Lean In, Mrs. Adamson

Mrs. Adamson, vice-president of operations at a big corporation, was too busy for Death.Not today, not this week. And definitely not next Tuesday.

Her beleaguered assistant Samara called over the P.A.: “I have a Mr. Thanatos on the other line—kind of a pushy guy. He claims you agreed to meet with him any time. What should I say?”

“Let me talk to him,” Mrs. Adamson said, taking a deep breath before she hit the speaker button. As a twenty-year veteran of financial markets, she believed she could handle all comers.

A baritone chuckle filled her office. “Normally I never go through an intermediary,” Mr. Thanatos said in the sepulchral tones she remembered from a decade ago. “But you are a difficult person to get hold of. I guess that’s the modern way. Everybody busy busy.”

“Samara is a genius scheduler—she can handle your booking,” Mrs. Adamson said, realizing with a pang that she had finally found a semi-decent assistant but soon would be having to say good-bye.

“Excellent,” Mr. Thanatos purred.

“May I ask, what’s your target date?” she said. It had to happen sometime; she didn’t want to be a burden for Noah. She felt an odd resignation, the same deep acceptance of Fate that had come over her a decade earlier.

“First, some housekeeping,” said Mr. Thanatos. “I must remind you: do not communicate to anyone what the meeting will be about. As far as everyone else is concerned, I shall be dropping by for an ordinary reason at a completely ordinary time.”

“I won’t breathe a word.” Mrs. Adamson recalled the day her husband died. It was at 10:37 AM, right after the janitor had puttered by with his mop. She’d been watching the clock and holding Bill’s hand. His fingernails were cyanotic blue and he had been breathing shallowly for the last hour. “Here comes the cleaner,” she’d said, because she spoke to Bill often, even though he was beyond replying. “Must be cleaning up from our big party the night before, heh?” A little humour never hurt. Chopin’s Nocturne in E Minor was playing on the radio turned low. “Fancy that, dear,” she’d said, “They’re playing a nocturne, but it’s the middle of the day.” She’d felt the room go still, suddenly. She’d waited a moment, then held her hand above his mouth, checking for breathing.

“… more painful death for you,” Mr. Thanatos said.

“What?” she blurted. “I’m sorry—I missed that—what did you just say?”

“Daydreaming, Mrs. Adamson?” he said. “Really? A clever executive like you?”

She thought of lying about a poor phone connection. But no; he would see right through that. Instead, she apologized. “Sorry, I was just remembering my husband’s…final moments.”

“Ahhh, William Adamson,” Mr. Thanatos said. He read out that long-ago date and time and pronounced: “a good passing indeed.”

“Yes,” she said. It was a good death for Bill. But a wicked grieving for her. Titanic waves of sadness had nearly submerged her. She had missed him so acutely that first year—all the shared rituals, from lovemaking to tooth-flossing, and the comfortable everyday togetherness in between—that she had implored the heavens to strike her down, too. Where had Mr. Thanatos been then? Every day had been crammed with fresh opportunities—high-velocity trains, sharp knives in kitchens, and skyscrapers with open balconies. “You know, I begged you to come get me ten years ago,” she murmured. If it weren’t for the task of raising Noah the Unmanageable, she would have taken her own life.

“Funny how often I hear that.” Mr. Thanatos gave an embarrassed laugh, as if an acquaintance had confessed a hidden crush. “Where was I? … oh yes, I was laying out the ground rules. Anything sneaky or underhanded—for example, sending your underling to our meeting instead of yourself—will result in a more painful death for you.”

“An underling,” Mrs. Adamson scoffed. “How cowardly!”

“Exactly.”

She could tell he had broken into a smile. For the first time she wondered: what did this Mr. Thanatos actually look like? She pictured a dark cowl, bony hands. But his smile? Stereotypes only got a person so far.

“Now, about your schedule,” he said.

“Unfortunately—and truly—I don’t know where I’ll be the next couple of weeks.” She hastened to explain, “Things really are up in the air. I was recently named CEO, you see. Activist shareholders pressing for women at the top. I have so much to learn—that’s why all these off-site meetings are clogging my schedule. And they keep changing—”

His voice took on the honeyed tones of romance. “I have no objection to paying an evening visit.”

“Oh—well—how about Tettroni’s next Saturday, then?” she said. They had a fabulous wine bar. She was not afraid of dying, but she knew she would float away more easily if she were sozzled on some full-bodied vino rosso. Like downing a martini before getting her underarms waxed—something to take the edge off.

“Tettroni’s?” He groaned. “The last time I visited, the maître d’ whipped out the defibrillator and resuscitated the patron. What a waste of a trip that was! I had to catch him on the toilet the next morning. No thank you. I’ll make an appointment with your assistant.” He paused. “Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, is she?”

Mrs. Adamson bristled. “She’s learning the ropes nicely, thank you very much.” She rang off and sighed. Do I coddle my people too much?

* * *

When Mrs. Adamson returned from a working lunch, Samara gave her a look. “That pushy Thanatos guy called back and insisted on the first available slot—next Friday afternoon.”

“Well, there goes the weekend.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll cancel if you’d like.” Samara had that hangdog look about her.

“No! That’s okay! I told him you were the one to book it with.” For good measure, she praised Samara—“You did exactly right”—and then wondered: why am I bothering? She won’t be my assistant much longer.

“I set up a two o’clock to discuss, um, …what?” Samara pointed to her screen and tried to hide her yawn.

“Let’s say… taxes,” said Mrs. Adamson as she ducked into her office.

* * *

Before next Friday rolled around, Mrs. Adamson had an unexpected call from Noah, somewhere in rural Quebec. He had matured from being unmanageable to being merely unpredictable. He filled her in on his new vegan pastries business and she made proud-mom noises.

“And what are you doing Thanksgiving weekend, Mom?”

“You’ll have to check with Samara,” she said, secretly hoping there was a conflict, because she hated vegan Thanksgivings. Tofurkey gave her gas; she could die of embarrassment. But wait! she remembered: I’ll no longer be walking this earth!

“Surely you get one day off,” said Noah. “Fly your private jet here, maybe?”

“Very funny,” she said. “Are you sure you can put up with me for the day?” She had to act naturally right now because this might be their last conversation. Nothing sappy, she reminded herself, no ‘I love you’ or whining. A lump rose in her throat.

“Yeah, Mom. Could you bring my favourite dish?”

“What, curried kumara?” She winced. She hadn’t made that dish for ages. Do I want to spend my final day cooking ugly vegetables?

“Yeah,” he said. “And could you make a double batch?”

“Okay.” Fine, she would pull out all the stops. Do I coddle my kid too much?

“I’m gonna hold you to it,” he said. “You see, this will be more than Thanksgiving. Me and Tangerine are getting married! We’ll book the church—don’t worry about that—I just had to nail down the date with my super-busy CEO-mom. Surpri-ise!”

Mrs. Adamson felt a pang in her chest. “Wait, what?” she said in a midge-sized voice. She tried to recall what Tangerine looked like but drew a blank. “Married?”

“Yeah, uh, we wanted to tie the knot… before the baby.”

“Baby?” Mrs. Adamson felt another pang. “Oh my.”

* * *

The week evaporated even faster than usual. She would be leaving everything undone.

But she was a woman of her word. She did not permit her thoughts to flit to Noah’s news. Compartmentalization was key. It worked 99 percent of the time.

On Friday at 1:55 pm Mrs. Adamson got off the elevator. It had been a working lunch and she had (uncustomarily) ordered wine. The office P.A. system was playing Nocturne in E Minor.

“Rather a mournful tune, don’t you think?” she said.

Samara raised her eyes. “But you like—”

“Never mind; you’re right,” said Mrs. Adamson. She took a deep breath and entered her office.

Standing at the window was a gaunt figure in a dark robe. Slung about his hips was a workman’s leather tool-belt with an assortment of items—wrench, Taser, staple gun, plastic bags, and so on—sticking out of it. Mrs. Adamson stared for a long moment before realizing the man’s eyes were fixed on her.

“Oh dear,” she said. “I haven’t kept you waiting, have I?”

“No. You are right on time, Mrs. Adamson. Very good,” Mr. Thanatos said. “Perhaps you were looking for guns,” he said, his hand flashing over his tool-belt like a fashion model for accessories.

“Um, yes.” In truth she had no idea.

“Well, I don’t have any,” he said. “That’s handled by my colleagues in the Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms unit.”

“There’s more than one of you?”

“Of course,” he said. “Death is a global concern.”

“I hadn’t realized…”

“Oh yes, we’re constantly hiring. For all units. Especially now. We even have an employee referral program but it’s still impossible to find qualified candidates.” He leaned forward and confided, “That’s why they take folks like me. I flunked my firearms training.”

“Oh my!” A laugh escaped her. “Well, there’s a place for everyone,” she said consolingly. “Why, look at me… I flunked my typing… but I still ended up—” She was babbling, she realized, and stopped short. Her eyes fell again on the bulky tool-belt. In all the pictures of Death she recalled, he had a single tool: the scythe. Perhaps the tool-belt was removed for photo ops.

“You don’t seem very pleased to see me,” he said, pouting. “I gathered, from our last conversation, you were … looking forward to this day?”

“It’s just—I hadn’t grasped—” she said, motioning vaguely. The steel knitting needles loomed, long and pointy.

He grinned, showing long brown teeth. “Squeamish, are we?” He undid the belt fastener. He swung the heavy thing off and, after looking around, deposited it under the broad mahogany desk. “I try to pack logically,” he said. “Everything I’ll need for the day.”

Her heart began to race. Good Lord, what was he going to do? Tackle her with his bare hands? She had neglected to ask a crucial piece of information: how she would die, and somehow it didn’t seem very sporting to ask it now. Her rational side had assumed it would be heart or stroke, like her dear parents—she’d read thirty percent of deaths are cardiovascular—but she couldn’t imagine how that would play out.

She motioned for him to take a seat. She saw that Samara had placed two copies of “Porpoise Changes to Taxation Rules” on the table. That sweet girl. Always well prepared. If only she wouldn’t rely on Spellcheck—

“It’s the on-line dating effect,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Happens all the time,” Thanatos said. “I arrange a date and over the phone we get along like a house on fire—until we meet in person.” He dropped into a chair, languidly crossed his legs, and tipped back his cowl. With his intense gaze and thin, mobile lips, he resembled the lanky electric bass player she’d dated in college. “Am I all that bad?” he whined. “I used to be welcomed many, many places—you wouldn’t believe! And now, I get the cold shoulder.”

Her scalp prickled. “Look, I’ll level with you,” she said. “When last we spoke, yes, I was ready to… die. But since then—well, I received some incredible news.”

Mr. Thanatos cocked his head to one side. “Do tell.”

“I’m about to. Become. A. Grandmother!” Her voice rose. A grandmother—a grandmother, oh! She had not permitted herself to think about this, had not even said the G-word aloud—and now, here it was! Here. It. Was. She felt a tingling warmth just thinking about a baby’s velvety round head. Its dimpled elbow. Its gaze, both innocent and wise.

“I see.” Mr. Thanatos pursed his saggy mouth. “You’d like to call it off, then—is that right?”

“Well…” Mrs. Adamson struggled. He looks like a guy about to be jilted… “Are you a grandparent, by any chance?”

“That’s rather personal,” he tut-tutted.

Silence fell. He’s expecting me to beg for mercy, she thought, but I’ll take the high road. “Never mind,” she said. “I’m a woman of my word. I just wanted to level with you.”

“I admire that,” he said, touching her sleeve. “You are a woman of integrity—a natural leader.”

Her mouth suddenly tasted of dust. What will they name the baby? Will the baby have Noah’s cauliflower ears? Bill’s bulbous nose?

“My dear, I’m sensing some resistance,” he said. “Would you like to exchange your date for someone else’s?”

Vladimir Putin, she thought.

“Tee-hee.” His smile deepened.

She sensed he was luring her into some trap. Furiously she tried to calculate the next move and its countermove. Maybe he wouldn’t give her an option who the exchange would be with. That must be it; he would force an exchange with an innocent person—possibly Noah. Noah, who had put up with her all these years. Or Tangerine. Or—no—he wouldn’t take the baby, would he?

Her heart missed a beat.

“I am ready,” she said. “Take me.” She swallowed, her throat thick as wet cement.

“According to the Geneva conventions,” he recited, “I am supposed to remind you that there are some valid reasons to postpone.” He lifted his eyes to the engraved clock on the shelf, a gift from her last work team in recognition of her years of leadership. “I like you, Mrs. Adamson. Very much.” He gave a long, seductive sigh.

She followed his eyes to the clock—and was stunned to see the hour was nearly at an end. “What did you do? The clock—”

“You perked up when I said ‘postponement,’ yet you are too principled to grovel for one. I appreciate that.” With a wave of his hand the music changed from Chopin to Sousa. “There, is that better?”

Postponement? Mrs. Adamson tried not to smile. Her pulse marched along: the baby, the baby! I will see the baby before I die!

“Tell me about the expected arrival.” Mr. Thanatos said. “When’s it due?”

She shrugged. Her best poker face. She didn’t want to tell him one thing more about the baby in case he had a sinister motive. How very stupid of me to mention the baby.

“All right,” he said, “let’s move on with reviewing this document then.” He sighed. He picked up the report and motioned for her to do the same. “‘Porpoise’? What kind of incompetent…”

“She’ll learn,” Mrs. Adamson said. She circled the typo, pushing all thoughts of baby-joy-happiness from her mind.

He folded back the cover. “Well, dive in. Your assistant expects it of us,” he said grimly.

And dive in they did. They read about taxation rules; they read about proposed changes; they read dull and boring material for days and months and years that were magically compressed into the last minute of the single hour Mr. Thanatos had booked.

Mrs. Adamson thought: Tax regulations bore me to death! and she keeled over.

* * *

When Samara entered Mrs. Adamson’s office at 3:01 PM she found her boss collapsed on the floor. She had no pulse, was unresponsive, and had a bored look on her face.

Mr. Thanatos was standing at the desk, refastening his tool belt. “Ah, there you are… the faithful assistant,” he sneered. “Come in and hold her hand while it cools.”

“Move aside,” Samara said. “I know CPR.” She punched in 911 on the speaker phone.

“Don’t bother.” Mr. Thanatos put on his professionally sad expression. “Mrs. Adamson deserved a lovely death and it arrived… just in time.” The pause lengthened, broken only by red-faced Samara as she administered mouth-to-mouth:

“Look, you pushy bastard!” PUFF PUFF

“Tell me what you did to her!” PUFF PUFF

Mr. Thanatos asked, “Do you have contact information for next-of-kin? I understand she has a son with a wife and… a little grandchild?” He made his voice go high and his lips curve upward, imitating a smile. “I could call and tell them to get on their way.” He brightened. “In fact, I could meet them half-way…”

“Unh-unh,” Samara grunted. “I’m not at liberty to say!”

The body on the floor twitched; Samara slapped her cheeks. “Mrs. Adamson!” she cried. The eyelids flickered.

The paramedics clattered into the office. “Make way, make way… excuse me, sir!”

Mr. Thanatos glared at them and the two women. Death by taxes was normally totally predictable. And undetected for hours. “Oh all right—you win this round,” he hissed.

And he vanished into thin air.

THE END