The Program

Chapter thirty-three

Wendy confronted the stack of legal documents before her. "I don't think I'm ready to do this."

She sat beside her husband and Tim on the Growth Hall floor, surrounded by Pros. An orb of light encapsulated the group, a perimeter of darkness hemming them in. Jason Struthers, like Shanna, had already elected to stay on and enjoy Pro status. The devout attention he'd enjoyed since signing on the dotted lines had left him in near rapture.

And then there were three.

The inner core of encircling Pros included all the heavyweights -Lorraine, Winona, Janie, Stanley John, and, of course, TD. A clamp-jawed man in his early thirties, a Program attorney named Sean, sat up front as well, next to a trim, bearded fellow of the same age – the good Dr. Henderson, complete with a yachtsman's physique and John Lennon spectacles. Winona clutched a notary stamp, signature log, and a mini-ink pad for fingerprint confirmation. The voluptuous redhead had parked herself behind Don, touching his hips with the points of her spread knees, stroking his back lazily. She slid a Montblanc up over his shoulder and down the front of his chest.

There was no Enya, no 2001, no kettledrum, just an excruciating silence.

Tim flipped through the carefully prepared documents before him. A general power of attorney. A durable power of attorney. A power of attorney for each of Tom Altman's banks and brokerage firms. Transfer of assets. Deed of gift.

In consideration of goodwill and other good and valuable consideration, receipt of which is hereby acknowledged, I hereby grant and convey the following to TDB Corp…

I, the undersigned, hereby make, constitute, and appoint TDB Corp my true and lawful Attorney for me and in my name, place, and stead and for my use and benefit…

…designate TDB Corp with broad powers to ask, demand, manage, sue for, recover, collect, and receive each and every sum of money, debt, account, legacy, bequest, interest, dividend, annuity, and demand…

There was even a postal form for Tom Altman to forward his mail to The Program's P.O. box, a surefire way to certify that not a single investment statement slipped through the cracks. TD would keep them under his thumb until he'd bilked every cent from every account, leaving them rattling husks like Ernie Tramine and Reggie.

The comprehensiveness of the paperwork was astonishing. In fact, The Program's team knew more about Tom Altman's portfolio than Tim did. He mused on Tannino's masterful ways of building fraudulent paper empires.

Wendy squirmed under the panorama of staring eyes. Beside her, Don broke the standoff, grabbing the pen. Leaning over, he began to sign the forms furiously. The crinkle of turning pages was drowned out by a respectful ripple of applause, a golf clap punctuated by doting exclamations – tentative still, as Don's work was not yet complete.

The redhead squeezed Don excitedly from behind. Wendy watched the well-manicured hands kneading her husband's lateral muscles. Her voice was shaky. "Don? Honey? I think we should talk about this."

Continuing to flip pages, Don kept his head down, focused athletically on the task.

"C'mon, Wen, what's to talk about?" Stanley John said.

"I think…I think we should talk to Josh. He is our CFO."

"Here we care about the future." Sean folded his hands contentedly. "Not the past."

"Why isn't Josh here, too?" Winona said. "When you and your husband chose growth, he chose to lag behind."

Janie said, "You can figure out later if Josh is part of your future. For the time being, why don't you Live in the Now? Let all that other crap go."

TD reclined on elbow-locked arms, taking in everything with a creator's pride.

Don finished, slapped the last form facedown on the floor, and looked up with shiny eyes. "I'm staying on. I'm going forward. I'm not dragging all this with me."

A cry of joy was raised, the rush of euphoria so disorienting that for a moment Tim joined in the thrill. Between hugs and pats, Don signed the notary log Winona presented. Standing still amid the swirls of movement, Wendy looked shaken. Her imploring eyes met Tim's. He forced himself to look away.

TD stood, and everyone quieted, settling back on the floor. Now, magically, only Tim and Wendy remained in the center. Don had been whisked out by the busty redhead, no doubt to collect his due rewards. With a flourish, TD produced the Montblanc and extended it to Wendy. She stared at it a few moments, gulping air, then took it.

The squeak of a sneaker on the floorboards. The rush of wind across the roof. Someone unzipped a jacket in the back.

"I'm sorry," Wendy said. "There are too many people this would affect."

An instant, horrifying transformation of faces. Disapproving head shakes. Heartbroken frowns. Pros could no longer bear to make eye contact with her.

"That's a shame, Wen," Stanley John finally said. "You're getting pretty Off Program. This is about you, not others. But we'll sort it out in Workshop tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" She stared from blank face to blank face. "I've got a full day of meetings tomorrow. I'm already behind from -"

A clamor of protest. "Don't go backward, Wen."

"Tomorrow's the most important day. It's gonna be so much fun."

"This is a critical time for you," Stanley John explained. "You're between two stages, in limbo. You can't regress now. Who from your old life would understand you now? After everything you've accomplished? After everything we've shared? The abortions. Your time with Chad. You've done things, Wendy. We're the only ones who understand you now."

Wendy's predicament seemed to jar Shanna. For the first time since they'd arrived, she resembled the awkward college kid Tim had met outside the college counseling center.

An edge of fear undercut Wendy's evident anger. "This is a three-day retreat. I'm ready to leave."

"You're free to go. But there's no van going back to the city tonight."

"I want to make a phone call."

Dr. Henderson made a tsking noise. "You don't want to bother friends and family now. At this hour? It's a long ride."

Tim thought of the zero-bars cell-phone signal, the severed cords in the bank of phone booths, Wendy's oblivious bantering on the drive up as the landscape flew by unheeded outside the van's blacked-out windows.

"Fuck this." Wendy's voice quivered with fear. She stood and exited abruptly, walking away from the group to the unlit reaches of the auditorium. Shanna looked shaken by Wendy's departure – her first glimpse over the walls of pluralistic ignorance. Allowing any initiate to witness another's hesitation was, as Tim saw it, TD's first strategic error.

Several Pros were on their feet, but TD waved a hand calmly, and they sat. Tim squinted to make out Skate guarding the door. Wendy hesitated for an instant, but Skate obligingly snapped the dogs into a sit-stay, and she stormed past. A gust of wind announced Wendy's exit, and then the door's creaking return restored the calm.

Good old Tom Altman remained, alone in the glowing center of a ring of expectant faces. From all sides glassy eyes peered at him.

"How do you feel about your time here?" TD said.

"It's been amazing," Tim answered truthfully.

"But you need something else, don't you? What else do you need?"

"Well, The Program opened up all this psychological…material. And I realize now the ways I've chosen weakness, the mistakes I've made. But I don't know how to…"

"Atone?"

"Yes," Tom said softly. "Atone."

"We're helping guide you to that atonement." TD nodded at the paperwork before him. "What allowed you to hire someone else? To order the killing of another man? The wrong man?"

Tim let the epiphany burst across Tom Altman's face. "My money."

"The money that led you to think you could get away with it. The money that let you get away with it. Start fresh, Tom. Rebuild. You've got no wife, no daughter, no house. All you have is yourself."

His voice sounded tiny, lost in the expanse of the silent hall. "And my guilt."

"Of course your guilt. Your guilt is your past. If you want to get rid of it, you'll have to get rid of the one thing that binds you to the past."

Tom Altman wiped his eyes. "My portfolio."

The Pros started to murmur, then call out their support. It seemed the entire world was aimed at him and him alone. A few strokes of his pen could unleash untold elation.

Tim held up his arms. The sound ceased. The rush of power he felt at the crowd's instant reaction provided a tiny window into TD's life.

Tom Altman's voice was choked. "I don't want it. I want to be free from it. Who cares if I default on the deal? I don't want any of it." He leaned forward, pressing the pen to the top sheet of paper.

"Wait," TD said.

Tim's father would have been proud.

"What do you mean, 'default on the deal'?"

Tom wrinkled his face. "Well, I can't just pull out of my legal obligations to the shareholders and the board. There are limitations on divesting. It's a public company. I could turn over my corporate position and assign my assets to The Program, but that would take some hammering out."

"How long?"

"I have meetings stacked all day tomorrow and Friday with my legal team. I can't imagine it would take longer than that to figure out how to go about it. But you know what? What do I care anymore, right? I'm leaving it behind to Get with The Program."

"Maybe you should get all that ironed out, then make a clean break. Outstanding business, so to speak, can sometimes distract from growth."

"I don't really want to go back," Tim said. "I have much more to learn here." A church murmuring of amen equivalents. "I'm in a reflective space right now, and I feel rebuilt. I don't want to be around people who might not be receptive."

TD's face tightened – the first sign of discomfort Tim had witnessed in him. "Your Gro-Par should go with you."

Tom Altman waved off the suggestion. "No, I don't want to take Leah away from -"

TD's eyes bored through Tim. "It'll be much better for you if she goes."

"Well, I guess if you feel that strongly…"

A paternal smile quickly smoothed TD's face. "I think it's best."

A burst of cold air heralded Wendy's entrance. Bent arthritically at the waist, she clutched her windbreaker closed at the throat. The door swung shut behind her.

Already a cluster of Pros was moving to encircle her, bearing blankets and steaming cups of coffee that had appeared as magically as the corridor of soft-glowing light leading inward from the door. They bundled her up, whispering greetings, bearing her lovingly back into the fold.

Leah bounced as the van pulled out from its slot behind the Growth Hall. Tim rode shotgun, his overnight bag and reclaimed shoe box of goods at his feet. His thoughts turned to the briefing he'd owe Tannino, how he'd present the case to come back for TD.

Randall drove by the treatment wing, humming to himself – the "Ode to Joy." The Pros were out about Cottage Circle, attending to their tasks and activities robotically.

Not a single gray face rose to note the van as it glided past.