by Tamara Allen
“Keep you well or keep him in pocket?”
I turned from my work just far enough to meet his inquisitive gaze. “Mr. Gladwin, you do recall why we’re here?”
“To be educated in scientific principles, I understand.” Gladwin opened his desk drawer to drop in a handful of paperbacks. That was followed by a box of pencils, a hand mirror and comb, an ancient pocketknife, a well-worn bandelore, and a handsome blue glass shooter marble.
I couldn’t help asking. “No ninepins?”
He laughed. “Priorities, Mr. Wetherly.” Reaching behind his chair, he grabbed hold of a box stuffed with paper and hauled it onto the desk. He soon had it in tidy piles that seemed to impress even Mr. Templeton on his next circuit around the room. My work progressed more slowly, but I couldn’t bring myself to switch the pen back to my left hand, not with Mr. Templeton’s relentless hovering.
By late afternoon, my legibility had improved, but my speed had not. Gladwin had cleared his desk of all papers, but had yet to leave. I wasn’t the only one reluctant to call it a day. When Mr. Templeton finally gathered up the voluminous notebook in which he’d been apparently recording his impressions and bid the two of us good-night, I caught Gladwin’s sigh and could have echoed it.
It promised to be an interminable couple of weeks, but I wasn’t giving up. The outward trappings of my job weren’t much to speak of. The building itself was a creaking, drafty pile of bones on a street shadowed by too many taller piles. The wind seemed an eternal presence, finding its way through masonry, plaster, and paint to seep through the stitching of my warmest sweaters and chill me in body and spirit both. But over three months, I’d settled in, become accustomed to the routine, the familiar faces, the sheer comfort in small kindnesses. Bill Wallace and the other fellows had seen me through my first few weeks. The ladies were, to a one, always ready to cheer a fellow, and Mrs. Bradshaw at the first-floor reception desk had more than once brought me a batch of the molasses cookies that had strengthened her son after his bout with the flu.
Even with Gladwin’s capricious presence, the office had been a homey place. I didn’t want to start over somewhere else. In a mood to grouse, I arrived home to a quiet parlor and remembered it was Tuesday night. Bridge night. I should have been glad to have the house to myself, but up in my room, the shadows were unwelcoming, and the silence encouraged too many glum thoughts.
The heaviest shadow lay over the bed in the corner, leaving it tomb-like. I had tossed and turned too much in that bed recently. Perhaps it was no longer a sickbed, but it remained a lonely spot. As miserable as I’d been in France, I hadn’t been alone. Troubles had been shared, comforts offered. Without much of a future to consider, I’d found it easier to seek out those comforts. But it was a courage I hadn’t mustered since coming home. I had a future again—and that had added an impossible weight to the present.
Really, I was still getting over my time in France. And I was still a little too thin from my bout with the flu. Once I was stronger, I’d go back to old haunts, meet up with other fellows finding their feet, maybe run into someone who had a flat of his own and liked the quiet type.
Until then, the future was wrapped in its own shadows. I drew back the blankets on the bed, but couldn’t bring myself to lie down. The armchair, tucked in the only patch of moonlight, looked far more appealing.
I woke there at too early an hour and decided it was a stroke of luck. I’d be at the office before Gladwin and maybe even before Mr. Templeton.
I did beat Mr. Templeton.
“Two early birds,” Gladwin said cheerfully, moving what appeared to be his breakfast from the top of my desk.
“And only one worm.” Sitting, I glanced around at the unoccupied desks and felt strangely like a schoolboy who’d arrived way too early—or too late.
“A shame we can’t just cut it in half.”
“I couldn’t get by on half my pay. Could you?”
Gladwin seemed to seriously consider it. “A two-bit hall bedroom a little off Fifth Avenue. Coffee and sandwiches at the automat . . .” His gaze dropped to the orange I’d laid temporarily on the desk, and he grinned. “The occasional forbidden fruit. What else does a fellow need?”
“You’ll have nothing put by. What if you fall ill?” I opened my desk drawer in search of the vitamin pills Dr. Stanley had given me. I wasn’t entirely sure what ailment they addressed, but he’d said they would keep me fit, along with the camphor, the blood purifier, the nervine for sleeplessness, the bitters to ward off post-flu rheumatism—and the pills for dyspepsia, which came in handy once all the other medicines went down.
As I shook out a vitamin, Gladwin leaned over and peered into the drawer. “Six bottles?” He raised a quizzical gaze to mine, and I shut the drawer soundly.
“If you’re thinking you might share news of the sad state of my health with Mr. Templeton, let me assure you I’m entirely well and getting stronger with each day. Mr. Leach has nothing to worry about.”
Blue eyes only sparkled at me with amusement. “Quite an assumption in regard to my motives. We don’t even know each other.”
“No, we don’t.” My fault, perhaps, as much as his. But it was too late to do anything about it. Even if we’d wanted to. “Priorities, Mr. Gladwin.”
He was quiet, and what his face may have given away, I refused to note. Perhaps he’d meant a genuine overture of friendship, but I’d seen him charm others into doing things for him, and I wasn’t about to let down my guard and hand over my job. When Mr. Templeton appeared at eight sharp, I’d set myself a furious pace, one I planned to maintain after lunch—one I would have maintained were it not for a suddenly recalcitrant comptometer. The keys stuck, the lever resisting my efforts, but I was reluctant to leave my desk and track down another machine. God knew what Gladwin might say about me in my absence.
As the afternoon wore on, I fell further behind and resigned myself to staying late again. Gladwin had cleared his desk, which did not go unnoticed as Mr. Templeton came by with notebook in hand. “Impressive, sir. You’ve quite exceeded my expectations.”
Before he could comment on the files still cluttering my desk, I hastened to explain. “The machine. It’s in need of repair. The keys are sticking terribly—”
“Why didn’t you mention it earlier?” Mr. Templeton asked.
“Well, it was working just fine this morning . . .” And it was. Then I’d gone downstairs for lunch. I narrowed a glance at Gladwin, who eyed me back beatifically.
“You have my sympathy, Mr. Wetherly. My machine kept sticking, too. Unpredictable things, aren’t they?”
“Not as unpredictable as one may think.” If Gladwin wanted to play that game, it was just fine by me. “Mr. Templeton, I was remiss in not bringing the comptometer to your attention, but I certainly don’t intend to use it as an excuse to leave my work undone. I’ll stay.”
Mr. Templeton’s face cleared. “Good man. I’m sure Mr. Gladwin will be happy to lend you his comptometer for the remainder of the evening.”
Gladwin gestured expansively. “Be my guest.”
My sheer annoyance with the man raised my flagging energy, but by the time I’d finished, I was angrier with myself. Mr. Templeton’s constant presence and Gladwin’s competence had together contrived to frighten me. Any other day, I would’ve traded out machines and gone on without a thought. Now I was trudging home past eight, heavy-hearted. I didn’t really like the idea of playing dirty, and I was surprised Gladwin had crossed that line. He probably didn’t have a penny laid aside, just as I’d thought. Desperation would lead him to similar tricks, and I had to be alert for them.
Despite a poor night’s sleep, I was up at six and at my desk by seven-thirty. Gladwin had not arrived, but a rather grim-faced Templeton stood at the front of the room and called upon the attention of those present. “Ladies and gentlemen, a number of businesses provide only a half hour for lunch. Mr. Leach is particularly generous in allowing forty-five minutes. A number of you, however, wande
r back rather nearer the hour. If this continues, I will advise instituting a half-hour lunch. Really, it’s more than sufficient.”
There was nary a groan behind me. I wasn’t the only one now thoroughly intimidated by Mr. Templeton, it seemed. It wasn’t until he left the room that outraged chatter broke out. But lunch was the least of my worries. With my own comptometer at my disposal, I set to work like a fiend—hardly noticing when Gladwin showed up and plunged to work as purposefully.
“I missed something,” he said after a few minutes. He appeared to have caught the ongoing talk.
“Mr. Templeton announced a change in the time we’re allowed for lunch.”
“Giving us a full hour?”
At his wry amusement, I smiled, myself. “Like the idea, do you? You’re in luck, then.” I left it at that, not expecting he would, too. But he seemed preoccupied and remained steadfastly at his desk until the noon hour arrived. I held my tongue, certain that someone at lunch would let spill about Mr. Templeton’s warning, and Gladwin would realize I was willing to resort to tricks, too. But he didn’t put in his usual appearance at the restaurant down the street, nor did he reappear at his desk until just before one. I paid him no real mind until he spoke. “I ran into Mr. Templeton on the elevator.”
I resisted an unwelcome prickle of guilt. “Did you?”
Gladwin let out a soft laugh. “I don’t know why I expected better of you.”
“Of me? What about you? I was here till eight last night, and I don’t believe it did anything to salvage Mr. Templeton’s opinion of my work pace. And I’d guess he knows about the medicines in my desk drawer—”
“As long as you do your work, I don’t think he cares what your pill peddler stuffs down your throat. Pills you don’t need, if you ask me. You look pretty damned healthy.”
“You—” I lowered my voice with an effort as everyone in the row behind us glanced in our direction. “I could make the same presumptions about your selective use of that cane, Mr. Gladwin. One couldn’t guess whether you’re as crippled as you make yourself out to be—” He didn’t cut me off, not with words. The stricken look on his face was enough.
“I’m not . . .” His jaw tightened, and he turned away. Mr. Templeton rounded the aisle at that instant and stopped in front of us like a disapproving schoolmaster.
“Is there some difficulty, gentlemen?”
Gladwin gave me not the slightest glance. “A minor disagreement over work. One we’ve resolved.”
“Yes?” Mr. Templeton looked suspiciously at me. “Mr. Wetherly, I must ask you directly. Are you ill?”
Startled, I looked at him—then, unable to help myself, at Gladwin. But he looked as startled. I struggled to find my voice. “I had the flu last spring.” And at times I found myself half expecting to fall deathly ill all over again. “But I’m the picture of health, sir. Mr. Gladwin was only just commenting on it a moment ago.”
A soft snort escaped Gladwin, and Mr. Templeton looked at him askance. “Well, that may be, but I want an explanation for this.” He laid a ledger in front of me. “Your work, Mr. Wetherly, from yesterday. I’ve seen it before. The changes in your handwriting indicate a man who’s ill. Or taken to drink.”
Shocked, I hastily shook my head. “I was writing with my right hand, sir. Nothing more.”
Puzzlement gleamed behind the pince-nez. “Are you right-handed, Mr. Wetherly?”
Gladwin’s head tilted, one blue eye peeking at me over his shoulder. I wasn’t sure whether he’d let me escape with a lie, but I couldn’t chance it. “No, sir. I just thought I’d better—”
“You’d better write with the hand you’re accustomed to using. We want legible work, Mr. Wetherly. This will not suit.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll switch hands.”
“Thank you.” Mr. Templeton started away, then hesitated. “Mr. Gladwin, I’ve changed my mind about this evening. You needn’t stay late to make up the half hour.” His tone was unusually gentle. “Give your mother my regards. I hope she’s feeling better.”
When he’d gone, I looked at Gladwin in disbelief. “Using your mother as an excuse? Really?”
Gladwin merely smiled faintly and proceeded, sans cane but with a noticeable limp, across to the file cabinets. I had the terrible thought that his mother might be genuinely ill—and I was an ass for suggesting otherwise. But he made it impossible to know when he was being honest and when he was pulling some sly trick. Even now, he’d stopped at Louise Nowell’s desk to flirt with her. If he was worried about his mother, his job, or anything else, he hid it well.
But no matter the truth or untruth of it, he’d gained Mr. Templeton’s sympathies—and I’d only succeeded in provoking the man. As the days crawled past, I could feel the job slipping through my fingers and Gladwin seizing firmer hold of it. I spent Thanksgiving morning perusing the want ads, something that did not pass unnoticed by my own mother, who cornered me in the kitchen and set me to work shelling peas.
“You’re going to be let go?”
As direct as only she could be. I had to laugh. “There’s a chance of it.” An excellent chance, but I couldn’t say so.
I saw in her face she wanted to hug me. Fingers deep in pie dough, she simply nodded. “A dreadful business for you boys to come back to . . .” Her voice went thick and she frowned as if irritated with herself. “You won’t say a word about this to him, but your father’s in the same trouble.”
“They’re letting him go?” After thirty-five years. I couldn’t believe it. “When?”
“It’s not a certainty.” She lifted a flour-streaked face to smile ruefully at me. “Though it may as well be, for all the fretting he’s doing. You’re alike in that. But never mind. We have our savings. We’ll get by better than some.”
“I’m sorry.” If I’d worked harder . . .
“None of that, Foster.” Her soft brown eyes were all at once sharp and bright. “After what we’ve been through the past two years, this won’t hurt us. You’re still here.” Her lips tightened, and she went at the defenseless dough with furious energy. “This won’t hurt at all.”
I resolved to make sure it didn’t.
I was at my desk by seven on a dreary Monday, full of toast and coffee and tearing through paperwork at a speed that threatened to put my old, reliable comptometer on the blink. Gladwin had apparently come by a better machine, for he was keeping up easily, even on the complex Burton file. His face was set as he worked, his attention hard on the page before him. He hadn’t said more than good morning to me since I’d come in. I was ready to apologize—until I spotted him carrying on cheerfully with Miss Nowell. He might find an apology from me merely amusing at this point, another little triumph before the final one to come. I was in no frame of mind to make his victory any sweeter.
But I hadn’t surrendered. At noon, I stayed at my desk, dining on a rather dry turkey sandwich and a piece of pie crumbling apart in hastily folded wax paper. A cup of coffee from the recreation room made it more palatable, but the lonely atmosphere of an empty office left a lump in my throat, all the same. It didn’t seem real that I’d be looking for work again—and if I didn’t find it quickly, I’d have to pull up stakes altogether and try another town. I wouldn’t be a burden if my parents had to live on their savings. I’d trek all the way to California first.
Once I was gone, Gladwin would go on working and flirting and charming people into giving him his way—at least until the day he misplaced the financial documents of one of our most important clients.
I stared at the Burton file for a long minute, flirting, myself, with the consequences of going that far to keep my job. Gladwin might have taken similar advantage of the situation. He’d initiated the battle between us. But this—it could be the finish of him. And, come the first of December, I’d still be employed.
I couldn’t do it. I tried to get back to work, focusing on the numbers in front of me, but I lost track, my attention straying to the clock above the long row of file cabinets. So
many cabinets. Files were often misplaced, and the clerks wasted time searching for them. Sometimes files set hastily atop the cabinets fell back behind them and weren’t found for days. Such carelessness had gotten one clerk fired.
It was nearly twelve-thirty. Scooping up the file, I moved to the last cabinet and opened the bottom drawer. I’d barely tucked the file inside before the elevator opened and I heard voices in the hall. My gut twisted, and I pulled a deep breath into shrinking lungs. I took my seat, but my concentration was only more fragile, my hands shaking too much to strike keys with any accuracy. I didn’t want the job this way. I didn’t want anything this way.
Gladwin came in with Louise at his side, and I wondered distractedly if they’d dined together. She slowed by my desk. “No lunch? Dear old Fuss. You can’t work on an empty stomach, you know.”
I managed a good-natured smile at the rather unflattering endearment, knowing she meant it affectionately. “I’ve already eaten. Minutes wasted, and all that.”
“Dear old Fuss,” Gladwin said with a soft laugh. Something in his voice sent a shiver—part uneasiness, part pleasure—through me. As disconcerting as it was, I wanted to hear him say it again. But he only dropped into his chair and flashed Louise a grin. “Thanks for the ear. I do feel better.”
She leaned across the desk and patted his shoulder. “Everything will be all right. You’ll see.”
I waited until she was gone before sneaking a sidelong glance at Gladwin. He’d picked up a pencil but sat, tapping it idly, his gaze far away. He hadn’t missed the file yet. I could retrieve it and leave it where it would be found. “You and Louise,” I ventured. “You’re not . . .”
He roused himself with obvious effort. “Louise?” He looked at me and put on a smile he didn’t seem to feel. “We’re just pals.”
“You’re not as cheered as you hoped to be.” The comment slipped out almost against my will. It didn’t seem a conversation I should be having, under the circumstances.
Gladwin’s smile took on a more genuine tilt. “Some things just call for getting used to.”
