Then We Came to the End (27 page)

“Carl hurrying?” he said. “I’ve never seen that before.”

That’s where Benny ended the story. But we sensed there was more to it. So at lunch hour, finding Carl’s door open for the first time in eons, a few of us went in. He was at his desk eating a low-cal Subway sandwich and drinking a diet iced tea. It was astonishing. We asked him for his version of events.

“I had completely forgotten about his crush on Marcia,” he told us, sitting back in his chair, “and I had just called her crappy-looking. What an idiot. So I told him, I said, ‘Benny, I’m sorry if I offended you back there.’ But he just shrugged it off. ‘You didn’t offend me,’ he said. ‘You offended Marcia, I think, but not me.’ So I said, ‘I completely forgot about your crush, man, I’m sorry.’ And he said, ‘My what?’”

It didn’t take long before Benny was spilling his guts down by the lake, which was only a few blocks east of us. The two men climbed over the breakers and stood at the edge of the runners’ path that dropped off into the water, where Benny admitted to Carl a love for Marcia that he called paralyzing. It was taking away his nights, he said. It was starting to hurt just seeing her in the halls. Sitting across from her in a meeting, that was torture. And coming upon her alone in the kitchen took his speech away. “And you know me,” he said to Carl. “I never lack for something to say. But now, I’m starting not to enjoy this.” “So what are you going to do about it?” asked Carl. Benny said what he always said, the same thing he had said to all of us: his love for Marcia was complicated because Marcia was not Jewish, and it was important to him — for reasons heathens like us couldn’t understand — that he marry a Jew. Stores a totem pole for three-nineteen a month and calls
us
heathens — that was rich, we thought. And what’s more, everyone knew it was just an excuse in case Marcia found out about the crush and didn’t like him back.

Benny’s crush wasn’t news. He had told each and every one of us about it at one point or another, and in great detail. The news wasn’t even Marcia’s haircut. Marcia had finally crawled her way out of her Megadeth-and-Marlboros origins and staggered into the fashionable reality of a new century, and her looks had improved for it. She was no longer reliving the smoke-and-screw glory days of George Washington High. Her haircut was a jump up in three income levels, it was a move to Paris, it was the opening of some seventh seal on the South Side, and if Benny’s encounters with her in the hall had smarted before, he was in for a world of hurt now.

Carl leaving the car without a kiss good-bye, that was interesting, too. Carl engaged with the world — when did that happen? After stealing Janine’s drugs, overdosing, poisoning himself into the hospital, and being released under a psychiatrist’s supervision, Carl had gone from reproachful insolence to mild indifference. But when did he go from indifference to galloping and gossiping and chasing after Benny? Had
we
been forced to lay down odds, all our money would have been on the unlikely haircut long before Carl leaving the car without a kiss from Marilynn.

But that wasn’t the news.

The news was delivered by Joe Pope, who came by Benny’s office to announce that in a few days, we would start work on two important new business pitches. A beverage company was about to launch their first caffeinated bottled water, and a popular brand of running shoe had seen their market share dip over the previous few years. Both were looking for new agencies and had graciously invited us to pitch them ideas. The next step was to present them with creative that would bowl them over. Joe didn’t have to tell us how important winning new business was, but he did anyway. “So we need to clear our plates of this pro bono project as quickly as possible,” he said. “You’ll be presenting concepts on what makes a breast cancer patient laugh first thing in the morning.”

“As in tomorrow morning?” said Benny. “I thought we had till next week.”

“Priorities have changed,” said Joe. “Now it’s tomorrow morning.”

“Christ, Joe,” said Larry. “You serious?”

It was like a fire alarm we weren’t even getting paid for.

“Is she in today?” asked Amber Ludwig. Her tone of voice and downcast eyes might have indicated she was inquiring of someone trying to pull out of critical condition.

“Is who in?” replied Joe. He knew who she meant. We all knew.

“Listen,” he said, moving more fully into Benny’s office. “Does anyone have anything to show her?”

Ordinarily we would have taken this question, coming from Joe, as a kind of accusation. But the reality was that no one had a thing, and so what was the point of dissembling? We just sort of stared at him.

“I don’t have anything, either,” he admitted. “Not a damn thing, and I’ve been thinking about it all night.”

It was good to hear that even he was struggling. He went on to offer us a few modest strategies he had come up with, general directions we might consider, which was kind of him. But that still didn’t help cushion the blow of his bad news, and in the end it didn’t get us any closer to figuring out what was funny about breast cancer.

GENEVIEVE WAS AT HER DESK,
reading the breast cancer companion guide that had absorbed her attention yesterday evening after she’d finished the survivor’s memoir, when Amber came to her doorway. Genevieve put the book down and moved her blond hair behind an ear. “What’s up?” she said. Amber walked in and sat down, tucking one of her thick legs under the thigh of the other. “You don’t know about Karen’s phone call to the hospital yesterday, do you?” Genevieve shook her head and took a sip of her diet pop. She had not been with us during the call. “Then let me fill you in,” said Amber.

Amber spoke. Both women turned to look at Larry in the doorway when he appeared in his Cubs cap, popping M&M’s into his mouth one at a time. Amber turned back to Genevieve and continued talking while Larry moved inside and stood directly behind her.

“And remind her of her fear,” he said, interrupting. Larry had been convinced by Karen’s call to the hospital that Lynn’s cancer wasn’t a rumor after all.

Amber ignored him for the moment, but eventually came around to his point — Lynn’s aversion to hospitals. It would be extremely hard for someone in the grip of a fear of hospitals to willingly admit herself to one.

Benny Shassburger came to the doorway and in a low voice said, “Are you guys talking about Lynn?” Genevieve nodded, and Benny, his khakis rustling, moved through the office to the back credenza, where he placed a haunch on the sharp wood corner. “Here’s what I keep coming back to,” he said. And he went on to remind her that the pro bono ads, which concerned themselves with breast cancer awareness, arrived at the same time that she was going into the hospital. “Was that just a coincidence?” he asked.

“What are you trying to say?” asked Genevieve.

“That she definitely has breast cancer,” said Jim Jackers, who had been listening from the doorway. “And that she wants us to know about it.”

“Why would she want us to know?”

“I don’t know,” said Jim. “Maybe just subconsciously.”

Chewing on the last of his M&M’s, Larry Novotny now began to rub Amber’s shoulders with his free hands. Genevieve had turned in her chair to better talk with Benny, but her attention was pulled back to Amber when Amber abruptly stood and moved over to the chair closer to the wall. Larry, whose hands were still in the massage position, watched her go. Amber looked straight ahead at Genevieve, who looked at Larry, who lifted his cap in the air and smoothed back his hair. He left the office, passing Jim standing in the doorway.

Jim moved into the office and sat down in Amber’s old chair. Hank Neary came into the room and, looking around, squatted down with his back against the wall. He put his elbow patches on his knees, pulling tight the sleeves of his corduroy coat, and then adjusted his glasses. Benny continued, and Genevieve refocused her attention on him. “As a matter of fact,” he said, moving a finger between Hank and himself, “Hank and I don’t even think there
is
a fund-raiser.”

“Of course there’s a fund-raiser,” said Genevieve.

Hank elaborated. There could very well be a fund-raiser. We just didn’t think Lynn had donated our time to it. We didn’t think there was a committee chair pestering her. In fact, crazy as it sounded, we thought there was no client at all — unless that client was Lynn Mason herself.

“Yeah, I totally don’t follow,” said Genevieve, shaking her head at Hank.

Dan Wisdom showed up, taking one step inside the office to stand flush against the door, his hand on the doorknob. Hank explained that “the client” had chosen to move away from the fund-raiser ad, with its specific purpose and call to action, toward a nebulous public service announcement intended to make the cancer patient laugh for some vague reason that had nothing to do with raising money or finding a cure.

“Laughter,” said Hank. “One thing Lynn might be in short supply of right now.”

“So you’re saying,” said Genevieve, smiling mockingly at Hank, “that she made the whole thing up just so she could get a laugh?”

“That’s exactly what we’re saying,” said Karen Woo, moving from the doorway to stand directly in front of Genevieve’s cheap silver bookshelf. “Which is why nobody can find anything on the Web for the ‘Alliance Against Breast Cancer.’ You have to admit, Genevieve. It’s a little weird that nobody’s ever heard of this so-called Alliance. I mean, what kind of alliance is that?”

“I don’t care,” said Genevieve. “This just doesn’t sound like something Lynn would do.”

“Maybe she did it to keep us busy, too,” said Dan Wisdom. “It’s not like we had anything else going on.”

“Don’t you think Lynn would do that?” Amber asked her. “Keep us preoccupied during the downtime, to protect her team?”

“So which is it, then? Did she do it for herself, or did she do it for us?”

We debated which was the most likely answer.

“You guys gotta get your stories straight,” said Genevieve.

Even Carl Garbedian showed up. Here was an amazing turn of events. First running after Benny, and now this. He stood next to Dan Wisdom in the doorway. “I’ll tell you what I think,” he said. He wanted to claim that Lynn had made up the assignment because Lynn’s life was so much about marketing, the only way she could come to terms with her diagnosis was to see it presented to her in an ad. In a time of personal upheaval she fell back on the familiar language of advertising. She had to have it sold to her.

We immediately tried to distance ourselves from that theory. You steal prescription drugs from Janine Gorjanc and almost die of toxic poisoning, and six months into your recovery you’re an expert on the DSM-IV? Not likely. Carl’s psychologizing dampened the credibility of the argument we were trying to make — though Genevieve didn’t know yet about any argument.

Marcia, with her smart new bob, slid between Carl and Dan in the doorway. “What’s going on?” she asked, looking around.

We told her we were trying to convince Genevieve to talk to Joe.

“Talk to Joe?” Genevieve replied, suddenly aware that we weren’t there just to shoot the shit. “What am I talking to Joe about?”

Everyone knew that Lynn and Joe were tight. We saw them talking at night on our way out — the door cracked, one leaning into the other across the desk. She told him about client problems and whatnot and he expressed to her his impressions of us. It didn’t go in Joe’s favor to be seen in there like that because it was widely believed that he exerted influence on who walked Spanish and who didn’t. But that wasn’t the point right now; the point was, if any of us had any sway with Lynn Mason, it was Joe Pope. If anyone was going to confront her with what we suspected, if someone was going to
help
her, it would have to be Joe.

“And what do I have to do with that?” asked Genevieve.

If any of us had any sway with Joe Pope, it was Genevieve.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Nuh-uh.” She shook her head and set her pop down on the desk and said, “No way. This entire conversation is ridiculous.”

“Genevieve,” said Amber. “She might be dying.”

IT DIDN’T TAKE HER
long to come around. After Karen’s phone call the evidence was on our side, the argument was too compelling, and Genevieve was too compassionate. If Lynn was really sick, Genevieve didn’t have it in her to sit back and do nothing. She talked it over some more with Marcia; she went back to Amber; she went in to Benny’s. By eleven that morning she was as convinced as the rest of us that the risk of doing nothing outweighed the risk of being wrong, and when she went in search of Joe twenty minutes later, she had the conviction of the newly converted, which wouldn’t last forever, but would for the moment brook no discouragement or allow for second-guessing. She approached him in the cafeteria on fifty-nine, where he was dropping coins into a vending machine.

Seven tables and three vending machines under a dismal light — that was our cafeteria. We’d call it a break room but “break room” might imply something to look forward to. On our rare trips to the cafeteria, we got what we needed from the vending machines and then we got the hell out. Eating there was never an option because the lights, the chairs — it was as depressing as a hospital waiting room, but absent any magazines or lifesaving devices. No one ever took comfort in the cafeteria. The perfect place to await your self-help group’s arrival — that was the kindest description we could give to it.

And so the deterrents to congregation guaranteed them a level of privacy. He opened his pop at one of the tables and she told him what she knew. He listened, and when she made her request, he declined. They talked about it awhile longer and he declined again. They got up from the table and he placed his empty can in the recycle bin just as the Bible group folks, carrying their floppy, shiny-edged books, began to shuffle in for their Thursday lunch.

We wanted to know from Genevieve his reasons for declining to get involved. “He said it was none of his business,” she told us. But why wouldn’t he want to help her? we asked. If she was unwell, and terrified? Karen’s phone call was very compelling evidence that something was not right. Was he heartless? Did he not see a distinction between sticking your nose in where it didn’t belong, and answering a cry for help? “I don’t think he sees it quite like that,” she replied. Well, then, how does he see it? “Differently,” she said.