promise of things to come, who sees uncertainties and contingencies diminished, and yet she was rushing
away from me, astonished, as were the others. I realized I had caused a commotion. Still, I gave chase, Sis, and I overcame
your Brice McCann, where he blockaded himself on the far side of a table full of spring rolls. Though I have never been a
fighting guy, I gave him an elbow in the nose, as if I were a Chicken and this elbow my wing. I’m sure I mashed some cartilage.
He got a little nosebleed. I think I may have broken the Mansions unbroken streak of peaceful weddings.
At this point, of course, a pair of beefy Mansion employees (the McCarthy brothers, Tom and Eric) arrived on the scene and
pulled me off of Brice McCann. They also tore the Chicken Mask from me. And they never returned this piece of my property
afterwards. At the moment of unmasking, Brice reacted with mock astonishment. But how could he have failed to guess? That
I would wait for my chance, however many years it took?
—Andy?
I said nothing, Sis. Your ghost had been in the cloud that wreathed him; your ghost had swooped out of the little box that
I’d held, and now, at last, you were released from your disconsolate march on the surface of the earth, your march of unfinished
business, your march of fixed ideas and obsessions unslaked by death. I would be happy if you were atpeace now, Sis, and I would be happy if I were at peace; I would be happy if the thunderclouds and lightning of Brice and
Sarah’s wedding would yield to some warm autumn day in which you had good weather for your flight up through the heavens.
Out in the foyer, where the guests from the Valentine Room were promenading in some of the finest threads I had ever seen,
Tom McCarthy told me that Glenda Manzini wanted to see me in her office —before I was removed from the Mansion on the Hill
permanently. We walked against the flow of the crowd beginning to empty from each of the suites. Our trudge was long. When
I arrived at Glenda’s refrigerated chamber, she did an unprecedented thing, Sis, she closed the door. I had never before inhabited
that space alone with her. She didn’t invite me to sit. Her voice was raised from the outset. Pinched between thumb and forefinger
(the shade of her nail polish, a dark maroon, is known in beauty circles, I believe, as
vamp),
as though it were an ounce of gold or a pellet of plutonium, she held a single green M&M.
—Can you explain this? She asked. —Can you tell me what this is?
—I think that’s a green M&M, I said. —I think that’s the traditional green color, as opposed to one of the new brighter shades
they added in a recent campaign for market share.
—Andy, don’t try to amuse me. What was this green M&M doing behind my filing cabinet?
—Well, I —
—I’m certain that I didn’t leave a green M&M back there. I would never leave an M&M behind a filing cabinet. In fact, I would
never allow a green M&M into this office in the first place.
—That was months ago.
—I’ve been holding onto it for months, Glenda said.
—Do you think I’m stupid?
—On the contrary, I said.
—Do you think you can come in here and violate the privacy of my office?
—I think you’re brilliant, I said. —And I think you’re very sad. And I think you should surrender your job to someone who
cares for the institution you’re celebrating here.
Now that I had let go of you,
Sis, now that I had begun to compose this narrative in which I relinquished the hem of your spectral bedsheet, I saw through
the language of business, the rhetoric of hypocrisy. Why had she sent me out for those birth-control pills? Why did she make
me schedule her chiropractic appointments? Because she could.
But what couldn’t be controlled, what could never be controlled, was the outcome of devotion.
Glenda’s expression, for the first time on record, was stunned. She launched into impassioned colloquy about how the
away from me, astonished, as were the others. I realized I had caused a commotion. Still, I gave chase, Sis, and I overcame
your Brice McCann, where he blockaded himself on the far side of a table full of spring rolls. Though I have never been a
fighting guy, I gave him an elbow in the nose, as if I were a Chicken and this elbow my wing. I’m sure I mashed some cartilage.
He got a little nosebleed. I think I may have broken the Mansions unbroken streak of peaceful weddings.
At this point, of course, a pair of beefy Mansion employees (the McCarthy brothers, Tom and Eric) arrived on the scene and
pulled me off of Brice McCann. They also tore the Chicken Mask from me. And they never returned this piece of my property
afterwards. At the moment of unmasking, Brice reacted with mock astonishment. But how could he have failed to guess? That
I would wait for my chance, however many years it took?
—Andy?
I said nothing, Sis. Your ghost had been in the cloud that wreathed him; your ghost had swooped out of the little box that
I’d held, and now, at last, you were released from your disconsolate march on the surface of the earth, your march of unfinished
business, your march of fixed ideas and obsessions unslaked by death. I would be happy if you were atpeace now, Sis, and I would be happy if I were at peace; I would be happy if the thunderclouds and lightning of Brice and
Sarah’s wedding would yield to some warm autumn day in which you had good weather for your flight up through the heavens.
Out in the foyer, where the guests from the Valentine Room were promenading in some of the finest threads I had ever seen,
Tom McCarthy told me that Glenda Manzini wanted to see me in her office —before I was removed from the Mansion on the Hill
permanently. We walked against the flow of the crowd beginning to empty from each of the suites. Our trudge was long. When
I arrived at Glenda’s refrigerated chamber, she did an unprecedented thing, Sis, she closed the door. I had never before inhabited
that space alone with her. She didn’t invite me to sit. Her voice was raised from the outset. Pinched between thumb and forefinger
(the shade of her nail polish, a dark maroon, is known in beauty circles, I believe, as
vamp),
as though it were an ounce of gold or a pellet of plutonium, she held a single green M&M.
—Can you explain this? She asked. —Can you tell me what this is?
—I think that’s a green M&M, I said. —I think that’s the traditional green color, as opposed to one of the new brighter shades
they added in a recent campaign for market share.
—Andy, don’t try to amuse me. What was this green M&M doing behind my filing cabinet?
—Well, I —
—I’m certain that I didn’t leave a green M&M back there. I would never leave an M&M behind a filing cabinet. In fact, I would
never allow a green M&M into this office in the first place.
—That was months ago.
—I’ve been holding onto it for months, Glenda said.
—Do you think I’m stupid?
—On the contrary, I said.
—Do you think you can come in here and violate the privacy of my office?
—I think you’re brilliant, I said. —And I think you’re very sad. And I think you should surrender your job to someone who
cares for the institution you’re celebrating here.
Now that I had let go of you,
Sis, now that I had begun to compose this narrative in which I relinquished the hem of your spectral bedsheet, I saw through
the language of business, the rhetoric of hypocrisy. Why had she sent me out for those birth-control pills? Why did she make
me schedule her chiropractic appointments? Because she could.
But what couldn’t be controlled, what could never be controlled, was the outcome of devotion.
Glenda’s expression, for the first time on record, was stunned. She launched into impassioned colloquy about how the
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