Autumn Anthology

by Heather B. Moore

  “It’s great,” Mallory said numbly.

  “Good girl. Keep at it.” Mike hung up.

  Mallory jammed her phone back in her pocket and gripped the handle of the vacuum. Nelson was dead? Maybe she should be happy about that. Scales of justice.

  Tears filled her eyes.

  Don’t, Mallory. Not now. You need to finish your work. You need to study for your botany midterm. You need to work on that English essay.

  She rubbed the tears out of eyes already burning from lack of sleep. From the other side of the expanse of empty cubicles, she heard the distant buzz of the lock. Darien? She’d never seen anyone else here this early. For the past couple of weeks, the hope of running into Darien Thomas had splashed a little fun into a dull predawn janitorial shift, but she didn’t want to see him while she was crying. She’d make sure not to vacuum near his cubicle until she’d calmed down.

  Oh, Nels. What had happened at the prison? She couldn’t imagine Nelson as an aggressor in a prison fight. He’d probably been trying to stay out of the way, not wanting to hurt anyone—

  Not wanting to hurt anyone.

  Tears refilled her eyes. She wiped them away. Wanting to know more about what had happened, she pulled her phone out of her pocket and tried to type Nelson’s name and Salinas Valley State Prison into the search bar. Her fingers quivered, hitting the wrong letters.

  Footsteps approached. Whoever had entered was heading toward her, not toward Darien’s cubicle on the far left side of the room. Not wanting to be caught Googling and weeping when she was supposed to be cleaning, Mallory tried to stuff her phone back in her pocket but missed. The phone hit the floor.

  She bent to pick it up. With the phone in her hand, she kept her face lowered and picked at a staple stuck in the carpet, hoping the intruder would ignore her as he or she passed by.

  The footsteps stopped. “Good morning, Mallory.”

  Darien. “Morning,” she said. With a quick movement, she used her shoulder to wipe a tear off her cheek then regretted it—when she’d dressed this morning, thinking of Darien, she’d put on a cute lime green cardigan she’d found at Goodwill on Saturday. And she was wearing makeup, something she never would have done at work pre-Darien-crush. She’d probably just smeared mascara all over her new sweater.

  “Dropped my phone.” She tried to sound lighthearted as she rose to her feet, catching a blurry peripheral-vision view of big feet in brown leather shoes, long legs in khaki Dockers, and wide shoulders in a striped shirt. She focused on her phone screen, pretending to assess damage and hoping the next installment of tears would wait until Darien headed off to his cubicle.

  “Not broken, I hope,” he said.

  “No worse than it was before.” She ran her finger along the crack in the lower right-hand corner of the screen. “So— you’re here early again. Do you ever sleep?”

  “At night I do. It’s morning. The sun’s even up.”

  “You’re running late then,” she joked. “You sound like my uncle.”

  “Mallory… are you okay?”

  He could see her face; he knew she was crying. She had to look at him. Avoiding eye contact would make her look more upset. “Just… sleep-deprived. I’m fine.”

  He studied her with eyes that looked strikingly dark. Platinum hair, skin that looked like it never tanned, and eyes that were a deep brown tinted with green.

  “I’d better get back to work. Good luck with your project.” Mallory switched on the vacuum.

  Chapter Two

  Darien Thomas sat in his cubicle, listening to the drone of the vacuum from the other side of the floor. What was Mallory upset about? He couldn’t ask; he hardly knew her.

  He’d probably made it way too obvious that he wanted to know her, showing up repeatedly at the Rains Building at the crack of dawn— or earlier— when he knew Mallory would be working, pretending that early mornings in his grad-student cubicle were great for productivity. Granted, there were advantages to being here instead of in his apartment— no sticky spots gluing his papers to the table, no smell of stale pizza, and no roommate snoring— but until this year, he’d come in the early mornings only when deadlines swamped him.

  Ever since he’d shown up a few weeks ago to finish a presentation for the statistics class he was teaching and had seen the woman vacuuming cubicles and cleaning windows— that shiny dark hair curving around her chin, the sweet hazel eyes, the smile that made her whole face twinkle somehow, the sound of her voice when she slipped and started singing along with her iPod then stopped abruptly, realizing she was soloing without accompaniment—

  He’d seen her twice more before he’d had the guts to introduce himself and ask her name, making sure not to show up unshaven and wearing a holey sweatshirt like he had the first time.

  Maybe the button-down Oxford is over-the-top, he thought, surveying his striped shirt. Go for it, champ. A six-foot-five-inch beanpole math geek with more bone than muscle, but wow, you can rock that business casual. Just ask her out. If she says no, at least you can start getting over her.

  She probably already had a boyfriend. But she’d said she didn’t know many people in Birch Falls yet, that she was living with her sister and her brother-in-law. He also knew she was from California and hadn’t started college right after high school— she’d blushed when he’d asked how long she’d been at Bowman and she’d said this was her first year— that she was a “geezer” in freshman-filled classes. He guessed she was in her early twenties.

  Ever since he’d introduced himself, she would pause passing his cubicle and switch off the vacuum to smile and ask how he was doing and what he was working on. She was a biology and secondary education major; surely the ramblings of a doctoral student in applied mathematics must bore her, but she always acted interested and asked thoughtful questions. Darien had started looking up biology facts on Wikipedia, wanting to make sure he sounded intelligent when she talked about the botany class she enjoyed.

  Smart, beautiful— and tall. It was nice to chat with a woman who actually came up to his shoulders. After a few minutes, when she moved away, continuing her work, Darien had to lock his jaw shut to keep himself from offering to vacuum for her or take over dusting some of the countless desks and shelves. Offering to help with a job she was paid to do would make him look like a weirdo and make it mortifyingly obvious that he was stalking Mallory.

  But what was she crying about this morning? Plainly, she didn’t want to confide in him, or she wouldn’t have averted her eyes, made jokes, and turned away to vacuum an area where the spotless carpet told him she’d already been.

  It’s none of your business. If she wanted to tell you what the problem is, she would have. She doesn’t need you to fix anything.

  He reached for his computer and tried to work, but his thoughts were stuck on Mallory.

  Get a grip. Just because she’s friendly doesn’t mean she wants you for a friend beyond a superficial acquaintance she talks to because you’re the only person around at six or seven in the morning. What are you going to do, corner her while she’s wiping classroom windows and pressure her to say what’s wrong until she freaks out and never talks to you again?

  Grimly, Darien put his fingers on the keyboard and forced himself to focus.

  Chapter Three

  Sitting at her sister Eden’s polished oak kitchen table, Mallory backspaced over a line and retyped it. The sentence still sounded like a stuck-up eight-year-old imitating a teacher, using words too complex for her to handle. Irritated, she backspaced again and thought wistfully of escaping to Gilroy and her job making chocolate shakes and mopping rocky road, strawberry, and garlic ice cream off the tile floor. She did that job well. But trying to access the part of her mind she’d shut down three years ago… No, four years ago; her senior year of high school had been a waste. If she went to class, she slept through it.

  For the third time, she reworded the line. She would not fail at Bowman. She would not lose hold of the old goals she’d worked
so hard to excavate from mountains of inertia. She’d always planned on college, had always been a good student—

  She glared at the screen. She would not botch this assignment because she couldn’t concentrate enough to write a persuasive essay about why science programs should receive more focus in elementary school curriculums. The more she worked on it, the more she regretted picking a topic that reminded her of her mother sitting at her desk, stressing about budget cuts, and grading piles of fifth-grade papers

  In the two weeks since Mike’s call, she’d felt so off balance, and she knew she was fueling the problem by dwelling on Nelson— reading news articles about the prison riot, re-reading articles about his arrest and trial four years ago, even dipping into old chat logs where she and Nelson had joked about homework or weekend plans…

  Should she send his family a note of sympathy? She didn’t know much about his mother except that she could punch hard enough to fracture Nelson’s jaw. It was hard to imagine sending her a card. His sister, on the other hand…

  When Nelson and Mallory were freshman, Lori had been a senior. Mallory hadn’t known her well, but school rumors said that Lori was an expert at getting in trouble, and getting out of trouble— and getting Nelson out of trouble. Lori’s bossy, bullying attitude toward her brother appalled Mallory, but Nelson hero-worshipped her. He’d told Mallory stories of how Lori had protected him, cleverly fixed problems for him. Given how toxic their parents were, maybe Lori had become Nelson’s lifeline, and Nelson Lori’s.

  Mallory had heard rumors that Lori was devastated when Nelson was arrested. Lori had to be crushed by grief now. Mallory should write to her. Lori probably hadn’t received much sympathy after Nelson’s death.

  Would she want to hear from me? Mallory had no idea. She and Nelson’s family had stayed away from each other after Nelson’s arrest.

  She pushed her computer back. Tomorrow, she’d call Uncle Mike to see if Lori was still in Gilroy. Maybe that will help me get past this, by reaching out to her.

  She walked to Eden’s fridge and refilled the stainless-steel water bottle with the faded logo of the dentist’s office where their mother used to work. On the fridge was a dry-erase calendar filled with Eden’s fastidious handwriting. She’d even added Mallory’s class schedule for each day; organized Eden liked to know what each member of her household was doing. Mallory couldn’t understand why Eden needed the calendar when she kept the same information on her phone.

  Feeling better able to concentrate, Mallory sat at the table and reread her essay so far. It sounded decent— finally. She checked her outline and started on the next paragraph.

  The sound of the front door opening indicated the return of Eden and Clint from an early dinner they’d attended with one of Clint’s university colleagues. Mallory quickly closed her laptop and gathered her books. Clint and Eden had been generous in inviting her to live in their spare bedroom to help her save money, but Mallory didn’t want to push her luck by being underfoot too often. She scanned the kitchen. Oops, there was a drop of chili on the counter near the microwave. She snatched the dishrag and wiped it up.

  They walked into the kitchen. Eden’s long dark hair was in a sleek French braid, and she wore a navy pencil skirt with a blue silk blouse. Blond Clint wore a navy blazer and gray slacks, and the blue stripes in his blue and red tie matched Eden’s shirt— her choice, Mallory figured. Clint held a paper sack.

  “Hey,” Mallory said. “How was dinner?”

  Neither of them smiled. “Fine,” Clint said, his boyish face cold.

  Mallory felt awkward. Had Clint and Eden had an argument? In the six weeks she’d been living with them, she hadn’t witnessed any conflict worse than an impatient few words, but Clint was under immense pressure right now, worrying about the upcoming decision on his tenure.

  “I’m going to go see if I can finish this English essay before I fall asleep on my keyboard,” Mallory said lightly. She stacked her books on top of her laptop and picked everything up. “Good night.”

  “Mal? We need to talk.” Eden’s voice shook.

  Mallory tried to think if she’d done something to upset Eden or Clint. Her sister was so meticulous, it was probably impossible to live in her house without doing something Eden viewed as disruptive, though she’d never complained to Mallory. “Sure. What about?”

  “Have a seat,” Clint said.

  A sit-down conversation. Mallory tried not to look too apprehensive as she placed her belongings on the table and took her seat. Eden sat by her. Clint remained on his feet.

  “Do you know anything about this?” Clint opened the paper bag and emptied it onto the table.

  Mallory looked at the two small plastic bags that fell from the larger sack. One had a small amount of white powder. A handful of white, blue, and green pills was in the other.

  Thoughts of Nelson, sobbing, rammed themselves into Mallory’s mind.

  “I’m really sorry, Mallory. I didn’t mean to hurt her— my mind was shot. When she walked in on me, I just panicked.”

  Mallory swallowed. What was Clint doing with a sack of drugs— and why was he asking her— “I don’t know anything about it at all. Where did you find that?”

  “In my makeup drawer,” Eden said. “When I was getting ready to go to dinner. And I didn’t put it there.”

  “I didn’t either,” Mallory said.

  Eden said nothing, but tears welled in her eyes.

  “Eden! How can you think I’d—”

  Eden brushed tears away without smearing her makeup. “I wasn’t home when you were in high school, but Mom and I did talk.”

  Mallory’s face burned forest-fire hot. “Okay, listen. I was stupid. But I never did drugs.”

  “Really? You hung out with your druggie friends—”

  “They didn’t start out that way! We’d been friends since elementary school. Yes, I know I was an idiot. I shouldn’t have kept hanging out with them when they started doing that stuff—”

  “Hosting them for a round of underage drinking, marijuana, cocaine, and who knows what else doesn’t sound like you were too uncomfortable with what they were doing. Getting busted, getting Mom hit with a fine she could not afford…”

  Mallory fought to keep herself calm. Eden had never mentioned any of this. She’d hoped Eden didn’t know about that horrible night. “I didn’t mean for the party to go that direction— I told them not to bring any of that garbage with them—”

  “Oh, give me a break. You knew they would, and you wouldn’t have invited them if you weren’t okay with it. Mom had been worried about you for months.”

  Mallory clamped her hands around the sides of her computer and stared at the textbooks on top of it as though nailing her attention to evidence of her life now would keep her from toppling backward into the pain and guilt of the past. Did Eden blame her—

  Of course she does. It’s your fault.

  Don’t think about Mom. Just focus on what’s happening right now and handle it.

  “How long has this been going on— years?” Eden asked. “That was part of your problem after Mom died, wasn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “I thought you were getting yourself together. That’s why I let you move in with us. But I won’t put up with drugs in my house.”

  Mallory gestured at the baggies on the table, her hand trembling. “If that were mine, I wouldn’t be dumb enough to put it in your drawer.”

  Clint picked up the two small bags and dropped them into the paper sack. “Unless you were too high to know what you were doing and meant to hide it with your stuff.”

  Mallory pictured Eden’s drawer. The old bathrooms in this house had only pedestal sinks and little storage space, so Eden had put an antique dressing table in a nook at the end of the hallway. The top drawer on the left held Eden’s hair and makeup supplies; the one below it held Mallory’s.

  “Look,” Clint said. “We’re not calling the police. But we’re also not enabling this by giving you a ch
eap place to stay while you blow your money on drugs and wreck your life. You have one week to find a new place.”

  “Those are not my drugs. Who else has been here lately?”

  “No one.” Eden frowned at Mallory’s metal water bottle as though contemplating opening it and sniffing to make sure it was water in there. “The drugs were put in my drawer sometime after I got ready for work this morning. Clint and I have been gone all day. No one else has been here unless you had visitors. Did you?”

  Mallory shook her head. “Someone must have broken in.”

  “To leave drugs?” Clint snapped. “People on drugs break in to steal things. Not to leave them.”

  Mallory wanted to throw up. She removed her sweaty hands from her computer and wiped them on her jeans.

  Eden, her face bloodless, was plainly thinking along the same lines as Mallory. “Clint, we know that,” she said quietly.

  “I’m sorry.” Clint reddened. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “I didn’t put the drugs there.” Mallory drew a deep breath. “If you two didn’t, someone else did.” She held her hand out for the bag. “I’m taking this to the police. Maybe if they take fingerprints—”

  “Clint and I both touched it,” Eden said.

  “There could still be other prints—”

  Clint shook his head. “Let’s not turn this into a charade. You’re not taking it to the police. You just don’t want to lose your next fix.”

  Flailing through a waterfall of anger and pain in search of rationality, Mallory said, “Let’s buy one of those drug tests from the pharmacy. I can prove—”

  “So I’m supposed to stand with my ear to the bathroom door and check to make sure you—” Eden looked disgusted. “We already know you’re keeping drugs in our house. I’m not going to try to figure out if your high-school friends taught you how to cheat a drug test.”

  “Fine.” Mallory stood. “Clint, give me the drugs. If you don’t believe I’m going to the police, come with me.”

  Clint looked disconcerted and Mallory hoped her invitation had jarred him enough to get him listening instead of simply blaming. “Let’s go,” she said.