by Lisa Patton
“Maybe so, but I wouldn’t mind having his cash. Or his voice. Would you, Jack?”
“Show me the money, baby, show me the money,” Jack says. His vocal repertoire naturally includes Tom Cruise.
Between commercials and during the songs, I do tell him all about how Liam slept till two on Saturday. I fill him in on how we missed the last boat to the Statue of Liberty and about how he left me in his room for nearly hours while he conducted business in Sue’s room. I finish by telling him how I’d just picked up and left the hotel with Liam staring into his wineglass.
“There’s always Stan,” Johnny says, and cracks up laughing.
The image of Stan and me as a couple may have him highly amused but as for me I’m not smiling. “Are you out of your mind?” I say.
“He wants to take you out.”
“Don’t you think by now I’m on to you? That is not true.” I settle onto the stool across from him.
“Oh yes it is.”
“And how do you know that?”
“He told me. And he’s pretty sure you’ll say yes.”
“As my daddy used to say, it’ll be a cold day in Cuba before that ever happens.” Jack, who had disappeared from the control room for a minute, strolls back in with a stack of old records for the all request lunch hour. With a perfect Elvis voice he says, “Cute turtleneck you’ve got on there, little sister. Should we turn up the heat in here?”
“Very funny,” I say, looking down at the front of my sweater.
“Why in god’s name are you wearing a turtleneck?” Johnny says. “It’s the first week of May.”
“I’m hiding my spray tan. I don’t want to give Edward any unneeded reason to be suspicious.”
Johnny looks over at Jack and I watch the two cut eyes at each other.
“What? Why are y’all looking at each other like that?”
They continue flicking their eyes and eyebrows from across the room until Johnny says, “I haven’t said anything because I’m hoping it all goes away.”
“What?” By now I’m frantic and I practically yell. “WHAT all goes away?”
“Edward knows something’s up,” Johnny says.
“About my trip?”
He nods and positions his headphones. “Hang on. I’ve got a live spot coming up in five seconds.”
As he touts the benefits of driving a Toyota, my mind travels ninety miles per hour down the interstate. What in the world could Edward know? How does he know and, most importantly, am I about to be dropkicked and punted down the highway? Jack disappears out the door again and I’m left counting the seconds until Johnny finishes his ad. The instant he presses the end button on the control board, I’m right back to our conversation. “How? How does he know something’s up?” I say, biting my right thumbnail.
“Our resident bonehead.”
“I didn’t tell Stan anything about my trip.” I’m twisting my hair behind my head so tightly I can feel my temples pulling. “You and Jack are the only ones who know.”
“You didn’t have to. I’m telling you he snoops around in everyone’s business. He found out on his own.”
“How?” My thumbnail is no longer a nail. It’s a nub.
“He’s jealous, I’m telling you. He likes you.”
“But how did he find out my personal business?” I say, sliding off the stool and darting around the control room in a frenzied but futile attempt to make it all go away.
Johnny’s head moves with every step I take. “He stopped by your house over the weekend. Some whack job with a lisp told him you were in New York. He was in your front yard picking up pinecones when Stan drove up.”
I stop moving and peer at Johnny. “Riley’s not a whack job, he’s dear. And he doesn’t have a lisp, it’s a soft R. He is a tiny bit annoying at times, but he’d never hurt a flea. I never told him why I was in New York or who I was with.”
“You didn’t have to. Stan figured it out.”
“Okay, now you’re freaking me out. How?” I try sitting again but stand back up five seconds later, finding no comfort in taking a seat.
“He looked up White’s tour schedule on his Web site. Found out he was playing a gig at the Mandarin Oriental and called the hotel to see if you were registered. Jackpot.”
“You have got to be kidding!”
“Nope.”
I mutter to myself, “The only reason I told Riley was to get him off my back, uuhhh.” Exasperated, I throw my head back. That’s it. I’m so done with Riley.
“I told Stan I’d kill him if he tells Edward. Let’s just hope he doesn’t squeal.”
“Oh dear god. He better not,” I say, closing my eyes and shaking my head. “Now I am petrified.”
“Don’t be scared. Just think up a good excuse in case you need it. You’ll come up with something.”
Weak kneed and scared stiff, I creep back to my office.
Back at my desk, prepared to bury my worries in paperwork, I check my e-mail, then my voice mail. Four new messages. The first two are from winners, checking on the status of their concert tickets. The third is from Edward. I hit the pound key, “Message skipped.” The fourth call is from Stan welcoming me back to town. Thank you, Stanny. Why do you even care? “First skipped message,” the lady says, and Edward’s chilling voice is on the telephone. “Leelee? Edward. I’d like to see you in my office as soon as I return from lunch. I’ve been given some disturbing news and I’m hoping you can clear it up. See you when I return.” Click. Dial tone.
I can feel my heart clanging in a way I’d only felt a couple of times in my life. The first was the day our principal, Mrs. Carrington, caught Mary Jule and me smoking on the roof of the gym at Jameson School and instead of telling us to come down she beckoned us down with her long, slender pointer finger. The other time was the night I fired Helga demanding that she leave my Peach Blossom Inn kitchen immediately, with her sacred hippo collection, and never step a foot back inside. Both times I’d had Mary Jule with me. This time I’m flying solo.
As the minutes tick by, my heartbeat increases and my pulse quickens. One glance at my watch lets me know it’s close to one. Edward left for lunch almost an hour ago and is bound to be back soon. I sneak into the bathroom to call Virgy and even she’s at a loss. I thought for sure she’d be able to mastermind a scheme to get me out of this. “I’d tell you to tell him that you just happened to bump into Liam on Fifth Avenue but it sounds like he’s too smart for that,” is all she can advise.
“I’m scared to death,” I tell her, huddled in the corner.
“Oh hell, Fiery, if you’re gonna be fired anyway, just leave. Run out the door. Why put yourself through it?”
It was the only relief I’d felt since tiptoeing into the staff meeting this morning. “You’re right. I can always e-mail him a letter of resignation from home.”
“Definitely. Get out of there!”
I’m running through the parking lot when I spot Edward’s bright yellow corvette turning in from Union Avenue. (Yellow is the FM 99 color by the way.) Darting behind another car, I hunker down and watch as he drives past, all the while praying that he didn’t see me. When enough time has passed for him to make it safely inside the building, I zigzag to my old BMW, ducking behind and weaving in between the other parked vehicles. Just as I’m digging inside my purse for my keys, I hear a loud engine approaching. Determined not to look around, I click the remote on my keychain and quickly open my front door.
“What’s your hurry?” I hear, and turn to see a blackened window rolling down. Edward’s mug is staring straight at me.
“Oh, nothing. I just forgot something in my car.” I’m surprised my voice isn’t trembling.
“Why would you need your purse just to get something out of your car?”
“Because.” My mind starts racing for an excuse. “Be-cause, I don’t go anywhere without my purse. My mother taught me that. Never leave your purse unattended. It goes along with never leaving your diamond ring on the bathroom sink.�
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“Did you get my message?” he asks, sternly.
“What message?” If I act as if I haven’t heard it, perhaps he’ll just drop it.
“I’ll meet you in my office.”
I’m still planning my getaway when he parks two cars down and jumps out, walking briskly toward me. “So what did you forget?” he asks, turning toward the building, expecting me to follow.
“I … I forgot my phone.”
“Personal calls aren’t allowed.”
“I know that, Edward, I just like to have it in case of an emergency.”
He stares harshly and he and I, Dead Woman Walking, stroll in silence all the way back upstairs.
“I’ll call you shortly,” he says, and turns into his office. “After I make a phone call.”
When I sit back down in my chair and happen to glace at the picture of my daughters in the simple silver frame on the corner of my desk, an overwhelming sense of taking responsibility for my own actions floods my thoughts. All of the reasons I used to justify my flight of fancy to New York no longer seem valid. Through the turtleneck, I can feel the sweat drip and then pool in my cleavage—I’m too scared to look in my compact, but I’m sure my face is bright red. Despite my nervousness, the phone calls keep on coming and it takes all my focus and concentration not to entirely snap at one of the contest winners. But when Stan pops his head in my office, all cheery and nonchalant, my eyes become poisonous arrows and I shoot them his way. It’s not at all like me, but I honestly can’t help myself.
Alarmed, he scurries in and shuts my door, honking an extra large something or other up his nose. “Hello, doll. How was the Big Apple?” he says, only seconds before Edward’s voice booms through the wall. “Leelee. Would you come in here now?”
Stan’s eyebrows pop up. “Ooops. That doesn’t sound good. What’s he so mad about?”
I’m so livid at Stan I want to shake him. “You know exactly what he’s mad about,” I say, with my hands resting on my hips. “What I’d like to know is why are you such a big tattletale?”
“If you’re referring to your joyride to New York—”
“You don’t know what I did last weekend, Stan. And what I can’t figure out is, why do you even care?”
Fueled by rage, and indignant that my privacy was breached—not to mention being fed up with Edward’s general sense of unpleasantness and self-importance—I’m suddenly furious. But this time, I’m furious with myself. Not only have I allowed myself to be bullied by a domineering doofus of a boss, I let myself be lured into a bad situation by one more charming, gorgeous man, under the guise that I was treating myself to an escape, a Cinderella fantasy worthy of telling my grandchildren. All along I knew the trip to New York was taboo—even if Edward’s rules were inane, not to mention so hypocritical. But I let myself be convinced that this guy, Liam, would make it all okay. In reality, I’d known all along I was doing something wrong—and truthfully, I realize now that it would have been impossible to fully enjoy myself because of it.
During the first nor’easter in Vermont, I had been sans-Baker for only a matter of days—and no one had ever told me how quickly or vastly the snow would accumulate. Folks up there trade weather reports like gossip, and the town had been talking about it for days. It never once occurred to me to pay attention, though. I just assumed I’d be taken care of—that Baker, or Jeb, or someone would bail me out, the way Daddy always did. When the storm finally hit, the girls and I were left alone, and at first we were enchanted with the clouds of puffy snow. But when it started piling up one foot after another—to the roof in some spots—I made panicked phone calls to snowplowers begging for assistance. Naturally, they’d all been booked for days. When I finally sweet-talked one into helping me, his wife said that I’d have to shovel a three-foot alley around my car in order for her husband to clear my drive. It ended up taking me four hours just to shovel the way out to my car and once I’d finally made a three-foot clearance around it I noticed there was still another four feet of snow piled on top of it. It had to go somewhere and when I knocked it off in a rageful frenzy, and it filled back up my alley, I marched myself back inside and told that snowplower’s wife that she could send in an eighteen-wheeler tow truck for all I cared but I was not shoveling one more inch of snow that day or any other day. In the end I paid the snowplower to do it. After all, there’s only so much snow a girl can take.
All along I’ve been thinking I’ve grown up so much, matured, finally learned to stand up for myself. When in reality, I’ve made the very same mistakes again. I know that when I walk into Edward’s office in a few moments, I’m going to encounter a nor’easter of my own—only this time, I’m determined to be prepared. I will not let myself be buried again.
“Shut the door and have a seat, Ms. Satterfield.” Edward, who is already seated behind his desk, scoots his chair in tightly so he can rest his elbows on the desktop and clasp his hands together. My lips are silent but the pounding of my heart speaks for me as I settle down into the chair. I’m rubbing my thumbs together so hard I’m afraid I might rub off the skin.
With lips tightly pursed he stares at me a long time before ever uttering a word. Finally he says, “I have received a very disturbing report on you, Leelee.”
“Edward,” I say, jumping in before I lose my momentum, “I owe you an apology.” Immediately his eyebrows rise. “I lied to you last week about having the flu, and instead took a trip to New York City with Liam White to hear him perform.” I never meant to tell on myself to this degree but since it’s all out in the open now I might as well proceed with my head held high.
Bursting with offense, he starts to expel what I imagine he’d been hanging on to all weekend, “I know all about it. Nothing around here gets past me—”
I cut him off. “I know. And you were very explicit that I was not to act like a star fornicator—and I bent the rules.”
His eyes pop out of his skull.
“Not literally!” I say indignantly, standing up from my seat. “Just figuratively.” Slowly I settle back down. Inside I’m dying to lean over his desk, point my finger in his face and say, Edward Maxwell, for your information, you are the biggest star-fornicator of them all! Instead I calmly say, “I’m sorry for going against your policies—I can only say, not that it matters, that I behaved with dignity and never did anything to reflect poorly on the station.” I pause for a moment. Between the heat from my fury and this dang turtleneck I can feel a bead of sweat escaping my forehead, trickling down my cheek. And another. And another. I reach behind me and knot my hair to get some air on my neck before resisting the urge to fan myself with a Billboard magazine that I’ve spied on the edge of his desk. I’m not sure what to say next. Do I beg for my job? Do I tell him all the things I’ve wanted to scream back at him for the past few months? Or do I just quit? The more I look at his sun-dried tomato lips pressed tightly together and consider the anxiety he causes me on a daily basis, not to mention the vast amount of eggshells I must tiptoe across every time I step into his office, I realize it’s not worth it. Working alongside Edward Maxwell falls in my “life is way too short” category. Dealing with him is not worth the exorbitant amount of distress required to wade through his daily dish of pompous malarkey. It’s time to stand up for myself and find a new job.
“Edward,” I say, surprised at my courage. “I feel I’ve learned a lot from this position; and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed working with many of the staff. But to be honest, I don’t think we work well together—and I think my trip to New York was a way of showing that. Therefore, I’m tendering my resignation.” As soon as the words escape my lips I grab the Billboard magazine off the corner of his desk and begin to fan my face. It’s all I can do not to lift my sweater and fan up under my turtleneck. Confrontation is certainly not my strong suit.
Edward, naturally, had more to say—and clearly wanted to have the last word. I’m certain he was expecting tears and begging; and his displeasure at having been undercut was appare
nt—his face was nearly as red as mine had been moments earlier. I calmly listen as he reiterates everything I’ve done wrong. He goes on and on about issues of human resources and e-mails and leaving company information secure. All I can focus on are the neatly polished platinum records hanging on the wall behind him—the way his head is positioned, it looks as though he’s been framed, next to his idols. It takes all my strength not to laugh out loud at the irony. In the end, we part as coldly as the day we met.
When I rise from the chair and abruptly swing open Edward’s door, Stan tumbles in on top of me. Without uttering a sound, I step around him and walk calmly back to my office.
While gathering the few personal items I have in my desk, Sarah and Issie’s faces pop into my mind. When I think about how I’m going to support them the actuality of my choice to go to New York grabs hold. At once I feel ashamed and can’t help but question my motives, my choices, and even my ability to mother my daughters. But that’s the good thing about finally owning up to yourself—if you admit you were wrong, there’s really no point in beating yourself up over it. All I know is that I’ve got a ton of proverbial snow to get out from under—but at least I’ve got my shovel pointed in the right direction.
Stan appears in my doorway. “This is not my fault.”
Completely ignoring him, I glance around my office one last time for any other personal belongings. I may have had a moment of enlightenment, but I know myself. I’m one calm breath from throwing my Southern upbringing out the window and taking a high heel to Stan’s bustle of a rear end. Scooping up my purse, I head down the hall with Stan huffing behind me. I stop in front of the control room to say good-bye to Johnny and Jack but when peeping through the small window on the door I see the back of Edward’s head and change my mind. So without saying good-bye to one soul, I push open the door to the back steps that lead directly out of the building.
Stan’s trailing right behind me. “I’m sorry,” he says, halfway down the stairs. “I got insanely jealous when I learned you were in New York with Liam White.”
