One Must Wait

by Penny Mickelbury

  "You have an obligation to this firm!" He pounded her desk with his fist so hard Carole Ann winced for him.

  "Just how much of one I intend to ascertain before the end of the day," Carole Ann responded softly, more to herself than to him. And, understanding that he'd been defeated, he turned and stalked out, and before the air could settle, Cleo's presence filled the space.

  "Don't tell me Al has finally rubbed off on you," she said with mock disbelief.

  "Rubbed off on me how?"

  "I've never seen you so calm. I've never seen you not get furious when Bulldog Bob gets his hackles up. So, you meditating now, or something?"

  "No," Carole Ann laughed, "but I have found inner peace."

  "Oh, where?!" Cleo screeched, "and is there any left?! I need some baaaaad!" The two of them giggled like school girls, and Cleo quickly closed the office door. Both had been warned by the overseer of office protocol—the office administrator—that their behavior was not befitting the executive-support staff relationship. Carole Ann walked around her desk to the wall of windows and looked out on the activity down below. She tried—and failed—to feel some sense of loss at relinquishing these familiar surroundings.

  "Maybe Al is responsible after all..." Carole Ann began, but Cleo cut her off with a snort and a wave of her hand.

  "If you say it's a function of good sex, I'll quit on the spot, I swear I will! Billy's still confined to that damn back brace, which not only makes sex, good or bad, impossible, but it makes him meaner than a snake." Cleo's irritation was deeply felt, but Carole Ann laughed anyway. She really was full of a peace she'd never before experienced; and good didn't begin to describe last night's sex. If that's what being unemployed did for their love-making, they truly never would work again. Not for an employer, at any rate.

  "OK. I won't say it. But tell me this: If you quit here, where would you want to work?"

  Cleo looked at her like she'd begun to sprout gills and fins and backed up a few steps. "What exactly are you trying to tell me? That I'm fired or that you're quitting?"

  "I'm quitting," Carole Ann said quietly and waited for Cleo's response, which didn't come because Cleo was staring at her open-mouthed, uncomprehending. So Carole Ann gave her the rest of it :"Al is, too. We're going to...we don't know what we're going to do but it won't be this."

  Cleo began shaking her head back and forth, in denial or disbelief or both, and Carole Ann put an arm around her shoulders. Cleo shrugged it off after a moment and crossed to the opposite side of the office.

  "What happened?" Cleo folded her arms across her chest, as if arming herself against whatever Carole Ann would say.

  "Tommy Griffin."

  "You thought he was guilty, didn't you?" Cleo asked quietly, only the tiniest hint of accusation present in the question.

  "Not really, Cleo. It's actually worse than that. The problem was that I saw him only as a client, and not as a decent and innocent man, and because of that, I almost cost him his life and his freedom."

  Cleo studied her and Carole Ann relaxed and allowed it. She and Cleo had worked together as boss and secretary for almost ten years; and while they weren't friends in the sense that they shopped together and went to movies together and shared secrets together, they were friends in the sense that they spent more waking hours with each other than with any other human except their spouses; and that kind of time either binds and joins people with the cement of respect and admiration and trust, or it fosters complete distrust and dislike. Carole Ann and Cleo fit easily into the first category, and Carole Ann understood that the nature of their relationship would dictate Cleo's ready, if not easy, acceptance of her decision.

  "And what about Al?" Cleo asked. "What happened with him?" Cleo rubbed her hands back and forth against each other, as if attempting to warm them.

  "He's got a case that frightens him." The truthful words were out before Carole Ann could censor them.

  "You're the one who cozies up with murderers and rapists and drug dealers. What's Al got to be frightened of?"

  Carole Ann laughed at Cleo's genuine consternation. "What's the difference between a commodities broker or a Wall Street raider and any of our clients?" she asked.

  "The color of the collar," Cleo said with a wry laugh and stepped quickly up to Carole Ann with a warm embrace." I envy you two. I wish Billy and I had the financial security to go out on our own." She let the thought hang in the air with the unfinished words. "We talk about it but that's as far as it gets. It would take our entire savings for Billy to start his own company and he could do it only with me in the front office. But we'd also need my income from...from..." The tears welled up and ran down Cleo's face. She hurriedly wiped them away even as Carole Ann pulled tissues from the box on the coffee table.

  "You know that I will find you a job, Cleo."

  "I know. I'm not worried about that, C.A. I am worried, though, that I won't be able to work for another lawyer. You're the best. I mean that. As a person, as a boss, as a lawyer. I know I'd forever be comparing whoever I work for to you."

  "Thanks, Cleo. That means more to me than you know. So. Who do you want to work for?" Carole Ann already was thinking of the trial lawyers she knew who would jump at the chance to have Cleo.

  "I don't care as long as it's not here," she said with a grimace of distaste. "And as long as it’s not with the Squid," she said, adding a shudder to the grimace. One of D.C.'s most notable litigants also was a notorious molester. Why no woman had filed a charge against him Carole Ann did not know. The man could not keep a secretary, and had once been beaten severely by the husband of a secretary whose breast he'd grabbed.

  "You make a top-five list and I'll make one and we'll pare it down to the object of your desire."

  Cleo nodded her acquiescence and then put on her serious face again. "So when are you leaving?"

  "Al and I are meeting for lunch to decide that."

  "Can't you two quit a job like regular people instead of like lawyers? Do you have to have a meeting over lunch to get it done?"

  Carole Ann laughed and explained the need to review the contracts neither of them recalled in detail, and it was Cleo's turn to laugh and comment dryly on the differences between and among the classes: After stating that she always knew exactly how much money she earned, when it was paid, and how much notice she had to give to leave a job, Cleo extracted from Carole Ann the admission that she herself did not know exactly how much money she earned, when it was paid, and certainly not how long she'd have to wait until she could consider herself unemployed.

  "Technically, you can leave now," Al told her. "You're not involved in a case. You don't owe the firm any money. You can't withdraw any money you've invested in the firm or any pension benefits for ninety days. But you can walk this afternoon."

  Carole Ann sat grinning like a storybook Cheshire, the grin growing wider and wider, complementing the warmth spreading within. "I had no idea I would feel like this," she said in an almost-whisper. "I wish I could describe for you how I feel."

  "If your face is any indication, I think I'm getting the message," Al said, taking her hand across the table. Will you wait for me, Darling," he crooned in his best Nat Cole imitation.

  "For how long?" she snarled, sounding more like Moms Mabley than Esther Phillips." You've got a bear claw contract?"

  “I can give notice now, but I can't leave for a month because I'm in a case. But I can use the case as the reason," and he pointed out a clause in the five-page document that she read and re-read. The words and their intent remained the same, so she grudgingly accepted the inevitable.

  "Well, I can't walk out today anyway. I've got files to put in order and a job to find for Cleo...did you tell Ernestine?"

  Al shook his head and looked up in anticipation as their food arrived. "Do you know when we last had lunch together?" he asked, eyeing their Greek salads appreciatively.

  "Umhum," Carole Ann responded, chewing an olive she'd picked out of the salad with her fingers. "Your
birthday. Three months ago."

  "I propose we meet for lunch every day for the next month, whether we eat or not," and Al raised his glass of iced tea to meet her glass of sparkling water. They sealed the agreement and Carole Ann told him about the press briefing taking place at that moment and they took turns imagining how Bob Pritchard was explaining what Carole Ann intended—and did not intend—when she accused the reporters of slander.

  What Carole Ann could not have imagined was the reaction of the senior managing partner of the firm when she submitted her written resignation at six-fifteen that evening. Clarence Fox was a large man, tall and massive with a voice the size of his native Texas. He was red and florid because he drank too much, and he had a full head of wavy, white hair which he ran his fingers through a million times a day. He was a damn good lawyer and a better politician; in fact, he'd studied the fine points of maneuvering and manipulating at the feet of Lyndon Johnson and didn't mind twisting arms or kicking butts or lying or whatever else occurred to him in order to get his way. He was one of the few partners in the firm that Carole Ann truly liked. And she liked him because he truly didn't care whether anybody liked him or not. He'd been brought into the firm thirty years ago, straight from Capitol Hill and Johnson's tutelage, to bring several necessary components to the firm: He was a Southerner with ties to the then-new political order in town (the founding members of the firm had been and remained Eisenhower and Stevenson Republicans); he was younger—then in his late twenties; he was nakedly and openly aggressive in an era still bound by the hypocritical strictures of the 1950's.

  After his initial and genuine surprise and shock at Carole Ann's letter of resignation, he tried reasoning with her. Then he tried sweet-talking her, spreading it on so thick and gooey that if it were any other issue, she'd probably have capitulated. Then he ranted and raved and cursed and chastised. Then he cried. Real tears. Then he lied: Big, bold, magnificent lies about what the firm would give her if she stayed—would even make her a managing partner. Carole Ann, flattered and amused and entertained and almost embarrassed, held her hand up to stop him.

  "Clarence, please, don't make this more difficult than it already is."

  "Give me one goddamn reason to treat you nicely!"

  "I'm asking you, Clarence. Please."

  "What the hell are you gonna do, Carole Ann? You say you're not goin' to another company, and I believe you. You say you're not hangin' out your own shingle, and I believe you. So what the hell are you gonna do?" He was plaintive, pleading.

  "Nothing, Clarence. Not for a while." She stood up and walked toward the door. He stopped her with another question.

  "How old are you?" he asked, his florid cheeks turning an even deeper hue of red.

  "Oh, no you don't, you crafty son of a bitch!" She crossed quickly toward him but he was ignoring her, punching the keys on his keyboard and watching the computer screen, as a grin lifted his mouth.

  "Well, hell, Carole Ann," he drawled at her, grinning almost lewdly. "Why didn't you say so? My wife left me on her forty-first birthday. Stayed gone a whole year. Came back tan and fit and better than ever."

  "I'm quitting this shitty job, Clarence, not my marriage. And I am really, truly, irrevocably quitting. My contract says you're the official I'm supposed to notify. You're notified. If there's anything else I need to do, let me know." And with that, she hurried out of his office before he could comment. She ran the two flights of stairs down from the executive floor to her office rather than wait for the elevator, and she scooped up her waiting briefcase and purse and left the building by the freight elevator. She didn't slow down until she reached the subway station at Connecticut Avenue and K Street and then she all but ran down the escalator instead of waiting for it to deliver her to the platform.

  The after work swarm of people and their pent-up energy swirled around her, a buzzing, humming mixture of sound and motion and energy that approximated what was happening inside her. She'd never before experienced so many intense emotions simultaneously and she had to will her internal organs to cease their pounding and churning. Will power failed, so she played a mind game with herself: Who among the throng on the platform were lawyers, who were lobbyists, who were Congressional aides. She realized she couldn't tell the difference at the same time she felt the rush of air that signaled the arrival of the train, just seconds before she heard its whine. She merged into the press of bodies inching toward the train's open doors and, lemming-like, followed the crowd into the cramped compartment.

  The calm achieved while engaged her mind game on the platform was short-lived. The restless, charged energy returned, and by the time she exited the train a short two stops later and walked the three blocks to her apartment building, she was too wired for any peaceful activity, like watching a video or reading a book. So Carole Ann quickly changed into running clothes and was back downstairs whizzing through the lobby door before the startled doorman could touch his cap and mumble a greeting. She preferred running under the moon and stars, when the world was still, but she couldn't wait for dark. She felt this evening that nothing could still her, so she ran. Beside the Potomac, past the Watergate and the Kennedy Center; around the Tidal Basin and the Lincoln and the Jefferson Memorials; half-way across the Fourteenth Street Bridge, oblivious to the steady stream of vehicular and pedestrian traffic and the boats on the river. Unaware of the brilliance of the sunset. Unaware of any sight or sensation until she finally caught up with herself and slowed to a walk.

  It was done. The panic was gone, finally, and she felt it fully. It was done and she was happy and relieved. She imprinted the date on her memory: April 18th. She felt herself on the long walk back home, during which she noticed every thing and person and sight she'd obliterated earlier: Flowers and birds and children and boats and blossoming trees and the rising moon. The air was warm and moist—not yet hot and humid—a sensuous caress. She felt herself light and easy, a child's laugh or a bird's chirp. It was done. She would go home and wait for Al.

  No, she wouldn't wait, she decided on the elevator ride up to the penthouse. She'd call and ask what time he was coming home. Then she'd go shopping for the ingredients for roasted potatoes and Western omelets, pick up a bottle of champagne, and wait impatiently for his arrival. She smiled congratulations to herself when she punched in the front door code without an accompanying prayer, and debated whether to shower first or call Al first. Al won. She kicked off her shoes and padded down the hall to the den. She reached for the phone and saw the blinking light on the answer machine. She pressed the button, the tape rewound itself, she heard Al's voice:

  "Hey, Babe. The cowboys have circled the wagons and I think I'm the native in the woodpile. I've been in meetings since I got back from lunch, and there's no end in sight. The head honchos are livid, accusing me of breach of contract, among other evils. Larry has been screaming—and I do mean screaming—for the past three hours that I'm wrong about Parish Petroleum. And to tell you the truth, he's making me a little nervous. I've never seen him this out of control. Anyway, we're having dinner with the boys from Louisiana at eight at Pierre's. I should be home before midnight if I eat fast and walk home even faster. Think you can stay awake? I'd be most grateful. Love you. Bye."

  The machine beeped and Carole Ann cursed Parish Petroleum loud and long. Then she showered, slipped on clean shorts and a tee shirt, and prepared her solitary dinner of popcorn and beer. She settled herself on the couch and reached for the remote control. The second half of "Shawshank Redemption" awaited. And while she watched Morgan Freeman, she heard Al's lascivious chuckle on the "I'd be most grateful" part of his message. She'd see how grateful he could be...

  Carole Ann woke to a blank television screen and the persistent chiming of the doorbell. She sat up with a start. What time...Jesus! Two in the morning! And Al! She jumped up and ran into the hallway, encountering a heavy darkness, punctuated by the constant chiming of the doorbell. She switched on a light, sprinted down the hallway, and flung open the door. T
here were three men—the night doorman and two strangers that she intuitively recognized as detectives. She knew they were detectives because all detectives look alike. They can't help it. When police departments issue detective badges, they also issue a tacky suit requirement. Carole Ann recognized one of them but didn't remember his name. He spoke.

  "I'm Detective Graham, Mrs. Crandall."

  The nausea rose in Carole Ann before she could control it. Both cops saw it and rushed her, caught her before she collapsed and bent her over, got her head down below her knees before she lost consciousness. Then they lifted her, one cop on each arm, and carried her down the hallway to the living room and over to the couch, and gently sat her there, head still forced down between her knees.

  "Mrs. Crandall..." Graham began again.

  "No. Please no. Please no. Please no." Carole Ann could not hear what anybody calling her "Mrs. Crandall" at two o'clock in the morning had to say. Especially a detective. Especially a homicide detective, for that's what Graham was. She remembered him, where she knew him from—some case. He was homicide. Suddenly she straightened up, raised her head and looked at them, at the detectives. First at Graham and then at the other one. She stood, swayed, steadied herself before they could touch her. She waved them away. "If this is about my husband, tell me. Quickly. Now."

  "He's dead, Ma'am. Shot and robbed. His wallet and watch are gone. His briefcase was open and papers scattered all over. I'm very sorry, Mrs. Crandall. "

  "He didn't wear a watch," Carole Ann said. "But his ring...where's his ring? I want his ring. I want that ring, do you understand me? That was my father's ring. My mother gave it to him and the Army gave it back to her in a bag. I want that ring!" And Detective Graham caught her before she fell.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Carole Ann struggled against the nightmare and it struggled back like it had a mind of its own, and on it, a definite purpose. But she didn't want to see Al in dark box deep within the earth. Nothing about that image reflected Al and the truth of him and she fought against it. And it fought back. And it was winning. Until the scream saved her. Loud and piercing and freeing. And the image of Al in the box in the ground was replaced by mother's face. Close to her own, tear-stained and full of love, little more than a shadow in the soft glow cast by the night light. "Mybabymybabymybaby. Oh my sweet little girl, I am so sorry, sosorrysosorry."