The Easy Way Out by Stephen McCauley Read Free Book Online Page A

substantial private income. Everyone in our office either had done something more substantive or at least gave the impression of being capable of doing something more substantive. The travel industry is a real haven for burned-out teachers and social workers and est trainers. I was one of the burned-out teachers. Technically, I suppose I was one of the burned-out travel agents, too, but I couldn’t afford to quit.
    Fredrick, the receptionist, handed me a stack of pink call-back slips and looked at his watch. “Late again,” he said wearily. “Always, always late.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said. “But at least I’m earlier than I was yesterday.”
    â€œPlease don’t apologize, Patrick. I couldn’t care less. I was just making a casual observation.”
    Fredrick—it never occurred to me or anyone else in the office tocall him Fred—was a recent Harvard graduate, a stout, pleasantly bored young man with a passion for Charlotte Brontë and French pastry. His hair color varied wildly from week to week, and his eyelids were remarkably heavy and oily. There was much discussion around the office about whether or not he wore mascara. He was far from the most efficient receptionist we’d ever had, but apparently the boss felt that having someone at the front desk reading Villette compensated for the fact that he often neglected to answer the phone.
    I liked Fredrick, mostly because he never bothered me about my own inefficiency and was the only person I’d ever met who could wear pedal pushers and a bow tie at the same time and somehow look dashing. I was fascinated by his sexual interests, which were as varied as his wardrobe and his hair color. I’d once asked him if he considered himself a bisexual. “Basically,” he’d said confidentially, “I fall in love with anyone who’ll stay in the room after I’ve taken my clothes off.”
    I apologized once again for being late. He shrugged, adjusted his bow tie, and remembered that there was a client waiting to see me in my office. “He got here a while ago,” he said.
    â€œOh?” I had a list a mile long of clients I had no desire to see.
    â€œFifteen minutes ago. Tall, long arms. Talks so soft you can’t hear a thing he says.”
    Worse news than I’d feared. Dr. Fields, a Harvard professor, had come in months earlier to plan a trip I still hadn’t done any work on. I lifted my bike to my shoulder and carried it into my office grudgingly.
    My desk was in a small, narrow room at the rear of the house, probably part of the pantry when the place was lived in by a single family. I loved my office, mainly because it was so aesthetically unappealing that I was left in relative peace. I had a sagging bookcase laden with heavy rate tariffs and hotel books, and a rack of outdated brochures was nailed to the wall. Fields was sitting in front of my desk, studying a hotel guide and jotting in a tiny notebook.
    â€œSorry I’m late, Professor,” I said as I dumped my bike against a wall. “I have a sick dog at home, and I didn’t want to leave him.” Fields was a zoology professor, so I thought he’d take to an animal excuse.
    I swept a stack of papers off my chair and sat down. I love to sit behind my desk and at least appear as if I have all the answers.
    â€œI was just in the neighborhood,” Fields whispered, “and I thought I’d drop by and see how the reservations are coming.”
    Fields was a pathological passive-aggressive type. His particular act of hostility was to talk so softly I had to sit on the edge of my seat and strain my ears to hear what he was saying. I’d tried asking him directly to speak up, told him I was hard of hearing, and forced him to repeat every sentence he uttered. Finally, I’d discovered a solution that worked.
    â€œOh, thank you,” I said loudly. “I got it on sale at Filene’s. I