Book of Jo: When bad things happen to almost good people
Parts 5 & 6: He left a note.
Start with Part 1. Or read a quick, spoiler-free synopsis.
September 19, 2016
Monday, 7:45 pm
“But what’s so wrong with an open relationship?”
Cedar has polished off a bottle of pinot noir. She’s been talking about Silas for the past thirty minutes.
“There’s nothing wrong with an open relationship,” says Lulu, gently. “But is that really what you want?”
“No, not really. But it’s better than nothing!”
“Cedar, you’re a beautiful, vibrant woman. You’re a soulful beacon of light,” says Lulu, who is the only person I know who can say things like this without sounding completely ridiculous.
“So what?” Cedar pouts and looks into her empty wine glass. Her lips are stained purple and her cheeks are glowing.
“Darling, you should put your energy into attracting what you do want, not holding onto what you don’t. Let Silas go. By setting him free, you set yourself free.” Lulu waves her hands as if releasing a dove.
“But it’s just so hard.” Cedar bites her lip, trying to stifle a sob.
Lulu throws her arms around Cedar and strokes her back. Lulu is so much better at this than I am. She’s naturally warm and generous, and she truly believes that people are essentially good. She’s also been involved in a complicated polyamorous triad with two men for the past two years. I’m convinced it’s her gentle diplomacy that keeps it going.
As Cedar’s sobs subside into sniffles, Kat takes a half-empty bottle of wine from the table that’s serving as the bar. She fills three small glasses and hands one to Cedar and one to Lulu.
“A toast,” she says, raising her glass. “To Joanna’s new baby and filthy dirty riches. And to Cedar pushing fucking Silas out the airlock.” Yes, Kat’s a closet sci-fi fan who still watches old episodes of Battlestar Galactica.
We all toast — the girls with wine, and me with water. I notice the clock. It’s past seven. I should check my work email, just in case. I get nervous when I can’t see the correspondence accumulating in my inbox. I reach in my pocket for my phone, but it’s not there.
I head back towards the downstairs guest rooms, where my mother and I had talked. Before I reach the door, Wolf pops out. For just a second, I wonder what he was doing in there. He’s holding my phone, which is blinking and chirping.
“Looking for this? I think someone’s trying to reach you,” he says.
I take my phone. There are ten voice mail messages and twenty texts are waiting for me. I open one of the texts at random. It reads:
This no joke! Whitney Books suddenly died this afternoon. His assistant found him in his office. We’re having an emergency meeting in the board room. I repeat, this is NO JOKE. COME NOW!
September 19, 2016
Monday, 8:45 pm
The front door to the office is open, and a hulking policewoman is standing in the doorway. She is close to six feet tall and easily two hundred and fifty pounds. Her dull reddish hair is scraped back into a messy pony tail. The button holes on her blue shirt are pulled tight, and she looks tired and uncomfortable.
“Excuse me, ma’am?” I ask, trying to look as meek as possible.
“What is it?” Her voice is low and scratchy, like someone just catching a cold. Under the hoarseness, it also has a definite edge.
“I have a meeting in the board room.”
“Are you on the list?”
“Yes,” I reply. “I’m Joanna Goodman. Executive Vice President of Account Services.”
The policewoman takes a folded piece of paper from her pocket and scans it. She looks at me with narrowed eyes.
“You’re not on the list, ma’am.”
She takes a step towards me. I notice her name tag reads “Officer Paddington.” I wonder if she was overweight as a teenager, if she’d endured cruel, obvious insults.
“There must be some mistake,” I say. “Let me just call my boss, Whitney Brooks. He’ll straighten this out.”
I fish my phone out of my purse when it hits me. My boss is dead. I feel my eyes welling with tears and burst into loud, ugly sobs. “Oh God, he’s really dead,” I murmur, mostly to myself.
Officer Paddington gives me an appraising look. Her eyes are wide open, alert, and trained on me. This is not good.
“How exactly did you know Whitney Brooks, Miss?” she asks, now sounding like a solicitous aunt.
“He was my boss.”
“Is that all?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
I’m about to explain that my relationship with Whitney was purely and bloodlessly platonic, when I see Scott Pander walk out of the elevator. He’s carrying a large cardboard box labeled Starbucks. His face is red and puffy from crying.
“Scott!” I call. “I got the invitation for the meeting tonight, but apparently I’m not on the list.”
Scott turns towards Officer Paddington. His smile is charming, but weary. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he says. “It’s my fault. She’s supposed to be here.”
Officer Paddington’s face falls. I think she was looking forward to breaking up her dull night shift with a spirited interrogation. She asks for my driver’s license and copies down my address. Scott and I wait silently. He gives me a questioning look. I shrug.
“OK, go ahead.”
Scott and I pass through the reception area. It’s dark and imposing, with leather furniture and mahogany tables that would be more at home in a bank or a law firm than in a PR agency. When I’d made this observation in an all-hands meeting, Whitney was pleased. He’d wanted our clients to think of PR as serious, and seriously expensive, business.
“I’m so sorry about the list,” says Scott.
“Don’t worry about it. So what happened?” I am hungry for details that will somehow make Whitney’s death make sense.
“I don’t know. He just died. His assistant found him in his office. The EMTs think it was a heart attack, but the police have started an investigation. The autopsy won’t be done for at least a week.”
“I just can’t believe it. He didn’t seem sick at all.” I feel panicky. I hate the idea that death can strike anyone at random, with no warning at all.
“Maybe someone poisoned his coffee. You never know.” Scott frowns.
The idea of someone poisoning Whitney makes me lightheaded and strangely giddy. I imagine him regarding the cup of coffee that contained his death. It smells like comfort like always, and he brings it to his lips. It’s the last thing he will ever drink. I realize I’m breathing fast and the world is spinning. Before I faint, I lean against the wall and take a long, slow breath.
“Are you OK?” asks Scott, his face white.
“Yes,” I say, still leaning against the wall. “Just give me a minute.”
“You know, I don’t really think he was poisoned. It was probably a heart attack, just like the paramedics said.” In his clumsy way, Scott is trying to comfort me. I muster up a wan smile.
Once the ground feels stable again, Scott and I continue down the hall. When we reach Shangri La — the small, plush room we use for meetings with important clients — I see the management committee seated around an ornate, oval table that Whitney had imported from Germany. The committee consists of Scott Pander, vice president of business development, Willa Krauss, chief financial officer, Dan Mason, chief PR strategist, and Margo Han, head of human resources.
“How are you holding up?” asks Margo. “The news was such a shock!” She pulls out a chair and motions for me to sit down. Margo is a small, plump Korean woman who has been waging an epic struggle with the same fifteen pounds since I’ve known her. She met Cedar at a yoga retreat in Mendocino and friended her shortly thereafter.
“Oh, I’m fine,” I say, silently willing Margo not to mention my pregnancy. I realize that, at some point, I’m going to have to talk to her about taking maternity leave.
Scott begins passing around coffee and pastries. He gives me a mocha topped with whipped cream and a large bear claw.
“Let’s keep going,” says Willa, obviously impatient to be done. Willa is an ethereal blonde in her sixties who looks at least ten years younger. Her smooth forehead belies a quick temper. I wonder how Whitney’s death is affecting her. He was close to her age. They’d seemed like friends.
“As I explained before, the district attorney’s office has frozen Whitney’s assets. Because he apparently mixed his personal funds with the business accounts, this is going to put us in a very difficult position,” she says.
“Just how difficult?” asks Margo. “What about payroll? And the bonuses?”
“We can still access one business account, and it has enough cash to cover payroll and operating expenses for the next two months. Obviously, the bonuses will have to be postponed until the situation is resolved.”
Willa looks around the room with a defiant expression, as though expecting a fight. No one says a word. We’re all quietly contemplating our new and precarious situation. Even though I know it’s selfish, I can’t help thinking about the bonus check that I won’t be able to deposit. I tell myself not to dwell on it. I still have a great job, a wonderful husband, a beautiful home and a baby on the way.
“What about the clients?” I ask. “Has anyone told them?”
“I’ve started making calls,” says Dan. “I’ll have a better handle on their reaction in a few days.” Dan is American-Japanese, over six feet tall, and shockingly good looking. He’s also a cipher. I don’t know what, exactly, he does for the company.
“Will this affect the Western Bank deal?” I ask. I have a meeting scheduled with Richard Spokes, their head of communications tomorrow afternoon. He and Whitney used to ride their motorcycles down route 1 to Big Sure every fall until Richard crashed and broke his collar bone.
“Just keep it business as usual for now,” says Dan.
For the rest of the meeting, we walk through what Margo will tell the employees about their incredible disappearing bonuses and then painstakingly review the status if each account. Dan offers to handle Whitney’s obituary to the great relief of everyone else. “I’ll assign it one of the freelancers,” he says. “Someone who didn’t know him well who won’t be upset.”
After the meeting, I step outside into the rain. I walk towards my sunshine-colored car, looking forward to the drive home. But something doesn’t look quite right. As I get closer, I notice a large, unsightly dent on the side and a deep gouge in the paint. There is also a slip of paper on the windshield.
I am momentarily touched that my car was sideswiped by a rare, honest man. I pull the paper off the car and turn it over: “The people across the street think I’m leaving a note. You have no business parking a nice car on the street at night. You got what you deserve, bitch.”
I sigh. I may not deserve all of my good luck, but neither do I deserve this. Does anyone?
Book of Jo is a homeless novella that is going to crash on Medium for a few months. I will release new parts on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, until the whole story has been posted. Enjoy!
Read Part 1.
Read Part 2.
Read Parts 3 & 4.
Read Parts 7 & 8.
Read Parts 9 & 10.
Read Part 11.
Read Parts 12 & 13.
Read Parts 14 & 15.
Read Parts 16 & 17.
Read Parts 18 & 19.
Read Parts 20 & 21.
Read Parts 22 & 23.
Read Parts 24 & 25.
