Read Online Tumbledown by Robert Boswell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Boswell
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to notice. Egri did not want to hear any secrets.
“I’m serious,” Candler said.
“Every man in love is serious. Science has proven that love is a toxin.” Egri offered him another dramatic face. “It’s released in the blood by the appendix, which is why thinking men have theirs removed. Want to see my scar?” He lifted the photo again and pretended to study it. “Now and then I try to revive the old blood with Cheryl the way a miser sticks dead batteries in the radio just to see if a miracle has transpired . . .” In Egri’s public demeanor, he spoke so softly people had to lean close to hear him. Most of the Center’s employees thought he was always that way, unless he was drinking. Candler knew better. When he drank, he could no longer hold in the insanely voluble person who hid in his professional manner. He was still talking. “I’d divorce Cheryl, but it’d be ugly, and I’d have to give up half her money. Does Lolly show some enthusiasm for it? Doesn’t matter whether she’s good in bed, that’s all in your stinking head anyway. It’s whether she shows some enthusiasm for it.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Not even halfway there,” he said, affronted, “which is why I came to sweep you away to a meeting of scotch and tongue.”
“I’ve got work to do.”
“What did you want to tell me?”
“It’s about coming in this morning. I drove in early to check on a client—”
“Yeah, you’re a good egg, boyo,” Egri said. “That’s the one big drawback to your candidacy. The board, those miserable numskulls, think it’s a bonus.” He offered an elaborate shrug and disappeared through the door without a good-bye.
Candler heard Clay Hao speaking in the hallway, but Egri would only talk to Hao in his professional whisper, and Candler could not make out the words. Hao was the person to tell about the accident, but Egri’s visit made it awkward, even though Hao had been straightforward about the directorship. “You may be better suited to the job than I am.” He had a patchy, graying goatee minus the mustache, which Rainyday had labeled a Klingon. “You’re full of ideas and since you’ve begun putting the ideas into action, you’ve been not particularly gifted with the clients. I don’t mean to criticize. But right now you seem to prefer projects to counseling. In all likelihood, you’ll be a good administrator.”
Despite the criticism, Candler had appreciated the reply. Hao was genuinely gifted with clients. The Barnstone was good with them, too, but she was no good at drawing boundaries or thinking like a professional. Bob Whitman was a processor with one eye on the clock and now one foot out the door. It was stupid for Candler to think he could talk to any of them. Until that fateful conversation with Egri in the fall, Candler had been studying to become a psychologist. He had started a special PhD program in Santa Barbara that required him to spend a weekend each month on campus. During the intervening weeks, he’d had a ton of reading and school work to complete. Despite all that, he had liked it. Egri, though, had convinced him to drop out.
The Guillermo Mendez file was open on his desk. All that remained was the summary session, in which Candler would explain the tests that Mendez had taken and what the scores meant. Rainy-day called him the War Vet because he wore fatigues every day, but he wasn’t a veteran. He was still on active duty. Candler hadn’t particularly enjoyed working with him, but Mendez was a boy. He had enlisted in the army right out of high school and done two tours in Iraq. Recently, he had received word that he would be going back and that the army had extended the tour to fifteen months. He was paying for this evaluation himself, and Candler was not sure what he expected to get out of it. Mendez had no physical disability and no discernible mental ailment. His psychological make up was more difficult to measure. He regretted enlisting in the army,
“I’m serious,” Candler said.
“Every man in love is serious. Science has proven that love is a toxin.” Egri offered him another dramatic face. “It’s released in the blood by the appendix, which is why thinking men have theirs removed. Want to see my scar?” He lifted the photo again and pretended to study it. “Now and then I try to revive the old blood with Cheryl the way a miser sticks dead batteries in the radio just to see if a miracle has transpired . . .” In Egri’s public demeanor, he spoke so softly people had to lean close to hear him. Most of the Center’s employees thought he was always that way, unless he was drinking. Candler knew better. When he drank, he could no longer hold in the insanely voluble person who hid in his professional manner. He was still talking. “I’d divorce Cheryl, but it’d be ugly, and I’d have to give up half her money. Does Lolly show some enthusiasm for it? Doesn’t matter whether she’s good in bed, that’s all in your stinking head anyway. It’s whether she shows some enthusiasm for it.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Not even halfway there,” he said, affronted, “which is why I came to sweep you away to a meeting of scotch and tongue.”
“I’ve got work to do.”
“What did you want to tell me?”
“It’s about coming in this morning. I drove in early to check on a client—”
“Yeah, you’re a good egg, boyo,” Egri said. “That’s the one big drawback to your candidacy. The board, those miserable numskulls, think it’s a bonus.” He offered an elaborate shrug and disappeared through the door without a good-bye.
Candler heard Clay Hao speaking in the hallway, but Egri would only talk to Hao in his professional whisper, and Candler could not make out the words. Hao was the person to tell about the accident, but Egri’s visit made it awkward, even though Hao had been straightforward about the directorship. “You may be better suited to the job than I am.” He had a patchy, graying goatee minus the mustache, which Rainyday had labeled a Klingon. “You’re full of ideas and since you’ve begun putting the ideas into action, you’ve been not particularly gifted with the clients. I don’t mean to criticize. But right now you seem to prefer projects to counseling. In all likelihood, you’ll be a good administrator.”
Despite the criticism, Candler had appreciated the reply. Hao was genuinely gifted with clients. The Barnstone was good with them, too, but she was no good at drawing boundaries or thinking like a professional. Bob Whitman was a processor with one eye on the clock and now one foot out the door. It was stupid for Candler to think he could talk to any of them. Until that fateful conversation with Egri in the fall, Candler had been studying to become a psychologist. He had started a special PhD program in Santa Barbara that required him to spend a weekend each month on campus. During the intervening weeks, he’d had a ton of reading and school work to complete. Despite all that, he had liked it. Egri, though, had convinced him to drop out.
The Guillermo Mendez file was open on his desk. All that remained was the summary session, in which Candler would explain the tests that Mendez had taken and what the scores meant. Rainy-day called him the War Vet because he wore fatigues every day, but he wasn’t a veteran. He was still on active duty. Candler hadn’t particularly enjoyed working with him, but Mendez was a boy. He had enlisted in the army right out of high school and done two tours in Iraq. Recently, he had received word that he would be going back and that the army had extended the tour to fifteen months. He was paying for this evaluation himself, and Candler was not sure what he expected to get out of it. Mendez had no physical disability and no discernible mental ailment. His psychological make up was more difficult to measure. He regretted enlisting in the army,
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