Rapture

CHAPTER FIVE

Jeffs talk with Mrs. Brewer had left him determined to finish his business in Millville as quickly as possible. He no longer had the slightest reason to linger. He took Uncle Roy and Aunt Kitty out to dinner, and then spent all of Wednesday morning sorting through personal effects at the house. It was a strange experience. Most of the things to be thrown away belonged to him, not his father. Junk, he considered it, left over from childhood and adolescence, things he'd never bothered shipping out to California. When he was done, he had filled several trash bags.

Tuesday night, after taking Aunt Kitty and Uncle Roy back to their house, he had come home and sat in the living room watching television and drinking the rest of the beer he had bought. It was another silly luxury, like cruising around that afternoon. In California, he saw little television. Now, in the house where he'd been raised, it was impossible to resist, and the shows were right out of his past: Wally and the Beaver, Bilko, Dobie Gillis, Twilight Zone, The Honeymooners, and Love that Bob. It was like being on vacation, something he hadn't done in more than ten years; and it had taken a funeral to achieve it.

Perhaps if he had been able to do something like that with Audrey, something as simple as sitting up late once in a while and watching old TV shows ... She had divorced him because he was a workaholic, and because he showed no willingness to change. But he knew it was foolish to think that anything could have saved their marriage.

Audrey had never understood or accepted that he simply couldn't afford to take much time off from work. He and Ted had just started their own company, entering one of the riskiest and most competitive areas of the computer-science field. For the first five years, neither of them had ever put in less than ninety hours a week. To do so, they were convinced, would be suicidal. Then they'd be damaged goods; they'd never get the money or the business to start over.

You had only to glance upstate to Silicon Valley to see how many others there were, breathing down your neck, and to learn the lesson of all those hundreds of failures, bankruptcies, and personal catastrophes. Somehow, amazingly, Jeff and Ted hadn't burned out. Jeff had lost a marriage and Ted was a walking pharmacy, but they reckoned they were lucky. The pace was still furious, but they were down to sixty-hour weeks, and the company was secure now, thriving.

Jeff had sat up watching the reruns with a Connecticut road map open on his lap. He kept glancing down at it, as if he expected it to change. He had forgotten all about 1-84, the highway that had come through Waterbury about the time he had graduated from high school. He hadn't paid much attention to it then, but it fascinated him now. It was an alternate route to New York and, judging by the map, a quicker one. But the interesting thing about it was that it passed through Danbury.

After piling the trash bags in the cellar Wednesday morning, Jeff took care of the rest of his business. He arranged for the gas to be turned off and the telephone service disconnected. He filled out a changeof-address card at the post office. Hudson had asked him to leave the water and electricity on; they would be useful when the realtors showed the house. As agreed, Jeff delivered a slim folder of outstanding bills and other papers to the lawyer's office.

Back at the house, he packed his suitcases and checked every room one more time. I'll never see this place again, he thought, and for a moment he couldn't get his feet to move. Yes, on the whole he had been happy here. Happy enough, and that was probably as much as anyone could hope for.

He locked up, put his things in the car, and drove across town to say good-bye to Uncle Roy and Aunt Kitty. He gave them the house keys and a card with his office address and number on it.

"I think I'll take 1-84 back to New York," he said as they stood out on the front lawn.

"I should've thought to tell you," Uncle Roy said. "It's faster that way, and a better ride."

"It goes through Danbury, doesn't it?"

"Yeah. Well, over it."

"Danbury's getting to be quite a big city," Aunt Kitty said, offering last-minute Connecticut news. "Lot of new business and development."

"Yeah, Union Carbide set up headquarters there a few years ago," Uncle Roy added. "Quite a setup."

"That's right," Jeff said quietly. He was suddenly interested. "I remember now hearing that Union Carbide was in Danbury. When that Bhopal disaster was in the news."

He was genuinely sorry to leave his aunt and uncle. They had always been good to him. As he drove north toward Waterbury, he had to face again the unhappy thought that this might be the last time he'd see them both alive. Yet, to him, the whole damn Brass Valley reeked of death, and he was glad to be leaving it. Even the brass giant, Anaconda, had packed up and moved away, according to Mrs. Brewer. Old industry had made this gritty area, but that was the past. New technology had taken over, and it would rule supreme at least through Jeff's lifetime.

Traffic was light Wednesday afternoon as he headed west on 1-84, leaving Millville, Waterbury, and the Brass Valley behind. It was a short drive to Danbury, and he hardly noticed the miles passing. Too many thoughts were crowding his mind. A lot of things had happened in a few days, some by accident and some by design. On Sunday he had missed route 8, the Waterbury exit, the immediate result of which was that he had come up the New Haven Road instead, past the Slaton house. Then, when he'd gone to the house on Tuesday afternoon, it could have been locked up and empty, but it wasn't. The new owner had been there to steer him to Mrs. Brewer, who in turn had been out in her front yard, making it impossible for him to drive by without stopping. Then, looking at the road map, he had discovered 1-84, a way back to La Guardia Airport through Danbury. Not to forget the conversation with Mike Rollins, which seemed to have a bizarre significance for Jeff. Something had been taking shape in his mind, and now he knew what it was. Since he was here, and since it was possible, he wanted to see Georgianne again. Once would be enough, he thought. It was just too good an opportunity to pass up.

He nearly lost his nerve, letting two or three Danbury exits pass before he finally got off the highway. With no sense of direction, he drove around the outskirts of the city until he spotted the Mortlake Motel. It was neither great nor terrible, but, like most motels, bleakly adequate. The package store across the road was a plus. After checking in, he bought a sixpack, returned to his room, and picked up the phone.

"Lisker-Benedictus Future Systems. May I help you?"

Jeff loved to hear that. More than his own name, those four words told him who he was, what he was. Lisker-Benedictus Future Systems. Beautiful. Once in a while he used his outside line to call the front desk and hear those words; then he'd hang up, satisfied. They had considered shortening it to Future Systems, but eventually discarded the idea because Jeff was so opposed to it. He loved the sound of it the way it was. A few seconds later he was put through to Callie Shaw, personal assistant.

'Callie, this is Jeff."

"Hello," she said brightly. "How are you? Where are you?"

"I'm fine and I'm still in Connecticut. I wanted to check in with you because I've been in and out a lot the last few days and I didn't know if you'd been trying to reach me."

No. There's no real news here, Jeff. Nothing exciting or important to report, so I didn't want to bother you."

"Just the usual day-to-day madness."

"Right, yes," Callie said with a laugh. "We're coping. Pretty well, I think."

"Okay, glad to hear it. Now listen, Callie. I'll be staying on here for another day or two, which will bring us into the weekend, so you might as well not expect to see me until Monday."

"Fine. I'll make a note of that."

"I won't be at the number I gave you," Jeff said. "In fact, I can't really give you a number, because I'm doing a lot of running around, seeing people and tying up loose ends-family business. What I'll do is give you another call, either this time tomorrow afternoon or else the first thing Friday morning. Your time. All right?"

"F'me. Got lt."

"You can give Ted the message," he added. "I assume he hasn't been trying to get me."

"He would have told me, I think," Callie said. 'He's completely wrapped up in the project."

"Of course." The project. Sigma Tau, so sensitive they were forbidden to use those two words on any telephone-not even on the company's internal system. It was such a sweet contract that LiskerBenedictus could probably survive on it alone for the next five years.

After Jeff hung up, he sat back on the bed and lit a cigarette. It was Wednesday evening, and the last twenty-four hours had been tiring.

What was he really doing here? It seemed like the kind of fool's errand that could easily turn into a colossal embarrassment. He hadn't seen her since they were teenagers. She was married now and had a teenage daughter of her own. That in itself was so hard for Jeff to fathom that it almost paralyzed him.

He opened a can of beer as he flipped through the Danbury telephone directory. There it was, Foxrock. A short section for a small town. He turned the pages slowly, enjoying his search. It didn't take long. There were only two Corcorans listed: Bonnie, on Indian Hill Road, and Sean R., also on Indian Hill Road. For a moment, Jeff wondered what the R. stood forsomething Irish, like Rory? He tried to picture the man. Florid, freckled, red-haired? He smiled. Georgianne marrying an Irish stereotype? Fat chance of that ever happening.

What about the daughter? He tried to construct a chronology. Georgianne should be thirty-eight, or nearly so. If she hadn't given birth until after college, Bonnie would be fifteen, sixteen at most. Did she look like Georgianne at that age? It was a dazzling, terrifying thought. But Bonnie didn't really interest him. He was curious about Georgianne, not some teenager who probably dressed like Madonna.

Should he dial the number and talk to her? Now? That was what he had come for, but Jeff was hit by another attack of uncertainty. He could still avoid this moment of possible contact. He could check out of the Mortlake Motel and get to New York at a reasonable hour. Catch a late flight to L.A. or else spend a night in Manhattan, where there were good restaurants, music, films, any number of pleasant things to do. It would make a lot more sense than sitting out in the middle of nowhere drinking beer and acting silly about a girl, no, a woman he hadn't seen in twenty years.

Even if he did call the number, her husband might answer. Then what? Or if he did get Georgianne on the line, he might just dry up and not know what to say. His professional manner would desert him. The whole thing was a whim, a bad idea really, nothing more. The kind of thing that seems irresistible until you actually do it. Then you understand what a mistake it was all along.

Jeff scrawled the two telephone numbers on the road map and put the directory back on the bedside table. He went into the bathroom and urinated, then sat down on the bed again and stared at the floor. All right. He had a plan, of sorts. He called Bonnie's number, and she answered on the second ring.

"Hello."

"Is Harold there?"

`Who?"

"Harold. Harold."

Jeff nearly laughed, because he was doing such a good job of altering and coarsening his voice.

"There's no Harold here," Bonnie Corcoran said. "What number did you want?"

"Who's this?"

"Bonnie. What number-"

"Sor "

Jeff hung up and fell back across the bed, his whole body shaking with excitement. Jesus Christ, that voice! As though it had come right out of his own head, not from the other end of a telephone line. It was like honey poured in his ear, lighting up the center of his brain with a warm glow. Bonnie sounded like Georgianne, as he remembered her. The voice of a teenager-deliciously appropriate, so right, so true to the voice he had carried in his mind all these years.

That did it. He had to see her. Not the daughterhe didn't care about her-but the mother. Georgianne. No matter how it might turn out-awkward, embarrassing, a disaster-he had to see her.

And why worry? Now that he had made the first move, he was sure the rest would fall in place. It required a little careful thought, that was all. Plan it, make it nice, smooth, relaxed. Something that would become a fine memory for all of them.

Lighting a cigarette and opening another beer, he began to piece it all together. It was a special project, but nothing he couldn't handle. Jeff was good at special projects.

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