Two Graves

As she was standing there, wondering what to do next, a voice behind her said: “Excuse me?”

She turned to see an older couple, well dressed, friendly.

“Yes?”

“Are you available to help us?”

She looked around and was about to say that she didn’t work there, but something stopped her. Instead, she said: “Of course.” She bestowed on them a dazzling smile and offered her hand. “I’m Corrie.”

“Sue and Chuck Hesse,” said the man, shaking her hand.

She wasn’t sure where this was going, but what the heck?

“Welcome to Joe Ricco Chevy-Cadillac,” said Corrie.

“I’ve just retired from the university and we’re looking for something comfortable and elegant,” the man said.

She could tell right away that the professor was going to do all the talking—but she suspected, looking at the quiet, alert face of the wife, that the decision was going to be hers. They seemed like a nice couple. The man was even wearing a bow tie, which Corrie had always considered a sign of friendliness. She had the stirrings of an idea.

The only problem was that she knew nothing whatsoever about cars.

“We’ve been looking at sedans,” said the man, “trying to decide between the CTS Sport and the CTS-V. Could you help us do a comparison?”

Uh-oh. Corrie offered another smile, and leaned toward them. “Um, I have a confession to make.”

The man raised his bushy eyebrows.

“You’re my first customers. And… well, I don’t believe I’m very clear on the differences myself.”

“Oh, dear…” said the man, looking around. “Is there another salesperson we could work with?”

“Chuck,” said the wife in a stage whisper, “didn’t you hear her? We’re her first customers. You can’t do that!”

God bless you, thought Corrie.

“Oh, yes. I didn’t think of that. No offense intended.” The professor became flustered in an endearing way.

“I’ll do my best,” said Corrie. “I really need the experience. And I could sure use the sale. I’ve been here three days on trial so far, and…” She let her voice trail off. “I don’t know how much longer they’ll keep me.”

“I understand,” said the man. “Of course, we’re not going to buy anything today.”

“Maybe you could show me where the sedans are?” Corrie asked. “We could look at them—and learn—together.”

“They’re this way.” The ex-professor immediately took charge, leading them across the capacious lot to several rows of gleaming, handsome four-door cars in various colors. He seemed to know the lot quite well. He paused at one in red, laid his hand on it.

“Do you like that one?” Corrie said. She felt like an idiot but didn’t know what else to say.

“It’s not bad.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, what, ah, do you like about it? I need to learn these things if I’m going to sell them.”

The man launched into an enthusiastic recounting of its features and handling, mentioning a “laudable” review he’d read in the New York Times, or maybe it was in USA Today. He spoke of the transformation of GM from a dinosaur into an i

“So,” Corrie asked, when the man paused, “why’s the V sedan almost twice as much as the Sport? I mean, I don’t see a lot of difference.”

Oh, but there was a big difference, the man said, his bow tie wagging. And he proceeded to enumerate the differences with professorial clarity, Corrie again hanging on to every word. She was amazed at how much research the man had done. But then again, she thought, he was a professor.

Twenty minutes later, Corrie led the couple into the main salesroom and looked around for the manager who had interviewed her—or, rather, had declined to interview her. And there he was, Diet Coke in hand, brown suit and all, talking to two other salespeople, laughing salaciously about something. They quieted down as she approached. The manager looked at her with squinty eyes but wisely didn’t say anything.

“I want to tell you,” boomed the professor, “that your new salesperson did a bang-up job selling us that red CTS-V sedan out there. Now, let’s talk turkey on the price and get this deal done!”

Corrie stood there, wondering just what the heck was going to happen now, but the manager was a cool customer. Without batting an eye, he gestured to one of the salespeople to get the paperwork started, then shook the couple’s hands, congratulating them on their taste and style, and praising Corrie for her fine work as if she actually were a salesperson.

He finished up with a pat on Corrie’s back and a friendly, “If you’d care to step into my office, we’ll talk in a moment.”

Corrie stepped in and waited in trepidation. In half an hour the manager came back, settled behind his desk, sighed, clasped his hands together, and leaned forward. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I sold a car for you, didn’t I?”

He stared at her. “BFD. I sell half a dozen cars a day.”

Corrie rose. “I was just trying to show you what I could do. If you don’t like it, fine. Keep the commission and I’ll walk out of here and never bother you again.” She got up in a huff.

“Sit down, sit down.” The manager seemed to be cooling off. “Okay, I’ll admit, I’m impressed. Mr. and Mrs. Bow Tie have been in here a dozen times, and I was pretty sure they were just tire kickers. In thirty minutes you sold them a seventy-one-thousand-dollar car. How’d you do it?”

“That’s my secret.”

He stared at her. He didn’t like that answer at all. “You want a job here? You learn some respect.”

She shook her head. “I’ve got a system, and if your salespeople want to learn it, they can trail me while I work.” She gave him an arrogant smile. The manager was clearly a first-class asshole, but an intelligent and predictable one who knew which side his bread was buttered on. She figured he might appreciate a brash go-getter.

“Well, well,” he said. “All right. We’ll try you out for a week. We need a girl salesperson, don’t have one. No salary, commissions only, no benefits, you work as an independent contractor, cash under the table. Don’t report your taxes because we sure as hell won’t. And you’ll work with a partner at all times. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

He stuck out his hand. “Joe Ricco Junior.”

“Corrie Swanson.”

They shook hands. “You related by any chance to Jack Swanson?” Ricco asked casually.

“No. Why?”

“Because it’s his job you’re replacing.”

“Never heard of him. Swanson’s a common name. You know, like the TV di

“You’re not of that family, are you?”

She blushed. “Well, don’t tell anyone. I like people to think I have to work for a living.”

Ricco Junior looked impressed. Very impressed.

32

THE BOY SAT AT THE TABLE EATING TOAST WITH BUTTER and jam. Never in his entire life had he tasted anything so wonderful. And the sausages the Oriental woman had given him—many times had he watched his brother eat sausages, but he had never enjoyed one himself, only salivated at the aroma, imagining how they must taste. As he chewed, slowly, savoring the incredible sweetness of the jam, he thought of his new name: Tristram. It sounded strange to him, and he repeated it in his head, trying to get used to it. Tristram. Tristram. It seemed almost a miracle, having a name of his own. He never thought it would be possible. And yet now he had one, just like that.

He took another bite of toast and glanced at his father. He was scared of his father: the man seemed so cool, so remote—almost, in that way, like them. But Tristram also sensed his father was an important man, and a good man, and he felt safe with him. For the first time in his life, he felt safe.