Fatal Reaction

diminutive in stature, yet there was definitely nothing small about him. A tough nut was my first impression—a very tough nut. The level of deference he commanded from his subordinates was remarkable, even for a Japanese. Maybe it was my imagination, but it seemed to me as if his subordinates almost feared him. When he left the room to accompany my mother on a tour of the house, the rest of the Takisawa group relaxed palpably.
    Mother and the chairman returned from their tour almost forty-five minutes later. I don’t know what went on, but they were both beaming. She introduced Takisawa to Herbert Magnuson, the former Japanese ambassador, and his wife, who were happy for a chance to practice their Japanese. Hiroshi, who had arrived that afternoon from New York sans secretary, chatted amiably with Stephen in front of the fire.
    The lawyers from Callahan Ross who’d been brought to flesh out our numbers tried hard to pretend they were not impressed, but they all seemed to be busy figuring out what things were worth. I knew they would never be able to look at me the same way again. The ZK-501 scientists were huddled on the periphery and looked completely blown away by it all, like paupers who suddenly find themselves at the palace. I made my way across the room to them.
    “Wow, I can’t believe this is where you grew up,” drawled Lou Remminger, beefing up her Appalachian accent for effect. I was relieved to see she had at least rinsed the purple out of her hair and pulled her jagged bangs back into a rhinestone clip. She wore a simple long-sleeved shift dress and a pair of patent leather Maryjanes. By her usual standards her makeup was practically understated.
    Michelle, on the other hand, looked radiant in a simple brown dress in some kind of clingy fabric that showed off her perfect body. Borland, in a tweed jacket and some sort of bizarre nautical-motif tie, managed to look even more disreputable than he did at work. I suspected that it was his one semirespectable outfit, reserved for conferences and presentations, and that I would be seeing it again and again over the course of the next few days.
    “Has anybody heard anything about the electric company?” asked Borland. “Will they be done or are we going to be leading these guys around by candlelight on Monday?”
    “I called Carl this afternoon,” replied Michelle. “He went over to check up on them today. They say they’re right on schedule.”
    “Did I hear my name mentioned?” asked Carl, coming up behind me. It looked as though he’d just arrived, because his face was flushed red as if from the cold.
    “Well, well, well. The gang’s all here,” he said, accepting a drink from a waiter and joining the group.
    “Everybody but Childress,” observed Remminger.
    “He’s not here yet?” I demanded, feeling the first stirrings of alarm.
    “I haven’t seen him,” replied Remminger.
    “Do you think maybe he got lost?” suggested Michelle.
    “Don’t worry,” said Borland, swinging his arm around as if taking in the entire room. “Michael Childress wouldn’t miss all this for the world.”
     
    The butler sounded the chimes for dinner and Mother asked Chairman Takisawa if he would be so kind as to escort her into the dining room. He sat at my mother’s right at the head of the long table. Stephen sat on his other side while Hiroshi sat at the other end between my father and the former ambassador to Japan. From where I was sitting (between the head of Takisawa’s fabrication labs who spoke little English and the head of their pharmaceutical marketing division who, if possible, spoke less) it looked like Stephen and Hiroshi were discussing, of all things, golf.
    The table was set with the antique silver and a gorgeous china pattern of rosebuds and ivy that Tiffany doesn’t make anymore. In front of each plate was a place card in a tiny silver holder with each name in English and Japanese characters. After the soup course was served I asked in a whisper to have one of the waiters take Michael Childress’s place away.
    We had agreed on the most traditional American dinner we could think of—roast turkey with com-bread-and-sage stuffing and all the trimmings. Mother had arranged personally for a gargantuan bird to be delivered from a poultry farm downstate. It was so big that the kitchen staff had laughingly speculated that it must have been fed steroids. Mother’s cook, Mrs. Mason, had risen at dawn and spent the entire day dressing,