria as she pours herself a cup of coffee and looks out the kitchen window. “Damn, it’s raining.”

“This is just the beginning,” I say. I hand her the weather section of the paper that’s calling for severe thunderstorms all day. Houston storms are legendary and can produce flash floods instantly due to low-pressure systems coming in off the Gulf. “I hope my flight home isn’t delayed.”

“I hope it is.” Beth smiles. “I like having you here.”

“I stole a pack of cigarettes from you last night,” I confess. “Pressure, opportunity, and rationalization.”

Beth laughs and she and I go out onto the covered porch for a smoke. I see Maria frown as she covers the skillet to keep Beth’s eggs warm.

“So where did you end up going?” she asks as she positions her tiny behind into a swivel chair.

“Nowhere,” I lie again. “Just drove around. How was dinner?”

“Strange. Very weird, coming from such a sad thing, that visitation. The whole family gone … just like that. No one wanted to talk about it, and it didn’t seem appropriate to talk about anything else. Grant and I left pretty early; we were home by 9:00. Bill asked about you.”

“So I heard,” I say, swatting at a mosquito buzzing around my face. “I don’t have anything that he’d be interested in.”

“Maybe you can help him, you know, keep an ear to the ground and let him know what’s going on from the inside.”

“Well, unless he is curious about how invoices are coded, he’s out of luck. I’m not very close to the action.”

“Still, you never know.” A clap of thunder that startles us interrupts the conversation. We extinguish our cigarettes and
head back to the kitchen. “I’d better get dressed,” I say, and leave Beth in the kitchen with Maria and her dried-out eggs.

The funeral is at 9:30 at the St. John’s Methodist church in River Oaks, not far from the McAfee home. On a nice day, we could have walked there, but given the weather, we have no choice but to drive.

As with the viewing at the funeral home, the church is packed, and we are grateful for the valet parking that allows us to avoid getting soaked. A funeral representative ushers us toward the front, handing Grant, one of the twenty-four pallbearers required to manage the four caskets, a carnation to pin on his lapel. I see Winston and Caroline in a pew in front of us, noting that Winston, too, will be part of the casket crew. Grant leaves Beth and me and puts his hand on Winston’s back, and the two of them head to the back of the church.

It is a sad service. Friends of Matt and Eric share stories of growing up together. Alice’s sister Kate gives a wonderful tribute, and Ken’s law partner gets everyone laughing about Ken’s particular obsession with
Top Chef
and his numerous failed attempts to land a spot on the show. Ken had been quite sure that even as an amateur he could have wiped the floor with any chef in the country. The show’s producers had sent him kind rejection letters, which Ken had then framed and hung in a guest bathroom off the garage.

I find myself crying through most of the service. Sadness about my friends gives way to thoughts about my own state of affairs. I know it is selfish to feel sorry for myself under the
circumstances, but I just can’t help it. Caroline and Winston will be in Scotland with the McAfees, and I won’t. Not that I had expected Beth and Grant to cut off all ties with Winston or snub Caroline. I think they sort of hoped we could all become good friends and move past any hard feelings. Maybe if I remarry the right sort of man I can get right back in the circle. I know that’s what Beth hopes. Lose some weight, get a facelift, take some Prozac, and get back out there. I don’t blame my friends for thinking that way. In retrospect, I have been guilty of the same thing.

While I might do any one of those things, I am absolutely not interested in remarrying. I never again want to be dependent on a man for my sense of worth, even if it means giving up my friends. I will recapture my lost status on my own terms or not at all.

I realize that I have used the entire box of Kleenex that had been strategically placed in my pew. I shove the last one in my purse after composing myself as I file out of the church with my row.

The skies have cleared, but the dripping rainwater from the live oaks and building eaves sends the mourners into the parking lot for their after-service mingling while the valets scurry to retrieve all the cars.

I try to decide what to do now. The thought of being buttonholed by Bill Matheson at his house frightens me in my current state. I need more time to prepare before going head to head with that man. Besides, I’m not sure I can handle seeing good old Rocky and then having to leave him again.

I turn to Beth, who is fumbling with a tiny umbrella as she fishes through her purse in search of a cigarette.

“Want one?” she asks. “You can’t smoke at Bill’s. He’s a fanatic after he quit last year. Had the whole place remodeled to remove all traces.”

“Actually, no.” I’ve been smoking way too much since being at Beth’s. “Would you mind if I walk back to your house and then head to the airport? I’m afraid the traffic will be ridiculous with the weather.”

Beth frowns as she lights up. “I guess not. We can give you a ride back to the house, though.”

“That’s okay, Beth. I could use the exercise.”

“That’s my girl.” Beth smiles as she taps Grant, extricating him from an adjacent conversation circle. “Tanzie’s decided to take off, Grant, better say good-bye.”

Grant turns around and gives me a bear hug. “Don’t be a stranger, Tanzie.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise me you’ll call or e-mail or just come down for a quick visit some weekend,” Beth pleads. “Tulsa’s not that far away.”

“I promise,” I lie, as I give Beth a good-bye hug.

As I walk away from the crowd and wait to cross the street, I realize that as much as I hate my life in Tulsa, Houston is not my home anymore. I find myself looking forward to the solitude of my little condo and the chance, though slight, of resurrecting my career all on my own.

I
return the rental car and ride the bus to terminal E at the airport. The flight board tells me my 1:30 Tulsa flight is delayed until 4:30 due to weather. Many other flights are delayed as well, and this, coupled with the crowds that typically travel on Fridays, makes finding an available seat difficult. When Winston and I traveled, we killed time at the Continental President’s Club since he had a membership as a company benefit. I am not a member, and I knew I would not be allowed to enter without being one. I had often witnessed weary travelers plead with the front desk to let them in only to be pleasantly rejected and asked to leave so that the legitimate members could be processed.

As I stand in front of the club entrance, I notice a man about my age carrying a raincoat and briefcase heading through the automatic doors to the President’s Club. I take a chance and follow
right behind him into the entrance area. There is a line to get admitted.

“Awful weather,” I say to him. “My flight is delayed for three hours.”

“Mine too,” he says.

We chat for a bit about things that strangers chat about in a line. The name on his briefcase tag is Jim Cleary, so when it is his turn to be processed, I tap him on the arm and say, loud enough for the attendant to hear, “Jim, I think they’re ready for you.” After he is validated I make eye contact with the gatekeeper, smile, and follow Jim in. As I’d planned, the attendant assumes I am Jim’s better half. Jim doesn’t even notice me behind him as he gets on the escalator and heads up to the bar. I separate from my imaginary husband, make myself a cup of tea, and find a cozy spot by a window with a view of the flight schedule.

“Mind if I sit here?” asks a gray-haired, bulldog-faced stranger.

“No, not at all.” I gesture to the tufted leather chair across from a cocktail table that defines my ill-gotten territory.

“Buster Connelly, N’awlins, Louisiana.” He extends his hand to shake mine.

“Tanzie Lewis.”

Back in my career days, when I flew nonstop, I would avoid this kind of situation by placing a
Watchtower
booklet on my lap after my seat belt had been securely fastened. Then, even if people had to sit next to me, they usually avoided eye contact and kept their nose in a book. Once a real Jehovah’s Witness sat down next to me, but since my
Watchtower
indicated that I had already been saved and needed no evangelizing, there was no need for much discussion, so I quietly dozed undisturbed until landing.

Now, with Buster, I try to signal that I am not interested in making a long-lasting relationship by looking back down at my book. But he is not to be deterred, and thus begins one of those one-sided conversations that are impossible to get out of. I peer around, but there are no other seats and plenty of folks are standing around waiting to lunge at the next vacancy, even if it involves being stuck in a conversational bear trap. I can leave and stand for three hours, or I can make polite conversation with Buster from NOLA.

“Where you off to on this rainy day?” he asks, stirring something brown over ice with his index finger. Buster’s face has that red tinge and bulbous nose that comes from steady consumption of such brown liquids over many years.

“Tulsa.” I give an impersonal smile then look back down at my book.

“Oh my, my, Tulsa—just love that town. Tell me, Tanzie from Tulsa—you are from Tulsa, right? That’s just too cute—Tanzie from Tulsa.” He laughs at his joke and doesn’t wait for a response. “Tell me, Tanzie from Tulsa, what do you do? Are you here on bidness?”

“I’m an accountant, but I’m in Houston for personal reasons.”

“Oh, a bean counter! Don’t know how you can do all that tedious bookkeeping. Me, I couldn’t stand those classes. Put me to sleep. Takes all kinds, though, I guess. I’m the owner of Tiger Offshore Petroleum in N’awlins. I’m down here visiting some bankers.”

I could ask him if he knows Winston or tell him I work for Bishop, but I am not in the mood for talking—an arrangement that works very well for Buster. By the end of my three-hour sentence I have learned that Buster graduated from LSU in 1977,
pledged Sigma Nu fraternity, started out with Gulf, worked in consulting, and then ventured out on his own. He is married, with a grown son in California and a daughter in Dallas. He has five grandchildren who are all exceptional in every damned endeavor out there. He shows me pictures of them from an overstuffed wallet and drones on and on about every utterance any of them have ever mouthed. Buster has season tickets to the Saints, Hornets, and LSU home games. He usually travels by Netjet, but his secretary screwed up his travel arrangements (excuse his French).

“What do you think about the explosion?” I ask when Buster finally comes up for air.

“Well, now, seems everyone wants cheap gas in their car but they don’t want a pipeline under their house. Pipeline explosions are rare things, you know. Tragic? Yes they are. Do we try to prevent them? Yes we do. But in the end, it’s just a cost of doing bidness. There is no other way to transport product economically.”

Here’s another person equating lost lives to operating expenses. I am emotionally spent and all out of fight, so I let his insensitive remarks go unchallenged.