from the archives…

Mr. Dearborn’s Big Vacation

Anna came splashing to the shore. She smiled and waved to Richard, stretched out on the beach sipping his margarita.  He waved back.  She was a vision of loveliness, the image of simple virtue and supple charm altogether.  She was everything he ever dreamed of.  Seeing her smile as she kicked up sand running towards him, he wished this moment would last forever.  But all good things must come to an end.  Chaucer said that, or something like it.  One thing’s for sure, he must have said it just after his honeymoon.

This is what Mr. Richard J. Dearborn remembered as he sat daydreaming behind his busy desk.  For the clutter of penholders, picture frames, and paperweights, there wasn’t even room for his feet.

The door to his office opened abruptly and in the same motion a woman of great bearing came bursting through, the secretary saying “Good morning, Mrs. Dearborn,” all the while Mrs. Dearborn yammering on and on, as was her way.

“Oh the traffic–frightful.  Why is there always such a crowd down below?  Bums.  Oh they call themselves musicians, or artists, or some other clever names like bohemians, or avant-garde, but they’re all bums just the same.”

“Now, dear,” said Mr. Dearborn.

“Don’t dear me,” snapped Mrs. Dearborn.  “This city has gone to hell in a handbasket, overrun by hoodlums and hooligans alike.”

“But–”

“But never you mind,” she said, changing moods at the drop of a hat, as was her way.  “How has your day been, dear?  Are you ready for the Gates merger?  Everything in order?”

Mr. Dearborn walked over to the window.

“Why, look at your desk,” said Mrs. Dearborn, “you’ve not even your papers together.”

Mr. Dearborn looked out the window toward the park.

“How do you expect to…” Mrs. Dearborn began, and as was his way, Mr. Dearborn tuned her out altogether.

Down in the park a dog was barking, running, jumping, catching a Frisbee.  Richard had a dog when he was a boy, a bright-eyed Beagle named Smokey; but Mrs. Dearborn would have no part of it, said she was allergic to the dander.  A thirty-something couple strolled along hand in hand pushing a baby carriage.  Mr. and Mrs. Dearborn had tried to have a baby once, but after the miscarriage they never spoke of it again.  Mrs. Dearborn had never been fond of children anyway, although she did often donate money to several orphanages and literacy programs.  A college student lay beneath a sprawling oak, his head resting upon his backpack while he scribbled something in a notebook.  Poetry most likely, Richard thought.  Richard used to write poetry.  In fact, people used to tell him he was quite good.  That was back in college though, when Anna and he first met.  Mr. Dearborn saw a young couple playing footsie on a blanket below.  It reminded him of Anna.  For their ragged jeans and wrinkled T-shirts they couldn’t have more than two dollars between them.  Oh how wonderful it must be to be penniless and in love.  But Mr. Richard J. Dearborn didn’t know about such things anymore.

“So how do you?” said Mrs. Dearborn.  “How do you expect to be prepared for the Gates merger when you’ve not even your papers together?”

“Dear,” he said, “we need a vacation.”

“A vacation?” she said.  “You’ve the Gates merger in less than an hour.  Your papers are a mess.  How do you expect to…” Mrs. Dearborn began, and Mr. Dearborn’s eyes drifted to a picture on the wall.  It was a photo of Anna and him, and her parents.  It was taken on Thanksgiving Day at their estate in the country.  Anna’s father was a banker, her mother the head of the local garden club.  Both played bridge religiously and never drank.  Richard dreaded the inevitable meeting, but Anna and he were going steady now.

That time in the countryside was the first vacation Richard and Anna had ever taken together, and they hadn’t even finished dinner when the conversation took that inevitable turn.

“So what are you studying, Richard?” said her father.

“English,” said Richard.

“English, why that’s fine.  Then what, graduate school, your Ph.D?  There’s no real money in teaching unless you obtain a professorship at a university.  Then perhaps dean, chancellor even?”

“No sir,” said Richard, “I want to write.”

“Write?” said her father.  “You mean for a newspaper or a magazine?”

“No sir, poetry, short stories perhaps.”

“Poetry?” said her father.

“Richard’s an excellent writer,” said Anna, “everyone at school says so.”

“But a man can’t make a living wage writing poems.  Why, you might as well be a juggler, or a mime on a street corner. I hear the new president of Czechoslovakia is a poet.  Is that what you want to be, Richard, you want to be president of Czechoslovakia?  Maybe you could learn to play the spoons, or get a monkey and…” and until they left her parent’s house on Sunday it went on like that.  He didn’t mind though, not really.  He knew this was the girl he was going to marry.

“Well,” said Mrs. Dearborn, “how you expect to be ready for the Gates merger when you’ve not even your papers together is going to be a fine feat indeed?”

“Dear,” said  Mr. Dearborn, “we really do need a vacation.”

“You’re not going to start all that again, I pray.”

“We could go to your folks place in the country.  Remember the lake, the moonlight?”

“I don’t understand you,” said Mrs. Dearborn.  “You know as well as I that the Gates merger is our biggest deal yet.  How on earth could you be thinking of vacation at a time like this?  They’ll be here in less than half an hour.  Honestly, Richard Jonathon Dearborn, I just don’t understand you sometimes.  How do you intend to…” she began, and as she did his eyes wandered toward a paperweight on his desk: a smooth, flat rock he’d found while they were hiking out West one summer while on break from school.

He was completely out of breath when inspiration shot through him like the thin air burning in his chest.  “Wait,” he told her, “don’t move an inch.”

He scurried about, looking for…she didn’t know.

“What are you up to?” she said.

“Anna,” began Richard, “I’ve loved you since the very first time I laid eyes on you.”

“What are you doing?” she said.

“I’ll never forget that day.  You were wearing a white sundress.”  He knelt before her.

“Oh, my God,” she said.

“Anna, I’ve known ever since that day we were meant to be together.”

She was about to cry.

“Will you please do me the honor?” he said, and she said YES.

Richard placed the rock in her hand.

“What’s this?” she said.

“Well,” he said, “I know it isn’t the rock you were expecting; but right here, right now, it’s all I have to give.”

“It’s perfect,” she said.

Richard made her promise they’d come back every year.   Anna thought it was a splendid idea.  They never did come back.

“Well,” said Mrs. Dearborn, “I’d surely like to know how you intend to absorb all the merger information before the Gates brothers arrive?”

“Dear,” said Mr. Dearborn, “we could go hiking.”

“Hiking?” exclaimed Mrs. Dearborn.  “Richard Jonathon Dearborn, have you lost your mind?”

“We could go out West, the mountains, remember?”

“This isn’t the time to be playing Sir Edmund Hillary,” said Mrs. Dearborn.  “The Gates brothers will be here in fifteen minutes.  How do you think you can possibly…” she began, and as she did he looked over her to the mounted sailfish on the wall.  They’d caught it on their honeymoon.

Richard was talking to the boat’s captain about something in Spanish, something he didn’t fully understand, when suddenly Anna’s line caught, nearly yanking the pole out of her hands while she hooted and hollered, hopping all around.  Richard came running to her side.  “Give it some slack,” he said.  “Let it run with it.”

Nearly two hours later, working in shifts and sometimes together, Anna and Richard reeled in the great fish.  It had put up such a valiant fight, and it was still fighting now; but its death was not so glorious, now flopping on the deck as the captain clubbed it repeatedly.

They danced all night.

“You know what?” she Anna, “we should just stay here.”

“What, for another night?” he said.

“No, forever.”

“Forever?”

“We could open up a cafe, or a cantina.  I have money.  Then we could fish all day and dance all night.  We could sip margaritas on the beach and make mad, passionate love until sunrise.  What do you think?”

“I think you’ve been in the sun too long.”

“You don’t like my idea.”

“Sure I do, but what would your father say?”

“Oh phooey on him.”

“Well you’re not the one who is going to have to see him every day.  He expects me there bright and early Monday morning.  It was your idea, remember?”

“Yes, I remember,” she said.  “It was a wonderful idea though, wasn’t it?”

“What, me taking the job with your father?”

“No, our staying here forever.”

“Yes, it was heavenly.”

“Well then, let’s make tonight last.  Let’s watch the sunrise one more time.”

They spent their last night on the beach.

“How do you think you can possibly be prepared for the merger?” said Mrs. Dearborn.  They hardly ever made love anymore, only after hostile takeovers and auspicious mergers.

“Dear,” said Mr. Dearborn, “we could go south of the border, to that seaside village where we honeymooned.”

“Richard Jonathon Dearborn, now I know you’ve lost your mind,” said Mrs. Dearborn.  “The Gates brothers are surely on their way up as we speak.  If Daddy were only here, why he’d…  Now straighten your tie; you look a mess.”

Mr. Dearborn turned toward the window.  “Dear,” he said, “we really must take a vacation.”

“Lord have mercy,” said Mrs. Dearborn, “we just went to London not even a month ago, the Bigsby merger, remember?”

“A real vacation, just the two of us.”

“We’re going to Japan next month,” said Mrs. Dearborn, “you know, the Hioto deal.”

Mr. Dearborn just stood there staring out the window over the tall buildings across the park.

“You’re just tired, dear,” said Mrs. Dearborn.  “Tomorrow is Saturday; you can sleep in.

“Now,” she said, “get your papers ready.  The Gates brothers are surely in the lobby by now.”

“Yes, dear,” Mr. Dearborn said, but he didn’t need to go over any papers.  What is that old saying about a fool and his money?  Oh, yes.  The Gates brothers had a lot of money, and they were quite the fools.

 

*          *          *

 

If you were to walk through the door of Mrs. Anna C. Dearborn’s house on 1 Stanford Lane at or around four p.m. that Friday you’d swear there was a riot in progress.  Imagine a hundred chickens in a room beating their wings frantically and bouncing from wall to wall with their heads just having been hacked off, or the frenzied floor of the New York Stock Exchange as the numbers plunged amid widespread panic.  Now imagine somebody moving slowly and surely  through it all.  That someone was Mrs. Dearborn as she gave orders here and ordinance there: the flowers in the foyer, the settings on the tables, the food, the wine, the lighting, the music…  She said something to the caterer, then like a shot from a cannon exploded through the kitchen door.  Her caterer wondered why she hired her at all.  She was the most expensive in the city, but had barely lifted so much as a finger.  No matter.  When Mrs. Dearborn was in the cast, she directed the show.  You dare not get in her light.

After a short stint terrorizing the chef and his staff, Mrs. Dearborn came bursting back from the kitchen.  She rearranged the flowers again, checked the lighting once more, and wondered if her new drapes really matched her carpet, or if the carpet went with the sofa, or if the sofa complemented the chairs.  She lined up the waiters, busboys, bartenders, cocktail waitresses and coat-check girls like a drill sergeant and inspected them one by one: comb your hair; trim your nails; brush your teeth; tie your shoe; change your panty hose; and to the last, trim the hairs in your nose, and your ears.  Everything was ready.  Everything was in place.  Nothing could go wrong.  Tonight would be perfect.  What could possibly go wrong?

Tonight would be a disaster, she thought.  She went over everything again.  She would get her husband on the governor’s committee and he would forget all that nonsense about a vacation.  She was determined that this night be special.  It would indeed be a night they would never forget.

The phone rang and a young businesswoman came shouting through the ranks, “Mrs. Dearborn, telephone Mrs. Dearborn.”

“I’ll take it in my study,” said Mrs. Dearborn, staring all along at the foyer as if the Queen of England herself would soon be passing through.  “And what have I told you about shouting?”

“That it’s very unprofessional.”

“And most unladylike.”

“Yes, ma’am.  Sorry, ma’am.”

Mrs. Dearborn stood statuesque, arms akimbo, then removed one daisy from a vase while saying “Perfect” to no one at all.

 

“Yes, this is Anna Dearborn,” she said as she picked up the phone.  “No,” she said, “I ordered two, one for the pool and one for the gazebo.  Lord in heaven, can’t you people get anything right?”

She twirled the daisy between her fingers as she listened, staring at Richard’s portrait on the wall.

“I don’t care what your invoice says;” she said, “I ordered two.”

Richard’s eyes stared right back.

“Just a moment; it’s in my purse,” she said.

She took a piece of paper from her purse.  What’s this, she thought?  She dropped it on the desk.  “Here we are,” she said, unfolding the invoice.  “Two, it says right here, two.”

She picked up the strange piece of paper from the desk.

“Well you had better, otherwise I’ll see to it you never work in the Free World again, or the whole world for that matter.”

She unfolded the sheet of paper.

“Yes, that will do fine.”

She read the title.

“Apology accepted,” she said, hanging up the phone, hypnotized by the words on the paper.  It was a poem Richard had given her long ago, and not just the same words but the actual poem, the very same piece of paper now wrinkled and yellowed.  But how did it get into her purse?  He must have slipped it in there.  He must be suffering from fatigue, what with all this talk of a vacation and all.  And now his slipping this poem into her purse?  Maybe he did need more than just a good night’s sleep.  Maybe he did need some time off.  Just get him through tonight, she thought; just get him on the governor’s committee and then they would take some time off, perhaps even a week.  Anything, just get him through tonight.  She wondered how the Gates merger had gone.

She dialed her travel agent.

There.  Everything was set.  They would spend a week in Hawaii before the Hioto takeover.  There was a hotel in Waikiki she had been thinking of buying for some time now.  She stormed from the office, almost knocking over the caterer.

“Mrs. Dearborn, we still have to finalize the–”

“You take care of it,” Mrs. Dearborn said on her way out the door.  “What am I paying you for anyway?”

The caterer did not know.

 

*          *          *

 

When Mrs. Anna Celese Dearborn came to the revolving door at 1136 4th Avenue she felt like saying–no, she felt like screaming it:  Bums!  And the crowd had grown even larger, now stirring about as there seemed to be some commotion in the mix.  She would have called the police, as was her way, but she just didn’t have time.

Bolting out the elevator, she blew by the secretary–as was also her way–the secretary saying “Good evening, Mrs. Dearborn” as Mrs. Dearborn burst into the office.

“Marsha,” shouted Mrs. Dearborn

“Yes, Mrs. Dearborn.”

“Where is Mr. Dearborn?”

The secretary said something, but Mrs. Dearborn couldn’t make it out for the noise below.

“Speak louder, dear.”

“I said, he should be in his office.  He hasn’t passed this way since the Gates meeting.”

“Well, he’s not here.”

“Maybe he’s in the bathroom.”

“No, dear.  The door’s wide-open.  He’s not in there.”

“Then I don’t know.  I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“All right, then,” said Mrs. Dearborn.

“Is that all, ma’am?”

“No,” said Mrs. Dearborn.  “I want you to call the police.  I’ve had it with all the commotion below.”

But someone had beat her to it.  The sound of police sirens now echoed from below.

“Never you mind,” said Mrs. Dearborn.  “Just put Mr. Dearborn through if he calls.”

Mrs. Dearborn walked over to the window.  The fumes from the cars below burned her eyes.  She never did understand why Mr. Dearborn always kept the window open.

She looked to the street below.  Bums!  Now they would get theirs. There were two police cars and, an ambulance.  Strange, she thought.  She leaned forward and, with one hand on the rail, brushed against a piece of cloth.  It was a torn piece of shirt.  What?  It was a blue pinstripe strip of starched cotton.  It was just like the shirt Mr. Dearborn was wearing today.  She knew; she had picked it out herself.  Her heart began racing.  Her face became flush.   She screamed in horror.

“Have a nice day, Mrs. Dearborn,” said the secretary as Mrs. Dearborn tore through the office toward the elevator, faster than was her usual way.  Did Mrs. Dearborn still want her to call the police?  She didn’t know; she couldn’t make out the last thing she said for all the noise below.  She would close the windows on her way out the office, just like always.  Those two really do need to take a vacation, she thought as she went about her paperwork.

 

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