Blunt Darts

 
     
    “Name?”
    “Cuddy, John Francis.”
    “Address?”
    “74 Charles Street.”
    “In Boston?”
    “In Boston.”
    “Social Security number?”
    “040-93-7071.”
    “Date of birth?”
    I told her.
    She looked up at me, squeezed out a smile. “You look younger.”
    “It’s a mark of my immaturity,” I said. She made a sour face and returned to the form.
    “Occupation?”
    “Investigator.”
    “Previous employer?”
    “Empire Insurance Company.” I wondered whether Empire had to fill out a form that referred to me as “Previous Employee.”
    “Reason for leaving previous employment?”
    “I have a letter.” I took the letter from my inside coat pocket and handed it to her. Opening it and reading it slowed her down. I looked around the big, clattering room at the thirty or so other metal desks. Each had a woman filling out a form and an applicant answering the same questions. Most of the applicants were men. I wondered why we applicants couldn’t fill out at least the first few lines by ourselves.
    The man seated at the desk next to me sneezed. Brittlely old and black, he looked as though he should have been applying for Social Security instead of unemployment. He wiped his nose with a clean handkerchief that had a hole in one corner. When he was finished he folded it so that the hole didn’t show.
    “Mr. Cuddy, if you’ll pay attention to me, we’ll finish this procedure much more quickly.”
    I turned my head to face her again. “That’s all right,” I said. “I’ve got time.”
    She fixed me with the sour look again and tapped her index finger on the paper before her. “This letter from your previous employer is beautifully drafted, Mr. Cuddy, probably by a company lawyer. It nicely provides every fact the regulations require. Accordingly, I have no choice but to recommend you for benefits. I must say, however, that seeing a man of your obvious abilities here instead of out in the world earning his way makes me sick.”
    “I didn’t think you were looking too well. Would you like me to complete the rest of the form myself?”
    “No!” she snapped. I thought I heard the man next to me stifle a chuckle. She and I operated as a much more efficient team after that.
    “Education?”
    “High School, then Holy Cross. One year of night law school.”
    “Military service?”
    “Military Police, discharged a captain in nineteen-sixty-eight.”
    “Employer prior to Empire Insurance Company?“
    “Just the army.”
    She looked up at me again. “Do you mean you worked for Empire since nineteen-sixty-eight?”
    “Since nineteen-sixty-nine. I traveled around the country for a while after the service.”
    She shook her head, and we completed the rest of the form. I signed it and got a brochure explaining my benefits and rights. I also received a little chit that entitled me to stand in a slow-moving line ten or twelve people deep in front of a window like a bank teller’s.
     
    I had to hand it to Empire. They really knew how to deal with someone like me. After nearly eight years with them, I became head of claims investigation in Boston. It meant my own office, with a window. Beth and I were just this side of ecstasy. We’d married during my first year with Empire and had always lived in apartments in Back Bay, a quiet part of the city within walking distance of the office. With the promotion, we decided we could finally plunge for a three-bedroom condominium there. We moved in during the hottest week in July. Four months later, the doctor told us what Beth had inside her head.
    The insurance covered eighty percent of the medical expenses, and a second mortgage on the condo covered most of the rest for the first nine months. I would have sold the place, but it was in both our names, and Beth refused to give it up until the beginning of the last month, when she finally admitted to herself (but never once to me) that she wouldn’t be coming home. I sandwiched selling the place between trips to the office and the hospital. I turned most of our furniture over to an auctioneer and moved the rest into a small one-bedroom apartment on Charles Street at the foot of Beacon Hill.
    Three weeks later, Joe Mirelli, the priest who’d grown up with us in South Boston and married us there, helped me ease Beth into a small piece of ground on a gentle slope overlooking the harbor.
    Two months to the day after Beth’s funeral, the head of Boston claims walked into my office. I had my window open