Free The Safety of Objects: Stories by A. M. Homes Page B

and gag him, then go into his house, turn on the stereo, and eat everything, including his wife and children.
    *  *  *
    The telephone rings at quarter to six in the morning and Jim immediately thinks of death.
    “Hello,” he says, waiting for the bad news.
    “Mr. Train,” his secretary says, “Mr. Patterson’s secretary called me and asked me to tell you we won’t be opening the office today. The police are still investigating.”
    “Thanks for letting me know,” Train says. “You wouldn’t happen to have Howe or Worth’s numbers, would you?”
    “I’ll get them and call back.”
    “No hurry,” Train says, hanging up and falling back into a pleasant, productive dream about redesigning the office so that it seems more like a home, with soft couches and televisions; the kind of place where a man could live as well as work.
    At seven-thirty Susan gets up. Jim lies in bed and watches her dress.
    “Aren’t you feeling well?” Susan asks.
    “Fine,” he says, pulling the blanket up to his chin.
    Susan puts on her makeup before her blouse and then makes a big show of getting her blouse over her head without it touching her makeup. Jim is tempted to suggest it would be easier to do it in the reverse, but says nothing. In the mirror Susan’s face is pulled down like she’s had a stroke, and she’s adding more mascara to her eyes, so that her lashes look like licorice sticks.
    “Why don’t you get up,” she says. “You can drive Jake to school.”
    The last time Jim drove him to school, Jake spent the whole ride insulting his father. “You’re going the wrong way,” he yelled. “Don’t you even know where my school is? You missed the short cut.” Jim stopped the car at the top of a hill, got out, and walked around to the other side.
    “You drive,” Jim said.
    “Dad,” his son whined. “Dad, get back in the car. You’re making me late.”
    Jake sounded exactly like Susan. Jim stood there in the street waiting for the boy to say, You’re acting like a child. After ten minutes of absolute silence, Jim got back in and drove the rest of the way to Jake’s school.
    “Are you going to drive him?” Susan asks, putting the finishing touches on her exterior with a sea sponge.
    “He can walk,” Jim says.
    He lies in bed waiting for his secretary to call back. Susan goes downstairs to get the children ready for school and then, without saying good-bye, she leaves with them.
    Jim thinks of Patterson’s plant and wonders whose plant he’ll pee in years from now. He imagines sneaking into the associates’ offices after they’ve left and letting go a little bit in each office, in every corner, revenge against the uncommitted, the false promise of youth and ambition. He sees himself convinced it is his secret, when in reality everyone will know. They’ll give new guys cans of air freshener to keep hidden in their desks. New plants will be delivered weekly. No one will dare say anything to Jim because, after all, he is Train, the Train of Flynch, Peabody, Patterson, and Train.
    At nine his secretary calls with Howe’s number.
    “Worth is seriously unlisted.”
    Jim writes the number on the back of a magazine and tells her to have a good day.
    “I will,” she says. “There’s a sale at Macy’s.”
    He lifts himself out of bed tenderly as though just returned from a hernia operation. He takes the steps slowly, as if in pain. How can he be in the house, midmorning, midweek, except as a sick person?
    Jim calls Howe. The number rings ten times before Howe picks up the phone. Jim stands in the kitchen, the phone tucked under his chin, his free hands randomly plucking bits of food out of the refrigerator and popping them into his mouth.
    “What took you so long?” Jim asks.
    “I thought my wife was going to get it. It’s usually for her.”
    “Any news?” Jim asks.
    “My wife is kicking me out of the house. She says I can’t come back until six o’clock, preferably seven. I’m driving her