Audrey's Door Part 7

About twenty men in suits were waiting at the long conference table. Its window gave a cityscape view of downtown Manhattan. In the distance were construction holes, the circle line, and Lady Liberty.

Jill took her seat with the rest of the nine-member Parkside Plaza team. On the opposite, windowed side of the long, j.a.panese teak table were Vesuvius' founding brothers, Randolph and Mortimer Pozzolana. Flanking the Pozzolanas were the hierarchy of nondesigners, from accounting, to vice president of operations, to manager of public relations. Basically, this room represented everybody who was anybody at Vesuvius. She'd kept them waiting, and they did not look happy. Audrey gulped. For the fiftieth time this year she thought: I really ought to own a suit. I also ought to start wearing lipstick. I really ought to own a suit. I also ought to start wearing lipstick.

"I'm so sorry I'm late," she said.

"Audrey's doctor's appointment ran longer than she expected," Jill chimed in.

Audrey nodded. "Right."

Scritch-scratch! Scritch-scratch!

She headed for the empty seat near Jill, but Randolph Pozzolana, the friendlier, younger partner who referred to his twenty-eight-year-old wife as "my-old-lady-number-three" shook his head. "Other side. Use the podium." His voice was matter-of-fact, but polite, like a British Navy captain who's aware that the boat is sinking, but sees no reason to shed good manners. She realized then that he knew. Everybody knew that something was up, and somebody somebody was going down. was going down. Jill Jill had sold her out. had sold her out.

She walked the long gallows. When she got to the podium, she surveyed the rest of the team, but none offered an encouraging smile. She had the least real-work experience at Vesuvius, but Jill had made her second-in-command. Because of that, Audrey Lucas was n.o.body's favorite new girl. She stood at the front of the room. Swallowed, hard. The air expanded inside her chest like a reverse burp and left her breathless. This was her first job outside a greasy spoon. Other than telling truckers and Omaha art-school crankheads to keep their mitts to themselves, she'd never given a speech or even raised her voice before. She was fairly sure she'd be bad at it.

Scritch-scratch! Scritch-scratch!

Was someone cleaning the windows outside?

The faces peering at her looked alien, as if she were viewing them from upside down. She took a breath. At least she wasn't sleepwalking in The Breviary right now, or fighting with Saraub. In its way, this office was a relief. She tried to remember that.

The faces kept watching, so she squeezed her hands into fists and closed her eyes. Pretended the room was empty of people and perfectly symmetrical. Opened her eyes again, but tried to keep the image there, of black nothing. She could still see, but the trick calmed her enough to continue.

"Sorry to hold you up. I love this project!" she said. She tried to sound excited, but the effect was more used-Hyundai salesman: unctuous and just the wrong side of smart. Mortimer frowned. So did Jill. David Galea, who brought c.o.kes to her cubicle when she worked through lunch, looked down at his notepad like he was embarra.s.sed for her.

She unrolled the plans. Lots of lines on oversized white paper.

Scriiiittccch!

What was that? The sound was dull and had give, like sh.e.l.l dragged against concrete: it rattled, leaving pieces of itself behind.

"Hydroponics are environmentally friendly, and the running water buffers plane and traffic noise pollution. The design of the future." She continued, talking to a room she'd decided to pretend was empty.

"These plans were made by Manny in design, and he did a great job, but I should remind you all that they're rough," she announced as she handed out the five-by-seven replicas of the latest design, ten to each side. The hands that took the papers were disembodied. Unrelated. Papers rustled as they were pa.s.sed, like phantoms.

SCRITCH!-SCRAAAAATTCCCH!.

Who the heck was making that sound?

"I don't like the colors-orange is for hazard signs, not plants, and those grid lines will be gone when we present this to the client." Her voice trembled as she spoke.

Someone at the far end of the long table wrapped his fingernails against the wood-she couldn't see whom. She unrolled the master plans with her hands. The details were marked with light ink and hard to distinguish from the blue paper and small graph boxes. She didn't remember what they represented. That sound, so distracting: SCRITCH!-SCRATCH! SCRITCH-SCRATCH!.

She turned to the corner behind her. Because of the mind game she was playing, everything seemed dark. Something twitched. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, it was bright again. Her imagination? The OCD?

At the far end of the table, Mortimer wrapped his slender knuckles against the teak table. He wore red Santa Claus suspenders under his blue wool jacket, and they made him seem deranged. What seventy year-old man wears suspenders? What seventy year-old man wears suspenders? "Go on," he said. "We don't have all day." "Go on," he said. "We don't have all day."

She continued, trying not to look in the corner. Not to look anywhere. "What the client liked about Jill's proposal was its unique style, but..." the words left her. She focused on her hands, whose wrinkled knuckles looked like newborn gerbils. Jill's boxy, Brooks Brothers jacket was too big. Its sleeves met her fingers, and it smelled like a hospital, which of course reminded her of Betty.

Scriiiiitttccch! Scraaaaaaaaaaaaatttccch!

She couldn't help it. The sound was too big to ignore. She jerked her head toward the corner behind her, and saw. saw. The man from her dream. He stood with his back to her, and he appeared as a shadow, only darker; the reverse outline of a sunspot when you blink. The man from her dream. He stood with his back to her, and he appeared as a shadow, only darker; the reverse outline of a sunspot when you blink.

She broke out in a quick sweat. Can OCD make you hallucinate? Can you get flashbacks from hash? She looked away, hoping he would disappear. No one else was reacting, which she knew meant he could not really be there...right?

"Practical considerations..." she said. Sweat dampened her temples. She tried to remember those considerations, but her mind drew a blank. Her team was boring holes through her skin with their eyes. Little lasers of humiliation. A few looked nervous, like her discomfort was contagious, but most were openly hostile. Limping chickens in coops are always the first to get pecked to death. n.o.body likes the weakling of the pack.

Scritch!-Scratch!

She couldn't help it. She looked back into the corner. The man's shape had gotten more distinct. Pieces of the plaster wall fell to the floor as he worked: scritch!-scratch! scritch!-scratch! To dig, he was using his index finger, which he'd worn to the bone. To dig, he was using his index finger, which he'd worn to the bone.

Another tap from across the room, and then, "Ms. Loomis? Lucas? Is something wrong?"

SCRITCH! SCRATCH!.

SCRITCH! SCRATCH!.

She covered her ears with her hands. The scratching got faster. His bone wore as he worked and left a chalky residue.

SCRITCH! SCRATCH!.

SCRITCH! SCRATCH!.

SCRITCH! SCRATCH!.

There was a hole in the plaster now. She remembered the article she'd read, about the doors of chaos that civilized men had no business opening. The thing in her stomach slopped. The hole the man had made was black and deep. If she looked hard enough, she thought she could see something on the other side of it, peering back at her.

Above the hole, he began to scribble with his chalk bone. His body bent and jerked as he wrote, and he worked inhumanly fast, like time moved differently for him than for everyone else in the room. SCRITCH! SCRATCH! SCRITCH! SCRATCH! SCRITCH! SCRATCH! SCRITCH! SCRATCH! SCRITCH! SCRATCH! SCRITCH! SCRATCH!

His hair had gone gray, and his sharp teeth fell out one by one. Not a dandy, anymore. His three-piece suit was worn to threads. When he was done, he stepped aside to let her see his message. In blood and bone above the black hole, he'd written: Build the Door As she read, the hole underneath the letters expanded like a breath, and the void inside it widened. And then, oh, no. Out from the hole, a swarm of red ants crawled.

"Stop it!" she cried.

The entire room jolted. She turned back to the boardroom table, where shocked faces peered back at her. She faced the man in the corner again, but he was gone. So was the hole.

Ragged breathing, she closed her eyes. Opened them. Nothing there. Not even a crack in the plaster. A bead of sweat rolled over her brow and into her eye. The salt burned.

Scritch! Scritch!

This time, the sound was Mortimer, scratching his manicured fingernails against the wooden table. She realized he'd been doing that for a while now. The blood rushed to her face. She looked in the corner again. Nothing there. Could she really have imagined such a thing?

"Are you ill, Miss Loomis?" Randolph asked.

Audrey blinked. The room was bright. A sunny fall day. Twenty rich people with good jobs sat at a long teak table, politely observing Audrey Lucas have her first psychotic break.

Mortimer glared, like he wished his eyes would burn holes through her skull so she'd keel over, and he could kick her dead body. Jill was up and heading in her direction. There were tears in her eyes, and Audrey wasn't sure whether they contained self-pity or sympathy. Randolph pushed out his chair as if to stand, excuse her from the podium, then insist Jill continue. Do the honorable thing and put her out of her misery. She'd be fired if that happened. Maybe not immediately, but eventually, because s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up a major meeting wasn't something anybody was going to forget. She couldn't let that happen. Not without a fight.

"I should explain. I had light surgery over the weekend. Nothing serious, just a polyp, but the doctor gave me Vicodin. I think I might be allergic because-I'm dizzy, and a little confused. But I'll stop wasting your time and get going now. Okay?" The lie came out in such a nervous rush it sounded natural.

n.o.body moved any closer, and she seized the opportunity to continue. "Now...Where was I?" she asked while unrolling the plans. The lines on the page were a jumble. She fixed her eyes on them and shut everything else out. The shuffling papers. The eyes, watching. The sound of her own rapid pulse. The thing in the corner. Was it invisible, and still watching her even now?

She counted backward quickly from ten. Imagined the shapes of the numbers as she thought them. Moved her gaze from left to right, small to large, and willed herself to see. see. After a few seconds, the plans coalesced. Right angles and arcs, beautiful straight lines. They intersected, and spoke. After a few seconds, the plans coalesced. Right angles and arcs, beautiful straight lines. They intersected, and spoke.

"It's a maze," she said. Mortimer narrowed his eyes. Randolph shrugged. The middle men shuffled their feet. She realized they thought she'd said amazed. amazed.

She looked at each person in the room, one by one, so that they knew she was back in control. She started with her team. Realized that they hadn't been hostile before, just concerned. If this went badly, Audrey wasn't the only architect facing an unemployment line. Then she nodded at Jill to rea.s.sure her. The underarms of her frilly blouse were wet with sweat. Then the department heads. Finally, Randolph, then Mortimer. Dead in the eyes. She'd be d.a.m.ned, after all she'd done to get here, if this was the way she was going out.

"A garden maze in the clouds." She let this sentence hang for a while, because she liked the sound of it, and she suddenly realized that she was proud. These long, late hours, she'd extended Jill's idea into something new, and good. She'd been so busy working and looking for a place to live that she hadn't noticed it until now.

She cleared her throat. "Tragedies happen. But life goes on. Buildings go on, too. They have to, or else they're shrines to the dead."

A few people s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably, and the Pozzolanas returned her gaze with something cold. She'd hit a nerve. Since the recession, architecture firms, unable to build, had gotten into the business of grief. Angel-faced memorials were popping up like weeds all over the country, and Vesuvius was responsible for a lot of them. It had become a commonplace Sunday afternoon hobby for people to visit the memorials of people they'd never met and leave flowers. And not just soldiers who'd died in war, either. Plane crashes, car accidents, stray bullet shootings. They were all marked with stone angels, slabs of marble, or plaques posted to trees. The grief industry was burying the country in white baby's breath flowers, and the scent was sickly sweet.

"New York is about the future and living your dreams. n.o.body left Omaha because they liked it. Or Sioux City. Or Des Moines. Or Portland. Pick a Portland. Any Portland. You can have 'em. I'll take Manhattan."

A few people chortled. She smiled, because she knew they'd decided to give her another shot. "So! We designed an outdoor roof garden. Like flowers, it'll be an offering to those who died, but it'll exist for the living, too."

She looked down at her hands, which she'd squeezed into fists so she didn't have to see her knuckles. She straightened them now, so her audience didn't mistake the habit for hostility. The thing about her work was, she loved it. She was never more comfortable, or happier, as when she was designing, or seeing her plans come to fruition. What could be more satisfying than changing the architecture of the world, and maybe even making it a better place to live?

"We've done something new here, and I think you'll be pleased. Instead of low-lying plants or gra.s.s, we chose six-foot-tall hedges. We'll a.s.semble them into a winding maze, not so different from cubicles, with fixed places for benches and picnic tables. At the center of the maze we'll place a mourning wall, where the names of the victims will be carved in marble." She lifted her copy of the plans, and pointed with her pen. "You can see these will be areas for reflection, but here and also here"-she pointed while holding up the plan-"we'll place sculptures and picnic tables. Finally, we'll dedicate the mourning wall to 'The Good Samaritan,' and the inspiration he has been to all of us. And now, for the really good news: we've made preliminary inquiries, and so long as AIAB green lights the fee, Joseph Frick is on board to carve the wall. He's the same guy who built those steps in New Orleans after the second levees broke."

A few people sat back in their chairs. Randolph smiled. Her team smiled. Jill smiled. She exhaled with relief so pleasantly contagious that Mortimer finally stopped glaring.

She went for gold, delineating the structure of the roof and the floors below, for the next half hour. When she was done, the room stayed quiet. Her cheeks burned like a fire lived in there. She'd screwed up, yes. She was nuts, maybe. But at least she'd come through when it counted.

The seconds pa.s.sed. Jill's eyelids fluttered, and Audrey realized she'd fallen asleep. Randolph scribbled something into his paper datebook-the last man on earth to own one. Mortimer tented his fingers.

"I like it," Randolph finally said.

"But no statues? No reflection pool? Is a wall enough?" Mortimer asked.

Audrey answered fast, so no middlemen cronies had the chance to chime in and blow the deal. "It's enough. You make people feel guilty with big memorials. Besides, if it's too big, AIAB will have to take it down one day because their staff will want something pretty. But by then they'll have to fight the city and the families, because once they have a memorial in place, any changes they make will look like a betrayal of the dead. With this structure, you're honestly remembering them, and moving on, too."

Mortimer nodded. "I'm sick of these bulls.h.i.+t memorials, too. I didn't get into this business to design cemeteries. When this recession is over, we're a skysc.r.a.per-only operation. Still, I don't like marble for the wall. Too mausoleum. I want something that blends. The maze is good, but it's uptight. Like you, Sidenschwandt," he said to Jill, whose eyes popped open. Next he turned to Audrey, but like his brother, got her name wrong: "And probably you, too, Loomis. Show me something better by next week." Then he rapped his knuckles against the table, and said, "From the way this meeting started, I thought I had a lemon on my hands. Nice surprise."

Then, shockingly, Mortimer smiled. "Next time, less pills, sweetheart. Send me the plans in an e-mail so I can run it through engineering. I'll set up a client meeting for the end of the month. I've got to run." He was standing fast and turned back once to add. "One more thing."

"Yes?" Audrey asked.

"This whole room was waiting for you. By my watch, almost five minutes. Everybody here."

Audrey looked to Jill. Jill looked to her hands.

He lowered his voice. "That can never happen again."

Audrey nodded. "Yes, sir."

Then he and Randolph, who gave her a surrept.i.tious thumbs-up, were out the door. The rest, including the 59th Street team, followed slowly, like herded sheep. What surprised her-a couple of them patted her on the back. Dave Galea even whispered, "f.u.c.k yeah! Lunch is on me." Street team, followed slowly, like herded sheep. What surprised her-a couple of them patted her on the back. Dave Galea even whispered, "f.u.c.k yeah! Lunch is on me."

She and Jill were the last to leave the room. "Did you really have a polyp?" Jill asked.

Audrey shook her head. "No. I don't know what's wrong with me. But I had to say something."

Jill looked at her for a beat longer than necessary. "Well, take better care of yourself. I can't afford to give you time off."

"Oh." Audrey's s.h.i.+rt had dried. She took off the jacket and tried to hand it back, but Jill wouldn't accept it. "Keep it. You'll need it." Then she lowered her voice so that no one outside could hear. "You helped me out on that. Decent job. Thank you."

Audrey beamed. "Yeah. Rough start, but I think they liked it. I wish you'd give me some notice next time, though."

Jill flipped her cell phone open and began to text a message. "The nurse is sick today, and n.o.body's watching my son."

Audrey frowned. "Sorry." They stood at the wide boardroom window overlooking downtown Manhattan. Sun-soaked tourists crowded Battery Park to ride the Circle Line, then snap photos of former monuments turned holes.

"Technically, as my second-in-command, it's your job to develop presentations. I don't have to give you notice." Jill didn't look at her when she said this, and a bolt of genuine rage thundered through Audrey's chest. The worm inside her began to gnaw. She thrust the jacket in Jill's direction until she had no choice but to take it back.

"Smells like sick people," she said, and left the room.

10.

You Like Me? You Really Like Me!

David swung by her cubicle ten minutes later, with the other members of the team in tow. "I was thinking Balucci's, so we could sneak in a couple of beers," he said. He was wearing a crisp blue suit and pressed trousers. He could have made the cover of GQ. GQ.

"Lots of beer," Craig chimed in. He was a junior designer, but he acted like an intern. His dad worked for AIAB, though, and had referred a lot of business to Vesuvius.

"What?" she asked. What did David expect her to say, that it was okay to drink on the job? Meanwhile, she had to get these plans done and didn't have the time to swallow a bagel?

"So Balucci's is okay with you?" David asked.

She got a little hot under the collar. "Actually," she said. "I could use some help on this."

David frowned. "You don't want to go to lunch?"

Now she was more confused than ever. Rather than getting herself into deeper trouble, she decided to say nothing at all.

"Lucas," Mark said. "It's our treat. For the presentation. If you hadn't done it, one of us would have been in the hot seat."

"Really?" she asked. They'd never asked her to lunch before. Usually, they just sneaked out one by one. She never imagined they all met up at the same place. "You guys always eat together?"