The Unnamed - By Joshua Ferris Page 0,19

cast some light through the bedroom’s open windows, just enough to make their breath visible. He was on top of the bed; she huddled beneath the covers. “Why would I find that hard to believe?”

“Because your life is your work.”

“Is that what you think?”

There was silence. “Listen to me,” she said. “You need someone to watch over you. You’re going farther away than ever before.”

She had no idea, no idea, how badly he wanted to consent. He was scared. He wanted someone to safeguard him.

“It’s too much to ask,” he said. “I don’t want it to be like last time when I recover and go back to work and you get depressed.”

“I wasn’t depressed,” she said. “I just had a hard time finding my old self again.”

“It’s too much to ask,” he repeated.

And she was silent then because she was relieved.

12

Mike Kronish appeared in Tim’s doorway. Even from that distance the man seemed to hover. Proximity to him felt like sudden contact with a grizzly bear risen up on its hind legs. His broad suited figure was an American corn-fed miracle. He made his own weather in hallways and conference rooms and was legend for screwing paralegals.

Kronish was the managing partner of the litigation department, a five-year position to which he’d been elected. He assigned new business to the other partners, set policy for the department, and ran the caucuses and litigation committees. He also served internally as the voice of the firm. There were no official hierarchies among partners at Troyer, Barr, but the managing partner had certain political obligations that involved keeping important matters under control. “Knock knock,” he said.

“Hey hey,” said Tim.

Kronish came in and sat across from him. A delayed tide of aftershave, masking any hint of flaw, floated over the desk. “So let me just come right out with it,” said Kronish. “R.H. called. He’s unhappy.”

“He called you?”

“You missed a meeting with him yesterday.”

“No, no,” said Tim. “I talked with Peter. Peter should have met with him. Where the fuck was Peter?”

“Tell me, Tim.”

“What?”

“Who’s the partner on the case? Is Peter the partner?”

“And whose case is it, Mike? If I want Peter to take the meeting.”

“Your case, your case. But when I get a call—me—from the client.”

“Then if it’s my case, I take the meeting or I tell Peter to take the meeting.”

Kronish pinched his nose twice quickly and then resettled his hand on his folded leg. He sat back in the chair. A moment passed.

Kronish was famous inside the firm for once having billed a twenty-seven-hour day. This was possible only if you plied the time zones. Kronish worked twenty-four hours straight and then boarded a plane for Los Angeles, where he continued working on West Coast time. When he filled out his time sheets later that week, he rightfully attributed more hours to that day than technically possible. This made Tim want to leap across the desk and eat his lucky, healthy heart. “Fucking guy needs a babysitter,” he said, breaking the silence.

“Fucking guy needs an acquittal,” said Kronish.

“Which is my entire fucking point as to why I wasn’t in that meeting. Why am I working this hard? And it wasn’t a meeting, it was a hand-holding. Look, Mike, butt out, with due respect. I can handle my client.”

“You know all he brings in on the corporate side.”

“I need reminding?”

“So you skipped the meeting to work the case?”

“Butt the fuck out, Mike.”

There was a momentary stare-down between the two men. Then Kronish’s eyes wandered. Tim followed them over to the wall, where the backpack leaned. “What’s with that?”

“What?”

Kronish gestured with his chin. “The backpack.”

“What, it’s a backpack.”

“Have I seen you walking the halls with that?”

For a moment he thought, I’ll just come clean. I’ll show Mike The New England Journal of Medicine article and I’ll detail the frustration of fighting the label of crazy and I’ll say, ultimately, Mike, they don’t know if it’s a medical condition or a psychiatric disorder. I’ll be honest, and Mike will respond in kind with a show of sympathy he’s never demonstrated because we are both human beings slated to fall ill and die. “All right, all right,” he said. “Look.” He was quiet, letting the moment build. “We’ve had some bad news.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

He took a deep breath. “Jane’s cancer’s come back.”

Kronish’s demeanor changed. He leaned forward in the chair and steepled his hands as if to pray, never letting his eyes stray from Tim’s. Soon he wore a duly woeful and theatrical frown. “Shit,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“That