S is for Silence

13

Downstairs, Chet Cramer introduced me to his son-in-law and then excused himself. Winston Smith was the same heavyset salesman I’d seen earlier, and I wondered if his sales pitch had been successful. Probably not, given his energy level, which seemed low if not depressed. We sat in his cubicle, my back to the glass partition that looked out onto the floor. Winston’s desk was arranged so he could keep an eye out for customers without appearing inattentive.

At close range, the word “corpulent” was more appropriate than “heavyset” in capturing his girth. He looked as though a simple walk to his car would leave him wheezing and short of breath. There was no ashtray in sight, but I smelled the cigarette smoke that clung to his clothes and breath. Under his chin, a second chin bulged, leaving his shirt collar so taut it might choke him to death if he bent to tie his shoes. He still had most of his hair, which he wore long and curly on top, brushed back in a style I hadn’t seen since the days when Elvis Presley got his start.

I’d scarcely sat down when his telephone rang. “Excuse me,” he said, and picked up. “This is Winston Smith.” And then, with caution, “What’s up?”

I had no way of knowing who was on the other end of the line, but he flicked a quick look in my direction and angled his body for privacy. “Hang on a sec.” He put the caller on hold. “Let me take care of this and I’ll be right back.”

“Sure thing.”

He left the cubicle. I watched line one blink red until he picked up the call from a nearby phone. On the wall across from me, his sales manuals were lined up on a built-in credenza. In a prominent position, there was a color photograph of a bride and groom on what I assumed was their wedding day. I crossed and picked up the framed photo for closer scrutiny. Winston must have been in his midtwenties, slim, handsome, curly-haired, and boyish, his tuxedo contributing an air of casual elegance. At his side, a hefty Kathy Cramer was squeezed into a wedding dress so tight it must have hurt to breathe. Above the sweetheart neckline, her breasts were plumped like two homemade yeast rolls that had risen and were ready to pop in the oven. In the years since that day, the two had reversed roles. Now she was trim, an exercise addict, while he’d apparently surrendered all hope of getting into shape. What was up with that? I kept thinking about Ta

I replaced the photo and took my seat again mere moments before he returned, murmuring, “Sorry about that.” He sat down again, but something in his ma

“No problem. I had a chat with her earlier and she showed me the house. Nice place.”

“Should be for the price we paid,” he said with a quick forced smile.

“You play golf?”

He shook his head. “She’s the golfer. I keep my nose to the grindstone. If you notice me limp, it’s from dragging my ball and chain.” He laughed when he said it and I smiled in response, thinking, Ding, ding, ding, ding.

I said, “I could never see the point of golf myself. Chasing a ball and then hitting it with a stick? Though now that I think about it, that describes a lot of sports. What about your daughters? Are they golfers?”

“Amber was taking lessons before she left for Spain, but we’ll see where that goes. She’s easily bored so she’ll doubtless move on to something else. Brittany’s not athletic by any stretch. I’m sure Kathy’d tell you that she takes after me.”

“I understand Tiffany’s getting married in June.”

“Ka-ching, ka-ching, ” he said, pretending to punch up sales on a cash register. “You know how much weddings cost these days?”

“Not a clue.”

“Me, neither. Kathy keeps me in the dark so I can’t object. I’m sure it’s something close to the national debt.”

We both laughed at that, though the observation didn’t seem at all fu

He pulled out a handkerchief and blotted his upper lip where a subtle sheen of moisture had appeared. He returned the handkerchief to his back pocket. “Anyway, she tells me you have questions about Violet Sullivan.”

“If you don’t mind,” I said, expecting the standard assurance that the subject was really no big deal.

“Doesn’t matter if I do or not, I’m under orders,” he said, again with that quick, easy laugh to show what a wag he was.

Mentally I squinted, listening to the second set of comments embedded in the first. I’m not a fan of doublespeak. His asides were the sort offered by married couples who banter in public, airing their grievances with an eye to soliciting outside support. If Kathy had been with us, she’d have countered with a few ha-has of her own, thus guaranteeing a laugh at his expense. He would have joined in the merriment, which is what seemed pitiful to me. The man was in pain.

“What orders?”

“What?”

“What orders did she give?”

“Skip it. Long story.”

“I love long stories.”

“You don’t have other people you have to talk to?”

“I’m supposed to meet Daisy, but if you let me borrow your phone, I can change that. You want to go somewhere and grab a cigarette?”

I called Daisy at work and had a quick conversation with her, telling her something had come up and I wasn’t going to make it for lunch. I suggested that if Ta

I’d expected Winston to step out into the vestibule to grab a smoke, but he took out his car keys and walked me to the side lot where he’d parked his car. He handed me into the passenger side of a metallic blue 1987 Chevrolet Caravan station wagon. When he got in on his side, he said, “This is only mine until the ‘88s come in. Then they swap it out.”

“Slick.”

“You think so until you look at the underlying attitude. No matter how fond you are of what you have, there’s always something hotter coming down the pike. It’s a recipe for discontent.”

“If you buy into it,” I said.

“That’s my job-promoting the concept. Coaxing the gullible into taking the bait.”

“So why don’t you quit and do something else? No one has a gun to your head.”

“I’m fifty-four years old, a little long in the tooth for any big career change. Can I buy you lunch?”

“In matters of food, you can always count me in.”

I pictured McDonald’s, but then I was always picturing McDonald’s. I’d take a Quarter Pounder with Cheese over just about any other foodstuff on earth.

He drove us across town and pulled into a supermarket parking lot where a fellow and his wife had set up a portable barbeque that was attached to a camper shell. The rolling metal rig was black, about the size of a double-wide utility sink, with a pulley and chain that allowed for the raising and lowering of a rack. Chunks of meat had been laid on the grill over hot coals, and the smoky smell of charred beef filled the air. To one side, buttered rolls had been cut in half and placed on the grill.

A steady stream of cars was turning into the lot, taking advantage of the numerous empty parking spaces. On a card table, I could see piles of paper napkins, paper plates, plastic cutlery, and numerous plastic tubs of salsa and beans. Nearby three portable picnic tables were set up with aluminum lawn chairs. An ice chest contained cold cans of soda for a quarter apiece.

We parked as close as we could and eased into a line that was easily twenty-five people long. The wait was worth it, and I made no attempt to tidy up my ma