Menage_a_20_-_Tales_with_a_Hook

by Twenty Goodreads Authors

  “Damn! I guess that’s an order,” she mumbled and gazed after him for an angry half second. Emily decided that since she didn’t know his proper title, she had better shut her mouth. Chagrined, she returned to her desk but couldn’t help taking a sneak peek in his direction. She whispered, “Who is that tall, baldheaded man any way? Theo Kojak? The tough New York City policeman whose catchphrase was ‘Who loves ya, baby?’? Bet he won’t say that to me.” She had to laugh at her silly remarks. Emily learned later that each section had an assigned printer that accommodated several people. Moreover, newsroom staff had first priority. Her work was further down on the scale of importance.

  When Dorothy arrived, Emily warned her to watch out for Kojak. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’ve just branded him an angry policeman.”

  “It’s obvious that you and Marlin have a personal problem with each other, but what can you do about it, tell the supervisor he doesn’t like you? That he performs his duties minus a smile? I don’t know, girlfriend. You’d better get it together. He could be influential in getting you fired if you keep up this fighting.” Dorothy shook her head, put her purse away and sat at the computer.

  Emily understood that her desk-partner showed no empathy toward her. She rolled her eyes, gathered her belongings and left for the day. Nevertheless, Dorothy’s words stuck with her.

  Going forward, Emily and Marlin gave wide berth to each other. Yet, silent, probing glances passed between them. He made it a point to pass her desk in a roundabout way to his office, which wasn’t necessary. He didn’t have to walk down that particular isle. He offered a hello; nothing more. Their conversations, if any, were about business. She got it that he was a professional and began to give him that respect. She was now aware that staff knew him well and he knew their families, a further indication of his reputation. And Dorothy’s words were still in her subconscious. Her job at the station was the luck-ofthe-draw.

  Marlin Martin became ill, passed out in his office and was taken to the hospital by ambulance. When he didn’t return to work after two weeks, staff began visiting in pairs of two. No one explained his illness although she was curious. Emily didn’t feel she had a right to be in his business. Yet, she asked if she could go with them to visit. While she wasn’t a close friend, she had become a friendly staff member. Most thought nothing of her visiting Marlin in the hospital except Dorothy.

  “Emily, are you aware that Marlin is married?”

  “Yeah. What does that have to do with visiting a sick friend? Are you going?”

  “No I’m not. Watch your step, girlfriend,” Dorothy said and turned to the computer.

  “Why, Dorothy? I’m not going to the hospital to screw the man. There you go again, trying to make something out of nothing.” Dorothy threw a guilty smirk at Emily and went back to work.

  Emily raised her hands in vexation. “Sorry I mentioned it. I’m out of here.”

  Marlin returned to the office a month later, a bit weak and ashen. Many members of staff gathered in his small office to welcome him back. Some shook hands and some hugged him. They were big on hugging in the office and as a result, Emily didn’t feel too uncomfortable when he greeted her with a hug. Surprised and disconcerted, she wondered, Is he calling a truce?

  “Hi, Marlin, glad to see you doing better and back to work,” she said, a bit embarrassed.

  Although the crowd was still milling around and reading his many get-well cards tacked to his bulletin board, he hugged her and whispered in her ear, “Thank you for coming.” She didn’t miss that his eyes made known his gratitude.

  Those eyes...the eyes that first showed me fire are now gentle. They’re reaching out to me and I don’t understand why. Emily wondered what others thought about their new friendship. She thought, Oh my, I only visited the sick.

  Marlin appeared to be functioning well enough doing his job, however, at a slower pace. He was like a bird with clipped wings, couldn’t seem to rise, just hopped from place to place.

  As months passed, Marlin’s attitude toward Emily began to change. He no longer spoke to her with anger on his face. He often made silent observations as if drawing a picture of her in his mind. Once, during a slow period in the newsroom, he stopped by a reporter’s space across from Emily’s workstation. Marlin sat facing her yet conversed with the reporter and Emily watched him in her peripheral vision. They pretended not to see each other.

  He’s making me nervous. It’s been some years since any man has looked at me more than twice. He’s exceeded the number. Must admit, however, it’s a bit exciting, even sensual that the man finds me...interesting. I’m older than he is, and there are many beautiful, young ladies at the station looking for stardom who will flirt with any one to get the camera’s attention. Then there is the other situation.

  She overheard Marlin tell the reporter, “Just checking to see how things are going.” Emily wasn’t listening in on their conversation, but happened to hear that part. Because he rose to leave, she thought maybe...he might stop and speak. He gazed in her direction and kept walking. Her feathers fell, but she understood. They had a silent understanding that both were off limits. Off limits, yes, that’s it.

  Six months later, Emily came to work and staff were huddled in a circle speaking in low tones. Not wanting to intrude, she moved on to her desk, brought up her computer and, as usual, checked the in-house messages. She read the following from the vice president of news.

  I’ M VERY SORRY TO INFORM STAFF THAT WE’VE RECEIVED WORD THAT MARLIN MARTIN PASSED OVER-NIGHT. WE DON’T HAVE MANY DETAILS OTHER THAN HE DIED ALONE IN HIS APARTMENT. PLEASE KEEP MARLIN’S FAMILY IN YOUR THOUGHTS AND PRAYERS.

  RENEE MILLER

  Born in Ontario, raised in the beautiful but small village of Tweed, writing for me was a hobby, when I had time. (We all know how rare that is when you have children.) My favourite authors range from Dr. Seuss to Stephen King and everything in between. Writing became a passion and an obsession when I took a friend’s advice and turned my hobby into my dream.

  As a stay at home mother of three children, running a small daycare, sometimes my house resembles a zoo more than the relaxing environment I dreamt of when I decided to quit the nine-to-five insanity. Add to that craziness, two dogs, 1 cat, 1 ferret, and a man whose sense of humor is more bent than my own and sometimes I wonder why I’m not medicated. But seriously, I wouldn’t change a thing.

  T HE FINE PRINT. Have you ever wanted something so desperately you’d give anything to have it? Angie has, and now she must pay the price.

  LONELY . Too often lovers forget about the person lying next to them. Assuming they’ll always be there, they stop trying and slowly they drift apart, further and further, until one day, they are no more than familiar strangers.

  Carly feels forgotten and unwanted, until she betrays her husband’s love to scratch the itch he won’t satisfy.

  http://www.rjmiller.weebly.com

  The Fine Print

  Renee Miller

  Copyright © Renee Miller-Johnston 2009 Stomach aching, head swimming, she retches one more time. Body convulsing, her eyes feel as though they might pop out of her face. Angie focuses on breathing, so hard to breathe. It must be all of it. God, how much more could there be?

  She rests her cheek on the cold porcelain and closes her eyes. What is happening to her? Why is she so sick? Two weeks is far too long for a simple flu.

  The phone rings, but Angie can’t move. Too weak to do more than curse at the noise, she crawls to the bedroom and collapses at the end of the bed. Reaching up, she pulls the comforter down to wrap her body in it. Then, lying down on the soft but scratchy blue carpet, Angie closes her eyes. Drifting, afraid to fall into blissful oblivion, she struggles to figure out what could be wrong with her.

  It began as a mild headache, before the dreams. For two weeks, Angie dreamed of the same man night after night—gray eyes staring into her soul and a full mouth whispering words she couldn’t make out.
/>   At first she dismissed it as fever, but that was gone and she still dreamed of him. Rolling on her back Angie stares up at the ceiling. A thin strip of light runs across it. Closed drapes, allow just the sliver of sunshine through; the source of the light that had become so painful only a short time ago. The thought of opening the curtains makes her cringe.

  The doorbell rings. She pulls the comforter over her head. She doesn’t want to see anyone. No one cares anyway. Only Sandra visited. Sandra, someone she’s known a few months. They met when Sandra started working at Matthews & Kline, in the office next to hers. Sad that the only person who cares to check on her is someone she barely knows.

  Sandra comes every day. Angie doesn’t care how Sandra knows she needs help. Angie is relieved that someone remembers her.

  The doorbell rings again. If it’s Sandra, she should use her key. She asked for it last week when she brought soup and cleaned the bathroom. Angie had never given out her key before, but something about Sandra made her trust the woman. Sandra cares about her. Angie closes her eyes tight, willing whoever it is to leave her alone, to stop ringing the bell.

  “Angie?” Sandra’s voice. “Angie, are you all right?’ She sighs, knowing Sandra won’t leave unless she is convinced Angie isn’t dying. The past few days Sandra stayed all-night, coming to her side when Angie tossed and turned and cried out in her sleep.

  At first Angie didn’t want company. She can’t remember the last time she showered, her black hair falling in matted strings around her face. Angie can smell her own rotten breath, but imagining the toothbrush against her teeth—like a jackhammer pounding the fillings out of her mouth—makes Angie want to cry; she doesn’t like anyone seeing her like this.

  The door to the bedroom opens, light spills in from the hallway.

  “Close it please,” Angie mutters, wincing at her own voice. “Please?”

  “Oh, sorry hon. Where are you?” Sandra steps into the room and peers over the bed. “Why are you on the floor?”

  “Too far to the bed,” Angie cringes at the ache from the sound of their voices. She wishes Sandra would go away, but she doesn’t want to be alone either.

  “Sweetie, you need to go to the doctor,” Sandra says, kneeling beside her.

  Hands on her hair make her shrink. Angie wants to push her away but she hasn’t the strength to even argue. “Went already; three times,” she murmurs. Angie has made the agonizing trip to several doctors, and now she worries they think she is making herself sick.

  The last visit, three days ago, resulted in a psych consult. Hardly encouraging.

  “Nothing wrong with me.”

  “We could try a different hospital,”

  “No, just want to die.”

  Sandra gasps.

  Why does she care? It’s not like they were best friends before this. During her first visit, she asked Sandra why Mr. Kline wasn’t more concerned, why didn’t he call and demand a doctor’s note.

  Sandra said she had taken care of it, told him she was checking on Angie and that she was sick. Angie stopped wondering after that.

  “Any more dreams, love?”

  The woman keeps calling her honey and love. Why? It’s silly.

  “I don’t know,” Angie rolls over and opens one eye. Earlier, she dared to glance in the mirror, to regret it at once. A gray face stared back. A face where her once attractive green eyes showed pale and red rimmed.

  Angie had lost weight. Her cheeks appeared sunken and the skin on her neck flabby. She looked more like an eighty year old woman than a young, vibrant thirty something.

  “You mean you don’t remember?”

  “I don’t know,” she repeats. Sandra is obsessed with Angie’s dreams. She wants to know everything: what the man said, did, and how he looked.

  Angie indulged her at first, now she is weary of it; too exhausted to care about why she dreams. She only cares to figure out what is wrong with her.

  A sigh and a vanilla-scented breeze. Sandra moves about the room, straightening things and making too much noise. She goes into the bathroom and Angie smiles at the sound of Sandra’s indrawn breath. Angie knows the bathroom looks as if something terrible happened in there, like somebody died.

  Towels strewn about the floor, toilet splattered with vomit and blood dried on the tub where she fell and hit her head the night before. It hadn’t hurt. Maybe it had and she couldn’t remember. She’d been angry at her clumsiness, and then the sight of her blood had sent her into renewed retching.

  “What happened in here?” Sandra’s voice calls, too loud again. “Honey you’ve got to be more careful.”

  Toilet flushing, God, that’s an awful sound. Then water running. Cleaning the tub?

  Sandra mutters as she cleans up the mess and Angie wishes she’d just leave her alone. When she’d met Sandra, Angie had been jealous of a beautiful woman, tall and lean, with a beautyqueen smile and long lustrous blond hair. She wondered how someone so attractive could also be blessed with enough brains to manage stocks and bonds. But Sandra had proven she was capable and intelligent. She had won Angie over with coffee and doughnuts in the mornings and gossiping about coworkers over lunch.

  Angie wants the woman out of her house. A strange itch in her belly makes her sit up. It spreads up toward her breasts and to her neck. It’s inside, impossible to get at, and Angie wants to crawl out of her skin to be rid of it.

  She sweats, yet she is so cold. Her mouth waters and she squirms again to the bathroom. Sandra examines the tub, as though it holds the secret to life. Angie brushes Sandra’s leg in her slow crawl to the toilet. She retches, but nothing comes out; there is nothing in there. It must be over. If there’s nothing left to come out then it should stop soon.

  Sandra pulls Angie’s hair back and strokes her head. It feels like a rake plowing across her scalp. “Please,” Angie gasps. “Don’t touch me.”

  “I’m sorry, I forgot.” Sandra moves away. Angie leans on the toilet, now smelling of lemon that burns her nose, and her eyes water.

  Sandra talks in the bedroom. On the phone? Who is she calling?

  Angie pulls herself away from the toilet and tries to stand. The room spins and she gives up. Instead she slithers back to the bedroom. Sandra is no longer talking.

  “Who did you call?” Angie has only a whisper left in her throat. It’s aching and raw, as if a thousand bees set up house inside.

  “No one, sweetie, why?”

  “I heard you,”

  “Oh dear, you really need some rest,” Sandra’s hands under her arms; her nails feel like talons on Angie’s sensitive skin.

  She flinches but allows Sandra to help her into bed. It feels much nicer than the itchy carpet.

  “Now close your eyes, I’m sure you’re over the worst of it. I’m going to make you more soup.”

  Angie obeys, happy to block out the world and drift to sleep. If only Sandra would forget the soup and just leave. The woman bangs pots in the little kitchen. Soup making isn’t a noisy endeavor. Is Sandra trying to bother her? She doesn’t wait for an answer to her question but drifts off into the sweet, quiet darkness of her subconscious.

  A noise and Angie opens her eyes. A shadow stands by the window; a man, but she knows it’s a dream. She did not open her eyes and he is not really there.

  “You look better today,” a nice masculine voice.

  Even if the man is just a dream, he’s crazy. Better compared to what? A corpse? Obviously her dream-self needs as much reassurance as her real self. “Thank you,” she mutters.

  He moves toward the bed, the dim light dancing about his features. She knows them well, has seen them many times now. She wonders where she’s seen his face before the dreams, but then decides she is so used to seeing it that she thinks it’s familiar.

  “It is time,” he whispers, stroking her cheek.

  She knows it’s a dream because his touch soothes her. If she were awake it would only cause her pain.

  “Are you ready?”

  �
�Ready for what? Am I dying, are you an angel to take me away?”

  She chuckles at herself. If he were an angel, she’d gladly go to his heaven.

  “No, not an angel.” He smiles. His face shows no lines. “You are not dreaming Angie; it’s time to join us.”

  “Us?” She is confused.

  He leans close to her, his breath cold on her cheek. She looks up and his eyes are no longer gray but white, no color at all in the centers.

  A bubble of fear bursts in her belly.

  Us.

  Sandra is in the room. Angie turns. She must be dreaming. Sandra’s eyes are also white and her hair no longer blond but black. Yes, that has to be it. Sandra has been here so much, now Angie dreams about her too.

  “Luke, my love.” Sandra smiles at the man. “I have missed you.”

  “And I you.”

  Angie turns back to the man; he smiles at Sandra, his teeth long and white. What is happening?

  “I don’t understand,” Angie struggles to sit up, again the room spins and she must lie down. Her dream is becoming a nightmare, one that feels too real.

  “Please, don’t hurt me.”

  It seems the right thing to say.

  “Hurt you? Never.” The man brushes a strand of hair from her face. “Relax; you’ve lost far too much blood to be moving about like this.”

  Blood? She has lost lots of other fluids, but not blood. Only when she hit her head, but that was hardly enough to harm her.

  She turns to Sandra who is now next to her bed. Why is her hair black? It’s just a dream. Angie closes her eyes and opens them, trying to wake up. They are still in the room.

  “She is frightened love,” Sandra takes her hand.

  Angie notices how cold her skin is. Why hasn’t she noticed this before?

  “We must not frighten her.”

  “I’m already scared.” Angie pulls her hand away. “What is going on? Am I dying?”