by Chris Cooper
He said nothing, but his boss waited for a response.
“I asked you a question,” he said.
“I…” Oliver was petrified and couldn’t get the words to leave his lips.
“Being an adult means that you show up on time. You are an adult, aren’t you?”
Spittle flew from his boss’s lips and speckled Oliver’s cheeks. He wanted to wipe it away but dared not move.
“Now Maurice is out of the picture, we’ll all have to pick up the slack. His replacement won’t be here for another week at the earliest, and we don’t have time to goof off in the meantime.”
Oliver glanced at Maurice’s cube, or at least what had been Maurice’s cube. The pictures and personal items had been removed, and all that remained was an empty desk. Tony must have taken the office chair. The man’s entire existence at the company had been wiped away in a single morning.
“Are you even listening to me?” His boss’s voice was becoming raspy from all the yelling. “I think Maurice would still be more competent than you.”
The last line caught Oliver’s attention. He stared down at the squat man glaring up at him. Mr. Sally’s forehead was flush with anger, and his nose was lined with thin red varicose veins from years of afternoon scotches. Maybe Oliver was shell-shocked from Maurice’s death or perhaps just delirious from the lack of sleep followed by the pavement-pounding dash to work, but something in him snapped. At that moment, everything else faded away except for Mr. Sally’s voice, punctuated by the staccato notes of the ticking grandfather clock.
Tick.
“Am I talking to myself?”
Tock.
“I ought to fire you right—”
Tick.
“Then do it!” Oliver yelled with such sudden force it knocked his boss backward several paces.
“Excuse me?” Mr. Sally replied.
“Here, I’ll make it easy for you.” Oliver marched toward the front of the room as heads slowly popped out from behind cubicle walls.
Even Tony, who had been enjoying his newly acquired office chair, stood up to watch the events unfold.
The grandfather clock was a company heirloom and had come to represent everything Oliver hated about the place. The constant ticking reminded him that life was slowly but surely slipping away.
The next few moments were fuzzy, but when Oliver came to, he was standing in front of the room, towering over the overturned clock. Shards of glass lay scattered on the floor, and everyone in the cube farm was staring at him. Not a soul moved, and the white noise of shuffling papers and phone conversations had stopped completely. His boss, who was never speechless, stood frozen in place, mouth gaping wide.
Oliver’s uncharacteristic rage was quickly replaced by utter panic. A white-hot heat filled his cheeks, and his body tingled with embarrassment. Without saying another word, he sprinted from the room, past the reception desk, and out the front door.
What have I done? What have I done? The thought looped in Oliver’s mind. After the incident at the office, he ran from the building toward the train station, discarding his tie in a trash can along the way. Just that morning, he had sprinted in the opposite direction, trying to pull himself together, but now he shed bits of his office uniform like an old car shedding parts.
The train ride home was painfully long, and he spent the majority of the journey trying to figure out how to undo the mess he had made. But he couldn’t just turn around, and surely his boss was already filling out the termination paperwork. This couldn’t be undone, and the realization was both terrifying and liberating. He had wanted a change. But how could I have been so careless? What do I do now? He had no backup plan, no other job waiting in the wings. In one sweeping motion, he had brought the old grandfather clock crashing down on his future. He scanned his brain for options. He couldn’t go back home to his mother—she wouldn’t understand and probably wouldn’t let him in the door if he told her. He could think of only one place that was safe—a place where he could clear his head and get his life back in order—and that place was far from the city.
The maintenance man’s toolbox sat outside the broken lobby elevator. A hand emerged from the car and fished around in the toolbox until it emerged holding a screwdriver. Oliver found it ironic the landlord had finally decided to have the elevator fixed on the day of his great escape.
The frayed carpet had begun to pull loose from the wooden staircase, and the tacks caught the tips of his rubber soles as he climbed. He laughed. Everything about this place seems to be holding me back.
Two duffel bags. He fit all the critical pieces of his life into two duffel bags, and one of them was devoted solely to his obese butterscotch tabby. A cat carrier was a luxury he couldn’t afford, so he lined one of the bags with a few soft towels and coaxed the cat inside. While most cats would have gone crazy if confined to a bag, Nekko simply turned around a few times and plopped herself down onto the soft makeshift bed. He zipped the bag closed three-quarters of the way, leaving enough space for her head. The other duffel was crammed with a few sets of clothes and one or two of Oliver’s most sentimental mementos. The rest could stay behind for the time being.
His savings account held enough cash to cover rent for the next few months, which would give him enough time to sort his life out and find a new job. But for now, he needed a momentary reprieve from the city and all the stresses that came along with it.
After buying a train ticket at the station window, he settled in on a wooden bench to wait for the next train. One of his duffel bags slowly rose and fell next to him, a sign his feline companion was fast asleep inside. He stuck his finger into the unzipped portion of the bag and scratched under Nekko’s chin. Her purr was too soft to hear over the ambient noise of the station, but he could feel the vibration through his fingertip.
Oliver traced the subway tiles with his eyes, following the lines of black grout along the wall leading to the Drury Street sign. When the train arrived, he took one last look at the station before stepping inside. Something about the ebb and flow of the crowd was soothing. He found relief in blending in with the sea of people and, at the same time, a sense of belonging to something larger than himself.
Chapter Three
The scenery flew by as the stark urban landscape gradually transformed into lush green fields and rocky hillsides.
Oliver sipped the tea he’d purchased from the snack trolley and tried to calm his nerves. His eyes followed the wavy line of wooden fences whizzing by, and he counted horses and cows dotting the passing farmland in sporadic patches.
He could think of only one place to go—a house in a little town at the edge of the woods.
“Ticket please,” the conductor said, reaching out a white-gloved hand. Oliver shuffled through his pockets and produced a small slip of paper, which the man stamped and handed back to him.
“Know how much longer it’ll be?” Oliver asked.
The conductor tugged a chain that disappeared into his front pants pocket, revealing an elaborate golden pocket watch on the other end. He flipped the cover open and glanced at the watch face. “Oh, I’d say another forty-five minutes or so.” He closed the watch and tucked it away.
Oliver’s thoughts were punctuated with worry, and despite his best efforts to rid his mind of panic, he couldn’t help but think in worst-case scenarios. He was still unsure of exactly what would happen from that point forward. His decision to pack had been a split-second one, and he had planned only up to the point of boarding the train. Spontaneity wasn’t normally in his nature. What if she doesn’t want me to stay?
The train lurched to a halt as it pulled up to the platform, and Oliver gathered his things and walked toward the sliding exit door. The station was a modest one, and few exited the train with him. The place hadn’t changed a bit since he’d last been there, more than a decade before. In fact, he immediately recognized the small candy store across the tracks. The red-and-white stripes on the awning had faded a bit, but the walls of the store we
re still lined with jars of colorful confections. Compared to the dinginess of the city station, Christchurch Station was pristine. The tile floors had been scrubbed to a pearly luminescence, and the walls were free of the layers of haphazardly taped flyers that plastered those in the city. A station attendant chased a rogue piece of plastic wrapper that skittered across the platform.
Oliver lugged the two duffel bags—one much heavier than the other—over to the town map. If he recalled correctly, the house was through the square and down the dirt road next to the market, but he couldn’t remember where exactly the market was located.
The large Welcome to Christchurch sign greeted him as he left the station. The town square was still paved with bricks that must have been more than a century old. He could feel the unevenness under his feet and occasionally caught the tips of his shoes on their edges as he walked. An imposing bronze statue of the town founder stood in the center of the square. Like the pristine tiles in the station, the bronze had been polished to an impeccable shine. As a kid, Oliver had been creeped out by the statue, which had towered over his boyish frame. Now, the figure appeared almost comical. A pious caricature of the town founder stood bearing a large cross and reaching up toward the heavens. The eyes still appeared to follow him, though, as he approached the bronze plaque that summarized the founding of Christchurch. A small group of settlers, fleeing from religious persecution, had set up camp there several hundred years before and never left. He hadn’t noticed before, but a small bronze seal had been engraved in the top corner of the plaque. A limp serpent hung from the top of a cross, its body twisted around the cross’s base. The symbol reminded Oliver of something he’d seen on the side of a hospital, two serpents twisted around a staff with a set of angelic wings perched at the top. This symbol was different, though.
Nekko grew heavy on Oliver’s shoulder, and the duffel strap dug into his collarbone. The short walk to the station was nothing compared to the walk across town, and he tried to alleviate the shoulder pain by repositioning the strap of the bag with no luck.
“You’re going on a diet,” he said, looking down at the small patch of orange peeking through the open zipper.
He passed a row of stores, most of which had already closed for the day. As the sun set on the town, it aligned perfectly with the peak of the town hall, creating a beautiful silhouette surrounded by a warm orange glow. The square itself seemed to be stuck in another time. The buildings were understated, with designs and colors that ensured no one building stood out from the others, except for the bakery on the right side of the square. The shop’s brilliant colors and decorations screamed for his attention. He was happy to see she hadn’t changed much since his last visit.
Oliver made it to the market and turned left down an ill-defined dirt road. In another half mile, he would arrive at the house, and he just hoped someone was home. Not many people lived down that way. Most lived on the left or right of the square, tucked into the small grid-shaped blocks that patterned the countryside behind the shops. No, this side of the square led to the forest, and few lived near the forest. Based on the mostly undisturbed dirt beneath his feet, not many even ventured this way.
The three-story house stood at the top of a valley, overlooking the field sitting adjacent to the forest. The home’s bright-yellow siding had faded a bit since his last visit, but the place was still an oasis compared to its uninhabited surroundings. As Oliver walked toward the stairs of the curved wraparound porch, he looked up at the large turret above him. The house was completely dark except for a single light coming from the curved window. She’s home!
He pressed a finger on the cracked plastic of the doorbell, but the chime must have been broken. Oliver rapped his knuckle on the wooden storm door, and a distant bark echoed through the house. Clearly, she doesn’t need a doorbell. The bark wasn’t the type that would keep intruders at bay, more of a playful puppy yip. After a few moments, he heard the scurry of little nails against the hardwood floor, and the front porch light burst to life.
The door opened just enough to reveal the slender nose of the old woman on the other side.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“It’s me. Oliver,” he replied.
The security chain rattled loose, and the woman’s colorful frame came into view as she opened the door. She had long gray hair and red spectacles and wore a colorful muumuu, which seemed to swallow her delicate frame.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, throwing her arms around him.
The force of her hug caused him to stumble backward, and he put a foot back to brace himself.
“How long has it been?” she asked. “Is everything okay?” Her expression shifted from one of happiness to concern. “Is your mom okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine,” he lied. “Mind if I come in and set this stuff down? Sorry to barge in on you like this.”
“Of course. Come in, come in. Just watch out for Pan. He has a bad habit of getting under people’s feet,” she replied.
Sure enough, as he stepped over the threshold, the small corgi pup weaved in and out between his legs.
To say Oliver’s aunt Izzy had eclectic tastes would have been an understatement. Her living room was filled with neon-colored furniture and obscure artwork, most of her own design. A stack of canvases sat in the corner of the room, and the shelves were lined with knickknacks and mementos scattered haphazardly between miniature sculptures made from junk. Compared to Oliver’s drab fifth-floor studio, this place was bursting at the seams with character.
Izzy led him to the kitchen, where she filled a kettle of water to boil. He set his duffel bags underneath the kitchen table, which roused Nekko from her deep slumber. Pan was quick to notice the shuffling bag and poked his snout through the unzipped portion. A deep growl emerged from inside, and a large butterscotch paw appeared from the opening and slapped the dog across the nose. The surprise attack sent Pan leaping backward, at least as far as a pup with inch-long legs could leap.
Izzy stirred a spoonful of honey into her tea although she struggled to grip the small teaspoon. Her fingers had started to bend unnaturally with age, a sign of the slow creep of arthritis. Oliver referred to Izzy as his aunt even though she was actually his great aunt. He’d called her that once too, but the harsh reprimand that followed deterred him from doing so again. She owned the oddly decorated town bakery he’d passed on the way in. The Rolling Pin also kept the town in fresh supply of honey from the bees Izzy raised in the backyard.
Oliver took a swig from his teacup and placed it on the kitchen table, which had been fashioned out of an old industrial cable spool, painted a bright aqua, and embellished with intricate floral designs.
“So, you just got up and left?” she asked.
“Well, not exactly. First, I destroyed a company heirloom in a fit of rage,” he replied.
Izzy perked up in her chair.
Though the clock assassination was still a blur, he could feel an anxious knot forming in his stomach as he told the pieces of the story he could remember. “I can’t believe I did it. I mean, I didn’t like my job, but still… I just threw everything away. I feel terrible.”
Izzy looked up at Oliver. “You don’t seem like a person to do something so brazen without a reason. I’ve been arrested for my fair share of transgressions, mostly protest related, and there was the time I stole that miniature horse, but you’re a rule follower. What got into you?” She wasn’t scolding him but rather asking out of general curiosity.
“I don’t know,” Oliver replied. “I just couldn’t take it anymore.” He leaned over and pressed his forehead against the table.
“Perhaps you were just giving yourself an ultimatum, forcing your hand. You were miserable and couldn’t let yourself continue to live that way.” Izzy looked down at her hands for a moment, as if debating whether or not to speak. “Have you told your mom?”
The question caught Oliver off guard, and his stomach gurgled at the thought. As far as he knew, Izzy
hadn’t spoken to his mother in years, since their falling out after his grandmother’s death.
“She doesn’t need to know. I’ll find another job and just tell her I’m leaving the old one to pursue it.”
“Well, what’s done is done,” Izzy said after an uncomfortable moment of silence, “and all you can do now is move forward. I’m glad you’re here. You ought to stay for a few weeks while you get back on your feet.” She reached across the table and placed her hand on his head. “It’s going to be fine.”
Although he appreciated Izzy’s kindness, Oliver was certain things wouldn’t be “fine.” How could they be? Not only was he going to lose his job, but his boss’s tentacles ran deep in the local business community—he’d be lucky if he could find a job flipping burgers. At least no one in Christchurch, aside from Izzy, knew who he was or what he had done.
Chapter Four
Oliver lay on his back, head floating somewhere between the dreaming and the waking world. Just as the haze of sleep started to fade, a bright beam of light burst from the window. As he put a hand to his forehead to shield his eyes, he noticed an alien lifeform opening the curtains. He jumped from the bed and onto his feet.
“About time you’re up,” the creature said.
“What do you want?” he slurred, still not fully awake.
The being raised its hands and removed its helmet, revealing the face of a harmless old woman underneath. Izzy stood there in full beekeeper uniform.
“You’ve been in bed all day. I know you’re stressed, but this isn’t going to help.” She shook a finger at Oliver, her hand covered with a white beekeeper’s glove. “Come on. I’m going to the bakery, and you’re going to help me. You need some sunlight and a little social interaction.” Her voice was about as serious as he’d ever heard it. She’d never had any kids and hadn’t developed the stern motherly voice that often accompanied a scolding and the use of a middle name. Still, he obliged.
