The Silent Wife Read Online Free PDF Page B

doesn’t flirt but doesn’t seem to noticeor care if he watches her cross and recross her legs. Today she’s in jeans but takes a seat on the far side of his desk, so he has to make do with the twin peaks that strain against the middle buttons of her blouse. She’s not much taller than five feet, which is why the size of her bosom is so impressive.
    She’s brought in a sheaf of files and a list of things to run by him: pricing on ceiling fans, Web addresses of landscapers, questionable invoices. Anything that is not strictly routine, he wants to know about. He didn’t get where he is today by overlooking details or letting his business get away from him. He’s only one man and his profit margins are not stupendous, which means that everything counts. He glances at his watch, just so she knows that her late entrance has not been overlooked.
    â€œNothing from Cliff?” he asks, when it comes down to the invoices.
    â€œNot yet.”
    â€œShow it to me when you get it. Last time he listed material costs for something that we supplied ourselves. What was it?”
    â€œBathroom tile.”
    â€œRight. Bathroom tile. And grout. He billed me for the goddamn grout.”
    She’s done the research he asked her to do on toilets and hands him the brochures. “The low-flow models are cheaper than the dual-flush, but they’re not reliable,” she says.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with them?”
    â€œThey don’t always flush.”
    â€œThey have to flush.”
    â€œIt doesn’t always go down.”
    â€œCliff has installed them before.”
    â€œYou can’t chance it,” she says. “Not with rental units. You should take a look at the dual-flush options.”
    He frowns and asks, “How much?”
    â€œIt’s not too bad. You can get something reliable for five hundred.”
    â€œThat’s three grand for the goddamn toilets. We could go to Home Depot and get toilets for fifty bucks apiece.”
    â€œYou could, but you won’t.”
    â€œWhat else?” he asks.
    â€œYou need to think about fridges and stoves. It could take a while for them to ship.”
    â€œGet me some quotes. If everything comes from the same supplier we should get a price break.”
    â€œHow do I know what sizes?”
    â€œLook at the plans.”
    â€œI don’t have the plans. You took them home with you.”
    â€œGet a set from Carol at Vanderburgh. The units aren’t all the same.”
    When she’s gathered up her papers and given him a view of her retreating ass, he drifts for a while, listening with one ear to the busy noises coming from her office. His mind is on everything at once, encircling the whole of his world at a sweep, as if it were a baseball field and he were on a home run, flying by the bases, all the while with his eye on the ball. It’s come to a point where he savours the constant apprehension, the risk he takes with each small decision, the strain of being overextended, the pressure of betting everything on the current venture. The anxietyhe feels is stabilizing in a way, letting him know that he’s alive and on track. It’s anxiety cut with anticipation, an interest in what comes next, a stake in things unfolding. This is what propels him through his day.
    During his depression he lost that forward momentum. In fact, the loss of it was the very thing that was wrong with him. It was time without nuance or modulation, always the same, minute by minute, day by day. He knew nothing of the defeat or futility that people assumed he was feeling. He was simply not there, an absence, an empty space.
    He checks the time and makes a call. The sleepy voice that says hello gives him a gratifying jolt, waking up his gonads.
    â€œYou’re not still in bed.”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œDon’t you have a class?”
    â€œNot till later.”
    â€œSpoiled rotten.”
    â€œI hope