Regeneration Read online

  Her money market account had the equivalent of two, maybe three (if she behaved herself) months salary. Her investment portfolio, once healthy, was now non-existent: The mutual funds had gone for the furniture; the annuities, for a younger man she’d met in a bar on Rush Street after Henry died, and thought she might want to marry, as her biological clock was still ticking, then. They had taken a romantic world cruise and spoken of love and the future and then her money had run out, and so had he.

  Yet another bad investment.

  Now she wished she had taken company shares instead of cash over the years, but then, she’d thought there would be plenty of time for that kind of thing.

  Joyce got up from the desk and went over to the four-poster bed and sat down on the peach satin bedspread and stared, trying to imagine what it would be like to live in an R.V.

  She shook her head. She’d made a lot of money over the years....Where the hell had it all gone? She sighed. It cost a great deal to live the good life in an expensive city. And, at her age, it took more and more cash to get her ready to face the world each day...the facials, the hair styling, the manicures, the workouts, the clothes....After all, she had an executive image to uphold, and clients to impress.

  Her eyes traveled to a walk-in closet the size of the Batcave, where enough designer clothes hung for her to open her own Michigan Avenue boutique.

  Something caught her attention and she got up from the bed and went over. An Ellen Tracy dress she’d bought on a whim a while ago, still had the store tags on it! She could return it for cash, if she could only find the receipt.

  She returned to the desk and rummaged frantically around in the drawers, making a mess, and the pathetic need to find the receipt in order to get a few hundred dollars—which really wouldn’t do her much good, anyway—caused her eyes to well up.

  First thing tomorrow, she’d cash in the Cancun flight and sell a scalper the Bulls tickets. The negligee she’d hang onto—it might help her the next time she got screwed.

  A tear slid down one cheek and splashed on the Petek Phillipe watch on her wrist. She wondered what a pawnshop would give her for it—assuming the goddamn fucking thing was waterproof.

  Chapter Two

  “IT’S OVER”

  (Roy Orbison, #9 Billboard, 1964)

  The receptionist—an icily attractive woman of perhaps twenty-five with porcelain skin and blond hair pulled back from her face in a simple chignon—looked at Joyce with glazed politeness.

  “Mr. Thomas will see you now,” she said in a monotone worthy of a waitress in a low-end fast-food joint.

  Like her makeup, the receptionist’s outfit was stark—beige cardigan and straight skirt—which provided quite a contrast to Joyce’s elegant pink Chanel suit with its gold buttons and splashy jewelry (she hadn’t been able to make up her mind between a heavy chain necklace or the long pearl one, so she’d worn them both).

  Joyce rose from the comfortable if somewhat stained and threadbare burgundy upholstered chair where she’d been sitting in the reception area next to a plant badly in need of re-potting. She gave the young blonde her friendliest smile.

  “Thank you, Diane,” she said, picking up on the woman’s desk nameplate. After all, Diane here might one day be her secretary. And if so, one of Diane’s first new jobs would be to keep the reception area spruced up, for Christ’s sake, and to work on her lackluster people skills. There were clients to impress!

  The inner office was masculine in decor, and also rather untidy. On the wood-paneled walls hung pictures of ducks and geese mixing oddly with autographed photos of sports figures, and here and there a plaque or two, awards won by Thomas Advertising, an outfit that was not just lower on the totem pole than her former employer, but barely in the same tribe.

  This should be a slam dunk, she thought, staying positive, despite the dozens of disappointments in recent days.

  Behind a desk so littered with papers and files the glass top could barely be seen sat Frank Thomas, owner of the firm. Approaching sixty, his thick hair a steel gray, he wore rather old-fashioned heavy-black-framed squarish glasses that suited his chiseled, character-lined face, which—unlike hers—had only gotten better with age.

  Frank was wearing a navy polo shirt and tan pleated slacks, rather casual attire for the top man, Joyce thought, unless Thomas Advertising had a “casual day” other than Friday. As she entered the room, he stood up, smiling broadly.

  “Joyce,” he said, beaming, extending a hand across the desk. “I’ve been looking forward to this! What a pleasure to see you somewhere besides the Addies!”

  “Frank,” she said, genuinely happy to be in his presence. “It’s good to see you again, too.” And she took his hand, which was warm and firm.

  “Please, please, have a seat.” He gestured to another burgundy chair—not stained, though equally threadbare—in front of the desk.

  She sat.

  Frank leaned back, his chair creaking. “I read in the Trib you’d retired. I couldn’t believe it! I was sure I’d beat you out to pasture by a long shot. Leave it to Joyce Lackey to figure a way to retire early. You always were smarter than me.”

  Joyce smiled, putting just a hint of something unbusinesslike in it. “And you still know how to make a woman feel good,” she said.

  Years ago, they had met at a business function, became close friends, then lovers; he had even proposed, being one of the rare men she’d been attracted to who wasn’t already married. But she hadn’t wanted to make that kind of commitment, yet—she was too devoted to work, and having too much fun after work. And a man couldn’t be expected to wait around forever.

  “And how’s Maureen?” she asked.

  “Fine. Just fine.”

  “Did she ever get a handle on those migraines?”

  “Oh, yes, they’ve got some wonderful new medication. If I’d bought the right pharmaceutical stocks, we’d both be retired right now, kiddo!”

  “And your boy—Ted?”

  “We’re up to three grandkids, now, thanks to Teddy.” He gestured to a small three-framed photo, lost in the sea of papers on his desk. “Janet’s married, too, but no little deductions yet.”

  She smiled and nodded. Suddenly she felt stiff, even awkward, around this man she’d known so well: She was fresh out of small talk.

  “So, Joyce—what brings you out to the suburbs?”

  Bless him, he knew her so well; everything she did had a purpose.

  She took a deep breath, shifting in the chair, her gaze dropping from his eyes to the files on the desk. “Well...” Suddenly, despite the industrial-strength deodorant, her underarms felt damp, adding to her discomfort. “I heard through the grapevine that you’re looking for a copy writer.”

  “Well that’s right. Why, do you have a candidate in mind?”

  “Yes.”

  He shook his head, smiling a wry half-smile. “I guess we all have a nephew who wants to get into the advertising business, right? Or a niece! Got to watch the sexist stuff, you know—close me down overnight.”

  “You were never sexist, Frank. You were always as fair a man as this unfair business ever knew.” This was a line she had prepared and rehearsed and she prayed it had sounded spontaneous.

  “Well, gee whiz, like we used to say back in Muncie...that’s sweet of you, Joyce.”

  “Frank...” She paused. “The person I had in mind was...me.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, right.”

  She said nothing. Swallowed.

  Frank’s smiled faded a little. “You are kidding, of course.”

  “I wish I were.”

  He leaned forward, the chair making the same creak. “Surely you must know that all I have is an entry-level job, Joyce—not even head copy writer. You’d be reporting to a damn kid who has half your qualifications and a tenth of your experience.”

  “I don’t care. I just want a chance.”

  “But, Joyce...you’re beyond overqualified.”

  “That doesn’t matter.”


  “And the pay is pitiful...not even in your ballpark.”

  My ballpark, she thought bitterly. Can’t you see I’ve been sent down to the minors?

  “Frank...” she began.

  “Joyce, you know I’d do just about anything for you....”

  Please, she thought, trying to send him a mental message, don’t make this any harder for me. Don’t make me beg....

  Maybe he had read her mind, because his face took on a tortured look and he said haltingly, “Joyce, I...I just don’t think you’d be happy starting over. With your reputation, you should open your own agency.” Then he added with a little laugh, “Though I wouldn’t welcome the competition.”

  She looked down at her hands in her lap. “Yes, well, that takes capital, doesn’t it.”

  “Oh. But with all the loot you made over the years...”

  “Bad investments. No retirement package. Nothing.”

  Now he swallowed. “I see.”

  She sat forward in her chair. “Frank, I’ll level with you. Despite that bullshit in the papers, I was forced to retire...and you know me, Frank, you know I don’t have anything but my work. Even if I didn’t need money to exist, I’d still want to work—that’s who I am...that’s...all I am.”

  “Joyce...I really didn’t know. The papers made it sound so convincing....”

  “Who do you think wrote the news release? And, Frank—I do need the money...no matter how ‘pitiful.’ ” She sat back in the chair, and added slowly, “I just thought that you might be able to help. For...for old times sake.”

  She hated herself for leaning on their past, for calling that marker in. But it was the only card she had left to play.

  Frank stood from his chair and turned his back to her and looked at the wall where an autographed photo of Ernie Banks stared back; perhaps he was hoping the legendary Cubs ballplayer would give him some guidance, help him find the words.

  When Frank turned around his voice was soft. “Joyce, my company needs young blood.”

  God! Couldn’t a veteran adman come up with a newer phrase?

  “Oh but I have young blood,” she said, not letting him off the hook. “I just had a complete physical. The clinic says I’m as fit as a thirty-year-old woman. I never smoked, never drank to excess, and I still work out—”

  “You know what I mean...young ideas.”

  Joyce studied his face. “I see,” she said icily. “Of which I have none?”

  “I didn’t mean that,” he said, and came around the desk, pushing some files back, sitting on the edge. “I know your past accomplishments, everybody in Chicago knows. Hell, everybody in the goddamn country does.”

  That melted her a little.

  “But this new millennium needs the kind of fresh perspective that only youth can provide.”

  Horseshit! she thought, and was about to flail into him verbally, when he lowered his voice and went on.

  “And there’s something else I should tell you.”

  She looked up intently at him.

  “I’m thinking of merging with a bigger company.”

  She blinked. “You want to be taken over?”

  He nodded. “The Davis Group. It’s either that or go under.”

  She stared at the wall behind him. She didn’t know business was that bad. That...threadbare.

  “And if that happens,” he said with a sigh, “you know what it’s going to be like around here?”

  She did. She’d gone through it with her old agency: utter turmoil. Turmoil from without, by irate clients who don’t like the change and take their business elsewhere, and turmoil from within, by merging two different sets of employees, and fighting over which ones got to stay.

  “As our newest copy writer,” he said, “you’d likely be one of the first to go—no seniority, no history.”

  “Maybe. But, Frank—if I do hold on, and help the merged company keep from losing too many clients from both their lists, I could rise to the top. Cream always does.”

  “I don’t know, Joyce....”

  “And, Frank, when the company goes public—and that’s where you want to head, don’t you?—there’d be plenty of money to go around.”

  “You do have a point.”

  “Merger or not, I still want to be considered for the job,” she said firmly, eager to take the chance. Besides, she had no other prospects on the horizon.

  Frank put one hand on her shoulder. “All right, Joyce. Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Hoped blossomed within her, and she rose from the chair and grasped his hand. “Thanks, Frank, I knew I could count on you.”

  He smiled weakly. “Sure, Joyce. I’ll call you by the end of the week.”

  She exited the office into the hall with the old bounce back in her step. Frank would come through for her, she knew it! After all, he was still president of the company—for now, anyway. Pausing at a drinking fountain, she sipped cool water, feeling reinvigorated, thinking how this lowly agency was no different from Ballard, Henke and Hurst when she’d first come aboard. She wasn’t starting back at the bottom, no—she was back on the launching pad!

  Dreading the commute into the city in slow, rush-hour traffic, she wandered down the corridor to find a rest room.

  She was in the last stall, straightening her skirt, and about to flush the toilet, when female voices trailed in.

  “So,” a sarcastically tinged female voice said, “who was the rhinestone cowgirl, anyway?”

  Joyce could see her through the crack of the stall door, at the mirror, applying lipstick, a slender girl, with shoulder-length brown hair.

  A voice from a stall down the line answered, just as acidly: “Somebody who used to be somebody, I think. If you can believe it.”

  “Couldn’t she find one more necklace to wear?”

  Joyce, standing in the stall, touched a hand to her throat; maybe two was too much....

  From that stall down the line the other woman laughed. “Maybe she forgot she already had one on. I think she was an ‘old friend’ of Frank’s. Anyway, that’s how I read her body language.”

  Joyce froze in the stall, finally recognizing the secretary’s voice. It wasn’t so monotone, now.

  “Old friend is right,” said the woman at the mirror. “Hasn’t she heard, less is more? Move over, Tammy Faye! So what did she want?”

  Joyce frowned. She didn’t wear that much makeup! Did she?

  A toilet flushed. The secretary joined her friend at the mirror. Washing her hands, checking her makeup, the blonde asked, “What makes you think I listened?”

  “Ha! Spill.”

  The secretary was touching up her lipstick. “She was asking about the copywriting position.”

  “Really? Did she come out with runs in the knees of her nylons?”

  “Don’t knock it. It worked for Monica—maybe it’ll fly for the Geritol set, too.”

  “You think she takes out her false teeth?”

  Both women laughed and it echoed like mocking thunder.

  Joyce was shivering—it was cold in there.

  Then the first woman said, “Hey, I thought that position was already decided on. You know, that cute black guy from Northwestern. Nice buns!”

  “Yeah, but gay.”

  “All the good-looking ones are gay!”

  The secretary shrugged. “I guess poor Frank just didn’t know how to tell her the job was filled.”

  The other woman’s laugh echoed in the room. “He’s such a soft touch. He should have let us do it.”

  The voices trailed out, as the bathroom door wooshed open and shut.

  After a few moments, Joyce came out of the stall and stared at the mirror, where a tired-looking, middle-aged woman wearing overdone makeup, an outdated suit, and too much jewelry, stared back at her. Tears spilled down her cheeks, washing some of the makeup away—was that really better?—and she got a paper towel and ran cold water on it, and dabbed her face with it.

  She didn’t remember leaving the bu
ilding, nor did she remember driving back into the city and up the Gold Coast, parking in the underground garage of her condo and letting herself in the front door.

  But she did remember standing in the dining room with its beautiful parquet floor where she had, over the years, entertained VIPs, from publicists to politicians, royalty to rock stars, at her elegant dinning room table, which she’d had to sell at an auction house. The Louis XV furniture had been the first to go, at a considerable loss—so much for “provisional hedonism.”

  And she remembered going into the kitchen and pouring herself a large glass of Chablis, and entering the bathroom, getting a bottle of sleeping pills, and taking them all with the wine. Then she combed her hair, and fixed her makeup—with a new, lighter touch—and, returning to the bedroom, she put on her finest silk nightgown—not the black-boa thing; she wouldn’t be caught dead in that—and reclined on the bed, arms folded upon her chest, as if giving the mortician guidance to how she should be laid out in her casket.

  Never before in her life had she ever given the faintest, slightest consideration to suicide. She was much too selfish for that. And, anyway, advertising people were tough! They were used to criticism and rejection....It happened every day. So what was the matter with her? Had her tough skin gotten thin over the years?

  All she knew was that she was tired, so very, very tired—or was that the drugs kicking in?—and there was a limit to the rejection one person could take. When they took her job away from her, they took her life—suicide was just a formality.

  Idly, hazily, she wondered if the toilet bowl was clean and what kind of junk was fermenting in the fridge. And finally, what Aunt Beth in De Kalb—her only living close relative—might think about the crotchless panties she would inherit.

  A phone rang on the floor by the bed—very far in the distance, it seemed, hundreds and hundred of miles away—and the answering machine picked up.