Bitter Business

as they say you are if you let a little thing like this rattle you.”
    “It’s easy for you to joke,” I protested. “You weren’t there. My arms are sore from doing CPR on somebody who was probably dead already. I can still smell her perfume in my hair....” I picked up my glass and drained it in order to keep from crying.
    “You’re right,” he said. “I wasn’t there. And you didn’t spend four years in medical school learning to pretend that suffering doesn’t bother you.”
    “I don’t know if she suffered,” I answered, searching the depths of my glass for who knows what.
    “It wasn’t her I was talking about,” he said. “It’s you.”
     
    I got to the office later than I expected, but with less of a hangover than I deserved. Cheryl stopped me as I passed her desk.
    “Don’t go in there,” she warned, pointing at the closed door to my office.
    ‘‘Why not? What’s going on?”
    “Philip Cavanaugh is in there. He was already here when I got in to work this morning.”
    “Why isn’t he in the reception room? What’s he doing in my office?”
    “He was making Lillian crazy, pacing back and forth and asking her every five minutes when you’d be here, so I said he could wait in your office. Between you and me,” Cheryl confided, “he seems like a real prick.”
    “Could you bring us some coffee, please?” I asked, taking a deep breath and squaring my shoulders to face Philip Cavanaugh.
    “Oh, and your mother called,” she added as I prepared to open the door. “Twice.”
     
    Philip Cavanaugh looked like a watered-down version of his father. I knew that he was only forty-six, but nature had already imprinted him with the crueler marks of middle age. Short and almost completely bald, he held himself very straight, as though straining for every extra inch of height. Instead of making him look taller, it merely made him seem pompous, a puffed-up little Napoleon stretching to look down on the world. When he spoke he affected a dry little cough, as if something worrisome had gotten caught in his throat and he was constantly trying to dislodge it.
    “I understand you were at the plant yesterday for that unfortunate business with Cecilia Dobson,” he said after a frosty exchange of introductions.
    “How’s Dagny holding up?” I asked, and made a mental note to call her later in the day and ask her myself.
    “This whole thing has upset everybody. It’s been a terrible inconvenience. I didn’t get back from Dallas until late last night, but I understand the police kept the office staff late turning the place upside down and asking everybody questions.”
    “What were they looking for?”
    “A suicide note, apparently.”
    “Did they find one?”
    “Not that I know of.”
    “Were they able to locate her family?”
    “I have no idea. I’ve instructed Dagny to turn her entire personnel file over to the police.” He gave one of his dry little coughs. “As far as I’m concerned, the entire episode is closed. I won’t have our office routine disrupted and I won’t tolerate time wasted on gossip.” Cheryl came in with coffee in a silver carafe and cups and saucers on a tray. Philip primly accepted a cup and I gratefully poured one for myself.
    “I understand that we’re going to be dealing with you over this mess with Lydia,” he began once Cheryl had withdrawn. “Why isn’t Daniel handling it? It would be so much simpler. He knows everyone. He’s dealt with Lydia before.”
    I explained about Daniel’s illness. But surely he could make an exception and take care of just this one case? protested Philip.
    I couldn’t believe that he had the audacity to make the suggestion, but refrained from saying so. Working in a large law firm, I had no shortage of experience in dealing with pompous, difficult, anal-retentive men, but Philip Cavanaugh seemed an especially extreme case. I won-dered what had happened to turn him into such an uptight jerk and wondered how Dagny, who had grown up in the same family and worked in the same business, managed to seem so intelligent and straightforward.
    “I understand you saw my father and my sister yesterday,” he said in an aggrieved voice. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was fear of being left out that had propelled him to my office. “What did you and Dagny talk about?”
    “Lydia’s letter,” I answered, taken aback by the question. His sister’s office couldn’t be more than ten feet from his own. Why didn’t he ask