Disclosure

Although the evening was mild, he felt chilled. He went back inside the ferry. He sat in a booth and took out his phone to call Susan. He pushed the buttons, but the light didn't come on. The battery was dead. For a moment he was confused; the battery should last all day. But it was dead.



The perfect end to his day.



Feeling the throb of the ferry engines, he stood in the bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror. His hair was messed; there was a faint smear of lipstick on his lips, and another on his neck; two buttons of his shirt were missing, and his clothes were rumpled. He looked as if he had just gotten laid. He turned his head to see his ear. A tiny bruise marked where she had bitten him. He unbuttoned the shirt and looked at the deep red scratches running in parallel rows down his chest.



Christ.



How was he going to keep Susan from seeing this?



He dampened paper towels and scrubbed away the lipstick. He patted down his hair, and buttoned his sport coat, hiding most of his shirt. Then he went back outside, sat down at a booth by the window, and stared into space.



"Hey, Tom."



He looked up and saw John Perry, his neighbor on Bainbridge. Perry was a lawyer with Marlin, Howard, one of the oldest firms in Seattle. He was one of those irrepressibly enthusiastic people, and Sanders didn't much feel like talking to him. But Perry slipped into the seat opposite him.



"How's it going?" Perry asked cheerfully.



"Pretty good," Sanders said.



"I had a great day."



"Glad to hear it."



`Just great," Perry said. "We tried a case, and I tell you, we kicked ass.



"Great," Sanders said. He stared fixedly out the window, hoping Perry would take the hint and go away.



Perry didn't. "Yeah, and it was a damned tough case, too. Uphill all the way for us," he said. "Title VII, Federal Court. Client's a woman who worked at MicroTech, claimed she wasn't promoted because she was a female. Not a very strong case, to tell the truth. Because she drank, and so on. There were problems. But we have a gal in our firm, Louise Fernandez, a Hispanic gal, and she is just lethal on these discrimination cases. Lethal. Got the jury to award our client nearly half a million. That Fernandez can work the case law like nothing you've ever seen. She's won fourteen of her last sixteen cases. She acts so sweet and demure, and inside, she's just ice. I tell you, sometimes women scare the hell out of me."



Sanders said nothing.



He came home to a silent house, the kids already asleep. Susan always put the kids to bed early. He went upstairs. His wife was sitting up in bed, reading, with legal files and papers scattered across the bedcovers. When she saw him, she got out of bed and came over to hug him. Involuntarily, his body tensed.



"I'm really sorry, Tom," she said. "I'm sorry about this morning. And I'm sorry about what happened at work." She turned her face up and kissed him lightly on the lips. Awkwardly, he turned away. He was afraid she would smell Meredith's perfume, or



"You mad about this morning?" she asked.



"No," he said. "Really, I'm not. It was just a long day."



"Lot of meetings on the merger?"



"Yes," he said. "And more tomorrow. It's pretty crazy."



Susan nodded. "It must be. You just got a call from the office. From a Meredith Johnson."



He tried to keep his voice casual. "Oh yes?"



"Uh-huh. About ten minutes ago." She got back in bed. "Who is she, anyway?" Susan was always suspicious when women from the office called.



Sanders said, "She's the new veep. They just brought her up from Cupertino."



"I wondered . . . She acted like she knew me."



"I don't think you've ever met." He waited, hoping he wouldn't have to say more.



"Well," she said, "she sounded very friendly. She said to tell you everything is fine for the due diligence meeting tomorrow morning at eight-thirty, and she'll see you then."



"Okay. Fine."



He kicked off his shoes, and started to unbutton his shirt, then stopped. He bent over and picked his shoes up.



"How old is she?" Susan asked.



"Meredith? I don't know. Thirty-five, something like that. Why?"



"Just wondered." "I'm going to take a shower," he said.



"Okay." She picked up her legal briefs, and settled back in bed, adjusting the reading light.



He started to leave.



"Do you know her?" Susan asked.



"I've met her before. In Cupertino."



"What's she doing up here?"



"She's my new boss."



"She's the one."



"Yeah," he said. "She's the one."



"She's the woman that's close to Garvin?"



"Yeah. Who told you? Adele?" Adele Lewyn, Mark's wife, was one of Susan's best friends.



She nodded. "Mary Anne called, too. The phone never stopped ringing."



"I'll bet."



"So is Garvin fucking her or what?"



"Nobody knows," he said. "The general belief is that he's not."



"Why'd he bring her in, instead of giving the job to you?"



"I don't know, Sue."



"You didn't talk to Garvin?"



"He came around to see me in the morning, but I wasn't there."



She nodded. "You must be pissed. Or are you being your usual understanding self?"



"Well." He shrugged. "What can I do?"



"You can quit," she said.



"Not a chance."



"They passed over you. Don't you have to quit?"



"This isn't the best economy to find another job. And I'm forty-one. I don't feel like starting over. Besides, Phil insists they're going to spin off the technical division and take it public in a year. Even if I'm not running it, I'd still be a principal in that new company."



"And did he have details?" He nodded. "They'll vest us each twenty thousand shares, and options for fifty thousand more. Then options for another fifty thousand shares each additional year."



"At?"



"Usually it's twenty-five cents a share."



"And the stock will be offered at what? Five dollars?"



"At least. The IPO market is getting stronger. Then, say it goes to ten. Maybe twenty, if we're hot."



There was a brief silence. He knew she was good with figures. "No," she said finally. "You can't possibly quit."



He had done the calculations many times. At a minimum, Sanders would realize enough on his stock options to pay off his mortgage in a single payment. But if the stock went through the roof, it could be truly fantastic-somewhere between five and fourteen million dollars. That was why going public was the dream of anyone who worked in a technical company.



He said, "As far as I'm concerned, they can bring in Godzilla to manage that division, and I'll still stay at least two more years."



"And is that what they've done? Brought in Goodwill?"



He shrugged. "I don't know."



"Do you get along with her?"



He hesitated. "I'm not sure. I'm going to take a shower."



"Okay," she said. He glanced back at her: she was reading her notes again.



After his shower, he plugged his phone into the charger unit onthe sink, and put on a T-shirt and boxer shorts. He looked at himself in the mirror; the shirt covered his scratches. But he was still worried about the smell of Meredith's perfume. He splashed after-shave on his cheeks.



Then he went into his son's room to check on him. Matthew was snoring loudly, his thumb in his mouth. He had kicked down the covers. Sanders pulled them back up gently and kissed his forehead.



Then he went into Eliza's room. At first he could not see her; his daughter had lately taken to burrowing under a barricade of covers and pillows when she slept. He tiptoed in, and saw a small hand reach up, and wave to him. He came forward.



"Why aren't you asleep, Laze?'' he whispered.



"I was having a dream," she said. But she didn't seem frightened.



He sat on the edge of the bed, and stroked her hair. "What kind of a dream?"



"About the beast."



"Uh-huh . . ."



"The beast was really a prince, but he was placed under a powerful spell by a 'chantress."



"That's right . . ." He stroked her hair.



"Who turned him into a hideous beast."



She was quoting the movie almost verbatim.



"That's right," he said.



"Why?"



"I don't know, Lize. That's the story."



"Because he didn't give her shelter from the bitter cold?" She was quoting again. "Why didn't he, Dad?"



"I don't know," he said.



"Because he had no love in his heart," she said.



"Live, it's time for sleep."



"Give me a dream first, Dad."



"Okay. There's a beautiful silver cloud hanging over your bed, and-"



"That dream's no good, Dad." She was frowning at him.



"Okay. What kind of dream do you want?"



"With Kermit."



"Okay. Kermit is sitting right here by your head, and he is going to watch over you all night."



"And you, too."



"Yes. And me, too." He kissed her forehead, and she rolled away to face the wall. As he left the room he could hear her sucking her thumb loudly.



He went back to the bedroom and pushed aside his wife's legal briefs to get into bed.



"Was she still awake?" Susan asked.



"I think she'll go to sleep. She wanted a dream. About Kermit."



His wife nodded. "Kermit is a very big deal now."



She didn't comment on his T-shirt. He slipped under the covers and felt suddenly exhausted. He lay back against the pillow and closed his eyes. He felt Susan picking up the briefs on the bed, and a moment later she turned off the light.



"Mum," she said. "You smell good."



She snuggled up against him, pressing her face against his neck, and threw her leg over his side. This was her invariable overture, and it always annoyed him. He felt pinned down by her heavy leg.



She stroked his cheek. "Is that after-shave for me?"



"Oh, Susan . . ." He sighed, exaggerating his fatigue.



"Because it works," she said, giggling. Beneath the covers, she put her hand on his chest. He felt it slide down, and slip under the T-shirt.



He had a burst of sudden anger. What was the matter with her? She never had any sense about these things. She was always coming on to him at inappropriate times and places. He reached down and grabbed her hand.



"Something wrong?"



"I'm really tired, Sue."



She stopped. "Bad day, huh?" she said sympathetically.



"Yeah. Pretty bad."



She got up on one elbow, and leaned over him. She stroked his lower lip with one finger. "You don't want me to cheer you up?"



"I really don't."



"Not even a little?"



He sighed again.



"You sure?" she asked, teasingly. "Really, really sure?" And then she started to slide beneath the covers.



He reached down and held her head with both hands. "Susan. Please. Come on."



She giggled. "It's only eight-thirty. You can't be that tired."



"I am."



"I bet you're not."



"Susan, damn it. I'm not in the mood."



"Okay, okay." She pulled away from him. "But I don't know why you put on the after-shave, if you're not interested."



"For Christ's sake."



"We hardly ever have sex anymore, as it is."



"That's because you're always traveling." It just slipped out.



"I'm not `always traveling.' "



"You're gone a couple of nights a week."



"That's not `always traveling.' And besides, it's my job. I thought you were going to be more supportive of my job."



"I am supportive."



"Complaining is not supportive."



"Look, for Christ's sake," he said, "I come home early whenever you're out of town, I feed the kids, I take care of things so you don't have to worry-"



"Sometimes," she said. "And sometimes you stay late at the office, and the kids are with Consuela until all hours"



"Well, I have a job, too-"



"So don't give me this `take care of things' crap," she said. "You're not home anywhere near as much as I am, I'm the one who has two jobs, and mostly you do exactly what you want, just like every other fucking man in the world."



"Susan . . ."



`Jesus, you come home early once in a while, and you act like a fucking martyr." She sat up, and turned on her bedside light. "Every woman I know works harder than any man."



"Susan, I don't want to fight."



"Sure, make it my fault. I'm the one with the problem. Fucking men."



He was tired, but he felt suddenly energized by anger. He felt suddenly strong, and got out of bed and started pacing. "What does being a man have to do with it? Am I going to hear how oppressed you are again now?"



"Listen," she said, sitting straighter. "Women are oppressed. It's a fact."



"Is it? How are you oppressed? You never wash a load of clothes. You never cook a meal. You never sweep a floor. Somebody does all that for you. You have somebody to do everything for you. You have somebody to take the kids to school and somebody to pick them up. You're a partner in a law firm, for Christ's sake. You're about as oppressed as Leona Helmsley."



She was staring at him in astonishment. He knew why: Susan had made her oppression speech many times before, and he had never contradicted her. Over time, with repetition it had become an accepted idea in their marriage. Now he was disagreeing. He was changing the rules.



"I can't believe you. I thought you were different." She squinted at him, her judicious look. "This is because a woman got your job, isn't it."



"What're we going to now, the fragile male ego?"



"It's true, isn't it? You're threatened."



"No it's not. It's crap. Who's got the fragile ego around here? Your ego's so fucking fragile, you can't even take a rejection in bed without picking a fight."



That stopped her. He saw it instantly: she had no comeback. She sat there frowning at him, her face tight.



`Jesus," he said, and turned to leave the room.



"You picked this fight," she said.



He turned back. "I did not."



"Yes, you did. You were the one who started in with the traveling."



"No. You were complaining about no sex."



"I was commenting."



"Christ. Never marry a lawyer."



"And your ego is fragile."



"Susan, you want to talk fragile? I mean, you're so fucking selfinvolved that you had a shitfit this morning because you wanted to look pretty for the pediatrician."



"Oh, there it is. Finally. You are still mad because I made you late. What is it? You think you didn't get the job because you were late?"



"No," he said, "I didn't-"



"You didn't get the job," she said, "because Garvin didn't give it to you. You didn't play the game well enough, and somebody else played it better. That's why. A woman played it better."



Furious, shaking, unable to speak, he turned on his heel and left the room.



"That's right, leave," she said. "Walk away. That's what you always do. Walk away. Don't stand up for yourself. You don't want to hear it, Tom. But it's the truth. If you didn't get the job, you have nobody to blame but yourself."



He slammed the door.



He sat in the kitchen in darkness. It was quiet all around him, except for the hum of the refrigerator. Through the kitchen window, he could see the moonlight on the bay, through the stand of fir trees.



He wondered if Susan would come down, but she didn't. He got up and walked around, pacing. After a while, it occurred to him that he hadn't eaten. He opened the refrigerator door, squinting in the light. It was stacked with baby food, juice containers, baby vitamins, bottles of formula. He poked among the stuff, looking for some cheese, or maybe a beer. He couldn't find anything except a can of Susan's Diet Coke.



Christ, he thought, not like the old days. When his refrigerator was full of frozen food and chips and salsa and lots of beer. His bachelor days.



He took out the Diet Coke. Now Eliza was starting to drink it, too. He'd told Susan a dozen times he didn't want the kids to get diet drinks. They ought to be getting healthy food. Real food. But Susan was busy, and Consuela indifferent. The kids ate all kinds of crap. It wasn't right. It wasn't the way he had been brought up.



Nothing to eat. Nothing in his own damned refrigerator. Hopeful, he lifted the lid of a Tupperware container and found a partially eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich, with Eliza's small toothmarks in one side. He picked the sandwich up and turned it over, wondering how old it was. He didn't see any mold.



What the hell, he thought, and he ate the rest of Eliza's sandwich, standing there in his T-shirt, in the light of the refrigerator door. He was startled by his own reflection in the glass of the oven. "Another privileged member of the patriarchy, lording it over the manor."



Christ, he thought, where did women come up with this crap?



He finished the sandwich and rubbed the crumbs off his hands. The wall clock said 9:15. Susan went to sleep early. Apparently she wasn't coming down to make up. She usually didn't. It was his job to make up.



He was the peacemaker. He opened a carton of milk and drank from it, then put it back on the wire shelf. He closed the door. Darkness again.



He walked over to the sink, washed his hands, and dried them on a dish towel. Having eaten a little, he wasn't so angry anymore. Fatigue crept over him. He looked out the window and through the trees and saw the lights of a ferry, heading west toward Bremerton. One of the things he liked about this house was that it was relatively isolated. It had some land around it. It was good for the kids. Kids should grow up with a place to run and play.



He yawned. She definitely wasn't coming down. It'd have to wait until morning. He knew how it would go: he'd get up first, fix her a cup of coffee, and take it to her in bed. Then he'd say he was sorry, and she would reply that she was sorry, too. They'd hug, and he would go get dressed for work. And that would be it.



He went back up the dark stairs to the second floor, and opened the door to the bedroom. He could hear the quiet rhythms of Susan's breathing.



He slipped into bed, and rolled over on his side. And then he went to sleep.



TUESDAY



t rained in the morning, hard sheets of drumming downpour that slashed across the windows of the ferry. Sanders stood in line to get his coffee, thinking about the day to come. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dave Benedict coming toward him, and quickly turned away, but it was too late. Benedict waved, "Hey, guy." Sanders didn't want to talk about DigiCom this morning.



At the last moment, he was saved by a call: the phone in his pocket went off: He turned away to answer it.



"Fucking A, Tommy boy." It was Eddie Larson in Austin.



"What is it, Eddie?"



"You know that bean counter Cupertino sent down? Well, get this: there's eight of 'em here now. Independent accounting firm of Jenkins, McKay, out of Dallas. They're going over all the books, like a swarm of roaches. And I mean everything: receivables, payables, A and L's, year to date, everything. And now they're going back through every year to 'eighty-nine."



"Yeah? Disrupting everything?"



"Better believe it. The gals don't even have a place to sit down and answer the phone. Plus, everything from 'ninety-one back is in storage, downtown. We've got it on fiche here, but they say they want original documents. They want the damned paper. And they get all squinty and paranoid when they order us around. Treating us like we're thieves or something trying to pull a fast one. It's insulting."



"Well," Sanders said, "hang in there. You've got to do what they ask."



"The only thing that really bothers me," Eddie said, "is they got another seven more coming in this afternoon. Because they're also doing a complete inventory of the plant. Everything from the furniture in the offices to the air handlers and the heat stampers out on the line. We got a guy there now, making his way down the line, stopping at each work station. Says, `What's this thing called? How do you spell it? Who makes it? What's the model number? How old is it? Where's the serial number?' You ask me, we might as well shut the line down for the rest of the day."



Sanders frowned. "They're doing an inventory?"



"Well, that's what they call it. But it's beyond any damn inventory I ever heard of. These guys have worked over at Texas Instruments or someplace, and I'll give 'em one thing: they know what they're talking about. This morning, one of the Jenkins guys came up and asked me what kind of glass we got in the ceiling skylights. I said, `What kind of glass?' I thought he was shitting me. He says, `Yeah, is it Corning two forty-seven, or two-forty-seven slash nine.' Or some damned thing like that. They're different kinds of UV glass, because UV can affect chips on the production line. I never even heard that UV can affect chips. `Oh yeah,' this guy says. `Real problem if your ASDs get over two-twenty.' That's annual sunny days. Have you heard of that?"



Sanders wasn't really listening. He was thinking about what it meant that somebody either Garvin, or the Conley-White people would ask for an inventory of the plant. Ordinarily, you called for an inventory only if you were planning to sell a facility. Then you had to do it, to figure your writedowns at the time of transfer of assets, and-



"Tom, you there?"



"I'm here."



"So I say to this guy, I never heard that. About the UV and the chips. And we been putting chips in the phones for years, never any trouble. And then the guy says, `Oh, not for installing chips. UV affects it if you're manufacturing chips.' And I say, we don't do that here. And he says, `I know.' So, I'm wondering: what the hell does he care what kind of glass we have? Tommy boy? You with me? What's the story?" Larson said. "We're going to have fifteen guys crawling all over us by the end of the day. Now don't tell me this is routine."



"It doesn't sound like it's routine, no."



"It sounds like they're going to sell the plant to somebody who makes chips, is what it sounds like. And that ain't us."



"I agree. That's what it sounds like."



"Fucking A," Eddie said. "I thought you told me this wasn't going to happen. Tom: people here are getting upset. And I'm one of 'em."



"I understand."



"I mean, I got people asking me. They just bought a house, their wife's pregnant, they got a baby coming, and they want to know. What do I tell 'em?"



"Eddie, I don't have any information."