Summer Hours

by Amy Mason Doan

  It would be fine.

  I clicked the CommPlanet website link in the HR email and scoured the Who We Are page for his name. And my stomach felt calmer because there was no McCallister listed. He’d sold off his stake, just like he’d said he wanted to.

  I scanned the names again to confirm he was absent, relief spreading through my midsection.

  And then another name jumped out, twisting my insides so I felt sicker than before, the churning feeling of too many of Maggie’s Chocolate Margs, a chalky sharp taste in my mouth: Derrek L. Schwinn III. CommPlanet Board Member.

  “Do you think they’re going to fire people?” Alice whispered.

  “It’ll be fine.”

  * * *

  That night I told Eric we should take things slow, that he should still sleep on the couch. He looked worried for a second, but nodded. “I think that’s a good idea. I was thinking exactly the same thing.” He tried to suppress a grin. “Well, not exactly. But I can wait.”

  He hummed when he brushed his teeth that night.

  I tried to match his gleeful mood.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Just tired. Weird day at work.” I couldn’t say that I was back in the CommPlanet fold. Because that would remind him of Cal, and he’d say something. If not my darling papa, then something just as excruciating. So I said only, “There are rumors we’re getting bought by some big company. I don’t know the details yet.”

  He looked concerned, touched my shoulder. “Sorry, Becc. I know how much you love it. They’ll keep you on no matter what, you’ve got to be their best reporter.”

  “You’re sweet.”

  And even those words stung. I’d stung myself, because I’d spoken them to Cal. Don’t say you’re sweet again, he’d said to me in Catalina. A million years ago.

  Or two.

  I kissed Eric and went to bed.

  Cal must have finally succeeded at selling his shares to Schwinn. I couldn’t stop thinking of how chummy Cal and Schwinn had seemed that night of the parties.

  Maybe CommPlanet was going to downsize us, which was awful and depressing, but that had nothing to do with me and Cal.

  Or me and Eric.

  46

  Calm Planet

  The next morning

  WHERE I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE | My desk

  WHERE I WAS | The Liberty ladies’ room, farthest non-wheelchair-accessible stall.

  Before I’d finally drifted off around 4:00 a.m. I decided, no sudden movements. That would be my approach. It would all be okay if I didn’t make any sudden movements.

  Yet I felt the C from the CommPlanet logo, that hateful little Pacman, chasing after me. It wouldn’t stop; it would swallow everything important in my life.

  So at ten, when the mail cart delivered an envelope to my desk and I saw that it was embossed with the initials FAH, I knew I was right even before I read the contents.

  I could say Calm Planet like a mantra a million times, but it couldn’t protect me.

  Dear Ms. Reardon,

  Your mother mentioned where you are working so I hope you do not mind my reaching out to you. I had hoped to receive your senior-year letter by now. Perhaps you misaddressed it, dear?

  But that is not why I’m writing.

  I would like to speak with you at your earliest convenience. A museum board member/mutual acquaintance sent me a distressing article (attached) and shared some related information involving you, your roommate Serra Indrijo, your research for the Berkeley paper, and another mutual acquaintance who lives across the Bay.

  As a museum donor for sixteen years, I have some serious concerns. Do call me at 310-555-0176.

  Sincerely,

  Francine Haggermaker

  She’d included six articles, neatly cut from the Berkeley student newspaper and held together with a paperclip. I took in the familiar headline font, the datelines. My first sensation was an irrational burst of nostalgia. I’d let myself become so cut off from campus news.

  And then dread crept in, leaving no room for anything else.

  The first article had run four days ago. It was about Yvonne Copeland, and it distorted everything. Yvonne had been fired for financial “inconsistencies” with the grants she’d administered from the museum fund. It said she’d used students to exact petty revenge schemes, including threatening letters and acts of vandalism, on “multiple university professors who had secured tenure ahead of her.”

  I speed-read the next few paragraphs—anonymous tip from within the art department...improper...students unaware of scope—trying to make sense of the long, curvy column of words, a black-and-white snake in my hand.

  Who would have ratted Yvonne out? Not someone within the art department. No way. The collective had been operating under the surface for years without interruption. What would have changed now?

  But then I saw it. Two inches from the bottom. As if it was barely relevant: a quote from Derrek Schwinn III, who had dramatically increased his regular donations to the museum fund to “shore it up” after Yvonne’s improprieties. Schwinn had, the article noted incidentally, also donated ten million to the business department and would return as a visiting lecturer the following spring.

  It couldn’t have been a coincidence. Schwinn clearly had found out he was a target and paid off the school.

  I read the article again, not just distressed. Horrified.

  Change some adjectives, leave out some facts. And the villain becomes the hero.

  And it was right there in print so what was anyone going to do about it?

  In one of my journalism classes, the professor had written on the chalkboard: Ask Yourself...

  Who wrote the story?

  Who benefits from the story?

  Who’s missing from the story?

  The story painting Yvonne as a disgruntled, unethical wack job wasn’t bylined, but it might as well have been written by Schwinn.

  Who benefited.

  But how had Schwinn found out?

  The next clippings in the tidy stack were my pieces about the Fe|Co graffiti. All my “small” articles.

  Mrs. Haggermaker had seen them all these years and saved them. She was an alumna and a big donor. Berkeley must mail her the campus paper as a courtesy.

  I would like to speak with you at your earliest convenience. A museum board member/mutual acquaintance sent me a

  distressing article (attached) and shared some related information involving you, your roommate Serra Indrijo, your research for the Berkeley paper, and another mutual acquaintance who lives across the Bay.

  Schwinn was Mrs. Haggermaker’s fellow board member and mutual acquaintance, that much was clear. He’d found out about the collective, contacted Mrs. Haggermaker to establish his version of the story. Told her my roommate and I were mixed up with Yvonne’s “petty revenge scheme” and, for good measure, that I’d had a sleazy affair with Cal, another mutual acquaintance who lives across the Bay.

  If Mrs. Haggermaker knew I’d covered for Yvonne and Serra’s “little club,” which had not just been liberal with spray paint but with her donation dollars, and if she knew about me and Cal, she’d ask for her $100,000 back. Maybe get my degree yanked, and Serra’s. She would tell Eric’s mom, who’d tell him.

  And he’d never speak to me again.

  * * *

  I went to email Serra, but I already had a message waiting for me:

  Fuck. I just found out that Yvonne’s been fired from Berkeley in disgrace. She was protecting all of us and didn’t say a word until it all went down. I guess that creep Schwinn found out about you-know-what. He knew EVERYTHING.

  I KNOW you didn’t tell anyone. (Right?! You deleted your article?) Mags hasn’t gotten back to me. It doesn’t sound like something she’d do.

  I guess it was someone else who blabbed?
>
  Anyway. Call me tonight, ’k?

  My article.

  The one we had written the night Serra told us about the collective. We had deleted it. Serra and Maggie watched me delete it.

  Unless.

  I did an internet search and confirmed it; there was a way to copy over files, even trash, to a new system. Then I searched, Is there a way to recover computer files that have been emptied from trash?

  There were multiple ways.

  I mirrored you over. He’d said something like that when he tried to give me the new computer for my birthday.

  Cal.

  He’d told me to my face: replicated or mirrored. I couldn’t remember the exact words he’d used that last morning in Sausalito. I’d been focused only on the words I was rehearsing in my head: It’s over.

  Cal had tried to be so sweet with his surprise birthday party and in return I’d ditched him. Then, that summer, whiling away time in Sausalito. Stung and surprised that I was ignoring his emails, distancing myself. Probably the first woman to do that to him. Curious, or even a little hurt...wondering if I was seeing someone else. He and Schwinn standing together across the room...

  That stupid, stupid article I’d written out of vanity. Cal had pulled it from the nethers of the laptop I’d rejected last summer. Brought it back to life and given it to Schwinn. To get on Schwinn’s good side, finally close the deal. Pay me back for ignoring him. The useful, basically harmless Schwinn had bought Cal’s shares in CommPlanet as a quid pro quo for getting out in front of this story. And Cal didn’t give a damn what kind of man he was helping, or how much it would hurt me. Or anyone else.

  I pictured the two of them chuckling together. And why shouldn’t they laugh? It must be the ultimate high, knowing there’d never be consequences for anything you did.

  Everything was a joke to him, I’d thought.

  But now I revised to this:

  Everything was a joke, unless it was currency.

  * * *

  I reread the letter and articles in my cubicle at 10:35, and again at 11:41, and on a park bench, not eating my peach frozen yogurt with slivered almonds, at 12:37.

  At 1:03 I hid in the restroom for half an hour and read them over and over.

  I typed out and deleted replies to Serra all afternoon. They all included the same concluding plea:

  I’m so sorry. I didn’t tell anyone, not on purpose. Not directly. Please don’t tell Eric and please don’t hate me but...

  Remember that guy I’d been seeing at work when I was at CommPlanet? Please don’t tell Eric and please don’t hate me but...

  I have something to tell you. I think I’m the reason Schwinn found out... Please don’t tell Eric and please don’t hate me but...

  I sent her this:

  How awful! I’m so sorry. You know I didn’t say anything. I’m positive Mags wouldn’t. Talk tonight xx.

  I shredded Francine’s letter and the articles in the copy room.

  Childish, Becc.

  Pointless, Becc.

  But I watched the machine’s silver jaws gnaw every last page into illegible little accordion-folded strips. As if that could change anything written on them.

  Alice, my cubicle neighbor, came in to use the Xerox while I was shredding and I jumped.

  “Makin’ coleslaw?” This was a joke she repeated often. Even if it had been remotely funny, the pride with which she delivered her witticism would have killed any laughs.

  “Yep,” I said, forcing a smile.

  She lowered her voice. “I heard there might be layoffs. But I was thinking a buyout wouldn’t be too bad for me. Maybe they’ll be generous, right? Give me a good package, after forty-one years here?”

  “I hope so, Alice. You deserve a good package.”

  After she left I reached into the bin and stirred the thin strips of Francine’s letter and my articles around to mix them with other, less dangerous documents.

  47

  Over It

  I didn’t call Francine.

  I didn’t call Cal.

  I decided to tell Eric everything.

  Driving home every night I rehearsed, imagining that if I could explain how it happened, how lost I’d felt that first summer alone in Orange Park, we might have a chance.

  But he was so happy. Every night he came home from the restaurant buoyant, humming. Flush with tips.

  We kissed, we held hands, we tangled limbs on the couch for hours. We were going to be patient, not mess it up, though it was hard for both of us to resist tumbling into bed.

  What a sweet surprise, to find that our bodies fit together so well, that his skin tasted good to me and mine to him, that perfect pleasure was ours for the taking. Every familiar Eric muscle and shadow seemed as newly mysterious as the ones I hadn’t seen or touched before, the places that had been hidden when we were just friends.

  Anytime we came close I said, “I don’t think we should sleep together yet.”

  He felt my body responding and balking, responding and balking. But he said he understood, that we should take it slow.

  “And I don’t think we should tell Serra or anyone yet, either.”

  “Why not?” he asked, puzzled.

  “Let’s just keep this between us for now.”

  We dined on tumtum leftovers. Mango-cod fritters and fried Manchego with avocado foam. Or what had been avocado foam a few hours earlier, and had turned into avocado dribbles.

  One worknight Eric scored a big container of an experimental “blue” virgin sangria that hadn’t made the cut. The mixologist had declared it unacceptable, even for tumtum’s out-there menus, but it was pretty tasty.

  We were sipping blue sangria and watching Dawson’s Creek when he said, “My mom called. She told me she met up with Devin McCallister a few weeks ago.”

  Casual. Only the tiniest bite of sarcasm. Because these adult appointments and reconciliations were so distant from our happy, cluttered little apartment. His tone said, This news means nothing to us, of course. Just thought you’d find it amusing.

  “They had a lunch, apparently. Sushi.”

  “Really?” Dawson’s Creek–worthy acting skills, as I pretended this news flash didn’t chill me.

  “Yeah. She said it was, quote, cathartic. She wanted to let him know how much he hurt her or whatever. He apologized. Anyway, I guess they were pretty civilized. She said it was good to catch up. He was living in San Francisco for a while, I guess he had an apartment there? But he sold it. He’s back down here now, just sailing and enjoying his millions. Did you know he cashed out of all his investments?”

  “No.”

  Did she tell him you’re living with me? And how did he take that tidbit of news? And did he happen to mention if when he cashed out of CommPlanet, he sold his stake to a certain Derrek Schwinn, sweetening the deal with some useful dirt so Schwinn could keep his own dirt hidden?

  “Are they getting back together?”

  “Who knows? We won’t be like them.” Eric smiled, ran his hand up my leg.

  “Never.”

  I could see it, like a custom-scripted horror movie:

  Cal: “How’s Eric doing?”

  Donna: “He’s living with that Rebecca Reardon. His good friend from high school, remember that tall, studious girl? It’s awfully sweet, really, the way he talks about her. I think something might be happening there. I think they’ve liked each other for years.” She would laugh, running a perfectly manicured hand through her shimmering mane.

  And how would Cal’s face look when he learned this?

  He would maintain his poise. He would say something dry and cavalier: “Ah, young love.”

  But he’d be angry, after how I left him and pretended there wasn’t anyone else.

  Because maybe there had been all along.

  Maybe gi
fting Schwinn with my article on the collective was only a first warning. Soon he’d tell Eric. Why wouldn’t he, after how I’d skulked away from him like a coward?

  I wanted to throw up my blue sangria.

  “I’m over it.” Eric sat up and took my glass. “Over it and into you.”

  He set my glass on the coffee table, pulled me up, and danced me across the living room, whirling me around our orange shag carpet. I burrowed into his warm shoulder, holding him tight until his joy was all I could feel. We spun together, our own planet.

  Eric was festive, happy, productive. Smiling. Always smiling.

  I wouldn’t be the one to make that smile go away.

  * * *

  The week after our kiss, a new plan emerged.

  I came up with it the Friday Alice returned to her cubicle sniffling and whispered to me that the Liberty’s HR director had given her her package. A week of severance for every year of service. It wouldn’t last her long.

  And then I got summoned into the small conference room, where the blinds were closed. No package for me. The HR officer informed me that my job would end in six weeks. I could extend my health insurance through COBRA for an extra two months. I’d get $500 severance.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “You’ve been doing good work.”

  So a new plan emerged: not honesty. Escape.

  Eric and I would backpack in Greece for a while, where it was cheap. We’d check out Athens, Crete. That island from the poster in the Berkeley café. Nisyros, in the remote Dodecanese chain. Surrounded with the impossibly blue water.

  The island with no people.

  We’d joked about it often, but maybe it could be our happy place.

  My lease was going month-to-month soon, and we calculated that we’d have enough for three months, maybe more, if we could get work here and there. We monitored CheapTicketz fares, bargain flights with horrid layovers.

  I had $1,106 saved, plus the $500 severance. Eric had $980 and counting. He was the only person on tumtum’s staff who wasn’t a waiter-slash-actor, so our getaway fund benefited from his coworkers’ callbacks and late shoots.