bouncer and the night-shift chiropodist, the lonely souls he remembered from home: Wing Biddlebaum, who never left his porch but had the most expressive hands; the dissipated Doctor Parcival, who had few patients and once told George that âEveryone in the world is Christ and they are all crucified.â He thought of Helen White, daughter of the richest man in Winesburg, but who never gave him the sense that she dwelled in some Pantheon; the sphere of influence in that town reached no farther than Banker Whiteâs lawn.
His eyes still closed, George felt a hand take him by the elbow, an arm entwine with his, and he imagined it was Helen, leading him blindly toward some new and astonishing place. The eyes of the elite no longer scrutinized him; he stepped into the darkness, heard footfalls call and respond across the floor, and he believed for the first time something he had always doubted: that his restlessness was curable, and he could achieve the greatest freedom, not alone, but in the company of another soul.
He stopped when he heard the words, âNow you can open your eyes,â but instead of looking up at the two portraits Margaret had been wanting to show him, he reached into his pocket and brought out the ring. Without a pause or catch in his voice he said, âWill you marry me?â
âGeorge!â she exclaimed, then glanced about, as if to be sure they were alone.
Her self-consciousness only emboldened him. âRemember what you told me in your parentsâ library, how you might be in love with me? Wellââ He advanced the ring toward her, and heard himself say, âI have no doubt that Iâm in love with you.â
She looked away, and he followed her eyes to the wall where, presiding over the occasion, in frozen judgment, were the portraits of Alfred Lazar and his wife, Harriet.
âSo thatâs what you wanted to show me?â George asked.
âI guess your surprise trumps mine,â she said.
âWell, Margaret? Will you have me?â He knew he couldnât keep this up much longer, this show of authority and confidence. He remembered how as a boy he used to test his balance by walking on the railroad tracks that ran alongside the New Willard House. This moment gave him the same feeling, as if he might lose his footing, or a train might barrel out of nowhere and lay him flat.
Margaret fixed her gaze on the portraits of her parentsâone blasé, the other imperious. With her gloved hand she brushed curls away from her forehead. âHave you talked to my father about this?â
âWhat do you mean?â
âHave you asked for my hand?â
âWas that the expectation?â George was teetering. He knew little of the social codes of Margaretâs class.
âSo you havenât made an official request?â
âNo,â he exhaled, figuring all was lost.
âWhy donât you talk to him now? Heâs right here.â She pointed to the portrait. âGo on.â
And so George did. He asked the oil painting of Alfred J. Lazar for his daughterâs hand in marriage. When he had finished speaking, Margaret said, âThere, see, he approves, just as I suspected.â Then she smiled and pulled off her long white gloves. She put out her left hand, and as if by reflex George slipped the diamond ring onto her finger.
5
Everyone wanted to work for Imego. At the main campus in Silicon Valley, where Dhara and I went on business three times a year, employees had all the perks they could imagine: cafeterias serving gourmet meals; snack rooms stocked with fresh fruit, candy, protein drinks, and cappuccino; gyms; a swimming spa; decompression capsules; on-site masseuses and physicians; day care; language classes; laundry; dry cleaner; a twenty-four-hour concierge. Workers dressed purposefully casual and the techiest engineers got loose in Chuck Taylors and Battlestar Galactica T-shirts, and, though the sun rarely kissed
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