by Clea Simon
Her office is empty, and she almost falls in with relief. Relief? She can’t fool herself. Part of her wants to get fired. To get out of here. She has to recognize that. Own it.
She takes a seat and another deep breath. Tries to remember her process.
Back when she and Peter were splitting, she’d gone to therapy briefly. It had been his idea, though she’d been willing enough. Wanting something to stop the constant ache, the confusion. To make the world make sense.
The shrink had been OK, a nice lady. Suburban. She’d pointed out how passive Tara was being. Like a turtle withdrawn into her shell. She called it dysthymia – a mild, persistent depression. Tara kind of liked the idea. Why shouldn’t she withdraw from a painful and confusing world? But she’d bought the idea that her movements should be conscious. Should be her choice. The therapist had given her breathing exercises designed to help her be more aware. For a while, Tara had kept at them, though now she can no longer remember the last time she tried. Clearly, she has fallen back into her old habits.
So now she takes a moment. Takes a breath. Does she want this job? She visualizes a chalkboard. Two columns outlined in white. On one side, she’ll list the plusses – the reasons to stay. The first item that comes to mind is the pay. It’s been nice not to worry about money. Not to have to ask Peter for cash, like in the old days. Almost immediately, her mind flips to the opposite side. She’d never really wanted this gig. Hadn’t been seeking it, or anything like it. Might never have even known about Zeron if Peter hadn’t pushed her toward it. Sick of supporting her, she’d figured at the time. It’s not like there are any newspaper jobs out there, not anymore. Though if she can nail this piece …
A deep breath. Cleansing, brings her back in focus. She’s not a pinball, pinging around reactively. It’s her life, and she decides. She’ll do what she can to salvage the situation. It’s a good job, if not one she wants. But she will continue to put energy into the article. ‘Be open to opportunity.’ Had her shrink said that or had Peter, back in the day? Maybe it was a fortune cookie.
She laughs at herself, at the predicament she’s gotten herself into. At the silly process – breathing exercise and all – and picks up the phone.
‘Rudy, I’m so sorry.’ Voicemail, but she sits up straight, remembering that client who talked about phone voice. ‘I’ve been tied up with the brochure photos. Please let me know when I should come by.’
She hangs up and looks at the clock. Checks her cell for the numbers Nick gave her. Greg, the Aught Nine’s drummer, should be around. Nick said he’d set up his own shop. Contracting and construction, working in his old neighborhood.
‘Condor Consulting.’ The same gruff voice, maybe a little deeper.
‘Greg?’ She smiles. Wants him to hear that in her voice. ‘It’s Tara, Tara Winton.’
‘I was wondering when you’d call.’ An exhalation and she pictures him leaning back, his belly as round as a bass drum, most likely.
‘Sorry.’ She’s tickled. This is how it used to be. ‘I’ve been slow getting started on this one, but I’ve been meaning to call you. Would you have time to talk this week?’
She reaches for a pad. Looks at the week ahead on her desk blotter calendar. If she speaks to Jerry tomorrow …
‘To talk about the old days? The Aught Nines?’ She catches herself. His voice is off. Too high, too tight. ‘About Chris Crack?’
‘Well, yeah.’ Something is wrong. She needs to reel this back. ‘But about all of you. All of us. The scene.’
‘Let me guess.’ There’s no denying the sarcasm in his voice. ‘You’re going to finally figure it out. Solve the case of who killed Chris Crack.’
‘No.’ She’s shaking her head. Forgets he can’t see her. ‘No, I’m not …’ She remembers the rumors. There were always rumors. Especially with someone as handsome and talented as Chris. ‘That’s not the story.’
‘Cause I have no desire to live through that bullshit again, Tara.’ He spits out her name like he remembers her all too well. Like he remembers an old grudge. ‘Chris was a sick guy. Always. He was weak. His girlfriend had just dumped him, in case you don’t recall. And, yeah, he had a habit. But he was my friend, OK? I’m not going to help you dig him up, all over again.’
She sits there, holding the phone, even after he cuts her off. At least with cell phones, there’s no more angry slam. This used to happen, she remembers, after a bad review. She’s gotten soft, she realizes, here in her cozy office. Does she really want to go back to those days? Does she have the energy for the rough and tumble of journalism – for the anger?
Her desktop phone lights up. It’s Rudy, most likely. Or, more likely, Sally, the executive secretary, sent to make her do cartwheels in penance even before they talk. She sits up straight once more as she reaches for the phone. Shoulders back, head up, as she readies herself to apologize and more. But even as she fixes a smile on her face, one she knows will be clear in her voice, she can’t help but wonder at what Greg has implied. That cold night, way back when – could Chris Crack have committed suicide?
SEVENTEEN
Maybe Greg did her a service. After his spurt of nastiness, Rudy is a teddy bear. Yes, he does make her wait by Sally’s desk. And, yes, he does express his extreme dismay – his words – at the monumental errors that have managed to get into the report. Something about last quarter’s conclusion, following on this quarter’s numbers, Tara knew she’d been playing fast and loose with her files.
‘I understand that the quarterly report is important, sir.’ She keeps her voice soft, her tone deferential. She doesn’t need a therapist to know how to placate an angry boss. ‘I will, of course, redo the report immediately. In its entirety.’
Because, ultimately, no harm has been done – no real harm, if she doesn’t count the black mark on her reputation. The report hadn’t gone to press yet, and that as much as her deference and her apologies are what probably save her job.
‘You know, we all knew you were going through a rough time a few years ago.’ Her boss stands, pushing himself out of his leather chair – not to see her out, she understood, but because he had better places to be. Because he is done with her. ‘We thought you were past that, Tara.’
He scowls at her, his eyebrows bristling. ‘I very much hope you are.’
‘Yes, sir.’ She ducks her head, almost a bow, and resists rolling her eyes even as she leaves, knowing that Sally is looking on, both in concern and in order to gauge her own next interaction with her boss.
Back at her desk, Tara takes a moment. Stupid, really, what she did. Five minutes to re-read the opening paragraphs, she would have caught the errors. Ten minutes checking and she’d have retained her halo as the golden girl of Zeron.
Golden girl? Maybe not, from what Rudy said. Maybe they’ve noticed her lack of interest – no, her utter disengagement – from the job. It isn’t fallout from her divorce that’s distracting her. It was her marriage that had brought her to the firm in the first place. Without Peter’s urging, she never would have interviewed for the gig. Never would have heard of it, probably, and certainly never would have ventured into the latest incarnation of the waterfront, the old warehouses replaced by gleaming high-rises. The Innovation District, they call it, in the latest rebranding. As she calls it, every time she refers to her employer in print. So much for street cred.
She spends the next two hours rewriting the report. Re-typing, actually, as much penance for being so careless as to make sure she doesn’t cut and paste any errors back in. After checking, she goes for coffee. The break room falls silent as she enters, and she knows word has spread.
‘Hey, it’s not like I killed someone.’ Her voice sounds too loud for the small room. Too chipper even for the lemon yellow walls and the bright orange chairs. Margie from Legal ducks her head and turns away.
‘All righty, then,’ she says as she leaves, more to buoy her own spirits than because she expects any response. This is what happens when you hold yourself aloo
f. When you still call it a ‘day job’ after five years. In the silence, she hears Peter’s reproofs. Wonders, not for the first time, if maybe he – if maybe that therapist had been right.
She is active. She does have control. At least of some things, and for the rest of the day, she dives in. Scott isn’t the only one to praise her writing, and Rudy had been in charge of hiring her. At some point Rebecca sticks her head past the door, knocking gently on the frame.
‘You’re the last one here,’ she says, that neat bun nodding. She seems to approve. ‘Should I do the alarm?’
‘No.’ Tara manages a smile. Team building. ‘I’ll undoubtedly forget it’s on and then set it off. Besides, who’s going to break into a building in the Innovation District?’
That comes out snarkier than she intends. ‘I mean, I feel safe here. I’ll set it when I leave.’ Rebecca relaxes at that. Score one for Team Tara. She hears the other woman’s heels as she crosses the lobby by the elevator. Hears the whir and hum as the lift whisks her away. And then she gets back to work.
In truth, it takes two more hours. This stretches to three, as she makes herself slow down and check a source. Even with breaks for coffee and the bathroom, it is not an insurmountable task, and she reminds herself again of how foolish she has been. How lazy. If she leaves – when – it will be her choice. And with that in mind, she steels herself for one more read-through of what has become eye-crossingly dull.
But first, a break. Her chair leans back, and she puts her feet up. Considers music, and decides to deny herself a little bit longer. She should put off Jerry, she decides. Eat lunch at her desk for a day or two, just for show. She looks at the clock – not yet eight – and reaches for her phone.
‘Jerry?’ Voicemail, and now she’s having second thoughts. ‘Tara here. Would you give me a call?’ She leaves her cell number, in case it’s not apparent. Leaves the office number too, before she hangs up.
When her phone rings ten minutes later, she grabs it. ‘Jerry?’
‘No, ah …’ A chuckle, half embarrassed. ‘Nick.’
‘Nick.’ She can feel the smile forming. ‘How are you? I got the horse.’
‘The horse? Oh, yeah.’ Another laugh. ‘Yeah. It told me I didn’t appreciate it enough, and so …’
The silence is more cordial than awkward, though Tara is grateful he can’t see the warmth rising to her cheeks.
‘So how was your weekend?’ She’s the one to break it finally. She is, after all, an adult. ‘Your kids?’
‘Oh, lord.’ She can picture him, leaning back, his eyes closed. ‘It was – well, they’re getting used to the drama, I guess. And Jack, especially, can be a handful. They’re good kids, though. I’ve got to give them that.’
She likes how he doesn’t talk about his ex. Doesn’t blame her or the boys.
‘Anyway, that’s sort of why I called.’ He sounds back on track. ‘I was wondering if we could make up for that lost dinner? We could grab a burger, or I could even grill.’
Suddenly Tara is hungry. ‘Wow, that sounds great. I mean, either, but I’m stuck here tonight. I’m still at work. Zeron.’ She allows a note of scorn to slip into her voice. Surely, Nick will understand. ‘I kind of screwed up, and so I’m trying to make things right.’
‘Good for you.’ He sounds serious, just when she kind of wishes he wouldn’t.
‘Maybe I could play hooky.’ She’s bad at flirting, always was. ‘I could be talked into it.’
‘No.’ He’s not playing along. ‘I’m not going to help you hurt yourself.’
Or is he? ‘I wasn’t …’ She stops, the edge of an idea tickling her mind. ‘Hey, Nick, do you mind if I ask you something?’
It’s an odd question. Leading, and she realizes she’s stalling. Trying to figure out how to put her thought in words.
‘I don’t – no, I don’t mind.’ She’s put him off. There’s distance in his voice.
She doesn’t care. ‘Someone said something to me today. About Chris Crack.’ She pauses, waiting for him to remember. ‘Do you think there’s any chance that his overdose was intentional?’
‘Do I think …?’ Caution has tightened his voice.
‘I mean, could it have been suicide?’ There, the word is out. ‘I mean, he did have a song called “Hot Shot”, after all.’
‘Suicide.’ He exhales into the phone. ‘Well, I’d never thought about that. I don’t know, Tara. Do you really want to get into all of that again?’
‘It’s kind of relevant to the story.’ She hears him withdrawing. Feels it. ‘Don’t you think?’
‘The story.’ Another sigh. ‘Yeah, maybe. But – I don’t know, Tara. I just don’t know.’
The call ends soon after, without any further talk of a rain check. It surprises Tara to realize how this disappoints her, and she consoles herself by thinking of the little carving. By thinking that he called.
The invitation has another consequence, one that’s less easy to dismiss. She’s suddenly famished. It’s been hours since that lunch with Scott. All the coffee she’s had since has done nothing but sour her belly. The need for food is medicinal, she tells herself. Primal.
But she’s so close. She hears Nick’s voice in her head – the serious one – as she wakes her computer to review the copy one more time. Only after she prints it out to read and redline a paper copy – underlining every fact to check against her source material – does she finally send it, along with an email apologizing once again. Nine thirty-seven, she notes with satisfaction. If Rudy doesn’t notice the time stamp on the file, maybe he’ll see it on her email and know she’s done her penance.
Gathering up her jacket and bag, she heads toward the door. The building is quiet, the dim whir and hum of machinery the only accompaniment. For a moment, she imagines herself an intruder. A tourist in a world of computers and printers, much like she was once a tourist in the clubs. Was once? Maybe it’s Greg. He shook her up. Maybe it was lunch with Scott, remembering how he labeled them both outsiders. Now she’s sorry she isn’t seeing Nick tonight. Maybe she’ll call him when she gets home. Maybe he’ll come over.
Distracted, she nearly walks out without setting the alarm, catching herself as she reaches for the door. It wouldn’t do to leave Zeron unguarded overnight, would it? She almost laughs. The whole area is dead at night. Quiet as a grave. But she’s going to be a model employee, at least for a while. Punching in the code, she has a moment of anxiety. Then the beep-beep-beep starts, and she races to the door. She’s out before it reaches the thirty-second warning, but she double checks anyway. The big glass doors lock behind her, the flashing light now a steady red on the panel off to her left.
Talk about paranoid. Tara can barely hear the traffic from the Pike, six blocks away. She’s heard the same rumors as everyone else – that the café by the corner is applying for a liquor license. That it’s going to open for dinner by the new year. She doesn’t believe it. Ever since the developers leveled the last of the old warehouses – the artists’ complex with that good pizza place that had been here for years – the area’s been dead after five. The company parking lot, a nice perk but not essential with the T only three blocks away, makes the area even more of a wasteland. In fact, if she didn’t have to walk by it, she might have forgotten that she drove in today, running late and in a rush. She looks around. Her car is the only one left.
At least it’s under a streetlight. One of those unnaturally bright halogens, though something is wrong with the bulb. It’s buzzing, for starters, like it’s about to pop or blow out in a shower of sparks. And the shadow is wrong. Too dark, too low, as if her car had been flattened to the pavement.
Unless – damn. She stops in her tracks, twenty feet from the Toyota. It’s not the light. Her tire is flat. The car is resting on its rims. Two tires, she sees – front and back. She closes her eyes in exasperation. Tries to remember what she’s done. What she missed in her mad race in this morning. Surely, there was glass somewhere or a curb she scraped in her frant
ic rush. Had she been that out of it? Given herself a slow leak that only now has made itself apparent?
Is there …? She walks around the car, dreading what she’ll find. A dent. The long scrape of exposed metal. Blood.
What she sees is almost worse. The tires on the other side are flat, as well. Completely, their rubber puddling out around the rim like some cartoon. She stoops to examine the one closest – driver’s side, front – under the streetlight. Puts her hand up to confirm.
Someone has slashed her tires.
EIGHTEEN
She does what anyone would. She calls AAA.
‘Hi,’ she says, when a woman on the other end identifies herself. Her voice sounds tight, even to her. Unnaturally high, as she gives her number, the street address of Zeron, and her phone. ‘I need a tow – or, no, what do you call it? A flatbed to come pick me up?’
‘Would you state the nature of your problem, ma’am?’ The voice on the other end doesn’t sound any younger than she is. Still, Tara is embarrassed. She’s too old to get into this kind of predicament. ‘Is it mechanical – engine trouble – or a tire?’
‘It’s my tires.’ She’s grateful to have the words.
‘Do you have a usable spare?’ The woman is reading a script.
‘Yeah, but that won’t work.’ Tara stands. Looks up at the buzzing light. ‘It’s all four of my tires. They were – I think someone slashed them.’
The silence on the line makes her pause. Did she sound too dramatic? Is that what actually happened? She looks back at the car, at how low it sits without air.
‘I’m sending a truck right away.’ She can hear the woman typing. ‘Are you someplace safe? Is there somewhere you can wait? We’ll call you when our truck arrives.’
‘No, I’m fine.’ The last time she called for a tow it had been midwinter. One of those frigid nights. The air tonight is cool, but not dangerous.
‘Look,’ the woman starts talking more quickly. She’s left the script behind. ‘I don’t know what your situation is, but if someone slashed my tires at night, the first thing I’d worry about is does someone want me stranded out there alone. The truck is on its way, but do you want me to call the cops for you? You shouldn’t—’
