Entangled Moon

by E. C. Frey

  Brandon’s alarm screams.

  I grab it, stumble to the window, lift the screen, and spike it to the concrete patio below. The sound of shattering glass, hardware, and an alarm stricken mid-scream momentarily silences the birds, but the quiet is brief and the anticipated satisfaction is reduced in proportion to my rising horror. Brandon is going to annihilate me. I am toast.

  I lower the screen and shut the window.

  Why do I think that? He has never hurt me. Not physically, at least. I can never put words to this fear. Come on. It has to happen at some point, doesn’t it? Lately he has been looking at me strangely. Like how? Like my mother. Like he wants to kill me. Maybe he will never hit me. He will just kill me and I will never see it coming. Like I said—toast.

  I wash the sleep from my body but the shower is not comforting. It is unsettling, in fact, like all the thoughts that keep popping up inside my head. I dry off, put on my corporate outfit, and squirm into my high heels. The reflection in the mirror mocks me, the deep circles under my eyes remind me of Morticia. But no. Her eyes were . . . exotic. My eyes are small and heavy. There is nothing mysterious about me. I’m a walking zombie. I twitch like the walking dead for the mirror. At least I think it’s funny. I think again of the screaming alarm and its death. That makes me smile, too. C’mon. Brandon will hardly kill me over a broken alarm clock. No. It has to be something bigger than that. I’m worth more than a clock. Only the invisible are totally worthless. Right?

  I lift the hem of my skirt and admire my latest work. It has been years since I cut myself, since I inscribed myself, but lately I have craved the release. Equivocate. It took me a long time. The blood slowed me down—each drop evidentiary proof of my existence.

  I meet Shannon on the landing halfway down the stairs.

  “Mommy, can I have a popsicle?”

  “No. Mommy will get you some cereal. You can have a popsicle tonight.”

  “I need it now, for Daddy, or he’s gonna cry.”

  “Daddy’s already gone to work. Where are your socks and shoes? Please get them.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we need to get ready and it’s just you and me. Daddy’s gone.”

  “No, he’s not.” Shannon gives me that little defiant pretend-grown-up thing she has been doing lately.

  “What do you mean? He is too. Now get your socks and shoes.”

  “I don’t wanna go to daycare. I don’t want you to go to work. I want you to stay.”

  “Don’t you want to see your friends?”

  Shannon purses her lips and shakes her head. I wish I could shake it like that. I would probably hurt myself. I try anyway. Shannon giggles. I pick her up and kiss her cheek. She smells like a field of wildflowers after a spring drizzle. I linger and she begins to squirm. I put her down and she runs off laughing. I wish I had more time to give her, to fix something less mundane than cereal, to revel in the unplanned day, to build another dragon.

  She reappears at the top of the stairs and peers down, socks dangling from her hands. Strands of delicate hair frame her face. Large, luminous blue eyes reflect back far more wisdom than her few short years. God made the children of all creatures angelic and beautiful to protect them from the brutality of their grown-up versions, but nothing can absolutely prevent the potential for violence. Morsels of evil bleed through. Experience always proves the point. I am her last defense against the world.

  I hold out my arms. Shannon leaps without fear into my embrace. I carry her down the stairs.

  The muted click of a closing door stops me in my tracks. The house is quiet. Brandon? Could he still be home? Was Shannon telling the truth? My heart pumps a mile a minute. No. He would have said something. Wouldn’t he? Or could it have been someone else?

  The kitchen smells of coffee. Maybe Brandon came back for something and left just as quickly to beat the traffic. It must be that. Shannon climbs into her chair while I pour her a bowl of her favorite cereal. She hums and does not seem to think anything is out of the ordinary. But then, what would a little girl know about the ordinary? My mind drifts to work.

  I have to track down the particulars of an ex-employee who filed a claim of discrimination and sexual harassment. Of all the dreaded tasks of the day, this one is the most. The company officials involved are my boss, his boss, and the chief financial officer, all of whom could and probably will make my life unpleasant. Typical. It only takes one man to transgress and the rest to follow in the cover-up. I have seen it a dozen times. A woman, on the other hand, would connive on her own, without pulling everyone else into her sordid mess. But if I want to protect the company, I have to do my job no matter how many people I piss off and no matter how many times I am threatened with losing my job. Only I need my job. Hence the need for diplomacy.

  I turn to open the refrigerator and stumble over Shannon. “But I don’t want milk on my cereal.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since fowever.”

  “Well, you don’t have to have milk on your cereal.”

  “Well, I changed my mind. I want milk.”

  “Okay then.” I retrieve the carton.

  I lift her into her chair and ruffle her hair.

  “No, you can’t touch my hair that way.” Shannon shakes her head to remove my touch. “Daddy’s going to make me a piggy tail after daycare.”

  “I can make you a piggy tail.”

  “No. Daddy makes better ones.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Cuz I said so.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, I just love you so much.”

  “I love you too, Mommy.”

  Shannon spoons the cereal into her mouth. I wipe a lone pearl of translucent milk that slips from her tiny, upturned mouth. She is growing up. I wonder at all the things I have been doing to miss this moment of independence. I cannot remember specifics, but they had to have been of great import, right? Or were they just the minutiae of a life driven by work?

  Work? It is the pull on the personal moments that other people catalogue in their journals, celebrate in their scrapbooking groups, recognize in their photo albums. Moments slip from history before I even notice their passing, ephemeral and impermanent threads of my life. There are no pictures to prove their existence. Striving and toiling are my proof of life, my validation to my dead parents and the greater world, that I am worthy. Without such affirmation, I would exist only invisibly. Perhaps there are no pictures because I truly am invisible.

  I duck as a bowl bearing the remnants of cereal-scented milk spirals past my head. The white liquid splatters on the cabinets, the floor, and my suit. The sweet, pungent odor saturates my clothing. Damn it! Paying the consequences again for not paying attention. I will never learn.

  Shannon wails and I wipe the tears from her eyes. “It’s okay, sweetie. I’m sorry. Were you trying to get my attention?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did you want?”

  “I don’t want my cereal anymore.”

  “Okay. “ I lift her and kiss her heated forehead. Shannon wipes under her eyes and trots off to retrieve her toys. I scrub the stain with the dishcloth but it only makes it worse. Maybe the smudge will disappear if it dries.

  I scoop up Shannon and head to the car. I push the button to the garage door opener, turn the key in the ignition, adjust the rearview mirror, double-check Shannon in the mirror, slide the gear into reverse, and back out into the day.

  I arrive at my office at 7:59 a.m. My energy is already gone. It is all downhill from here. I need coffee.

  Voices from the coffee cubby are clearer as I approach.

  “She’s such a cold fish.”

  “I don’t see what her husband sees in her. Have you seen him? They just don’t belong together.”

  I enter the cubby. Two women eye me nervously before they drift back to their desks. Are they talking about me? They don’t even know me. But I know them. They are the same type of people who can sit next to an abused child and, turning away, pre
tend the bruises are just a little funky coloring. The illusion of ignorance makes life more comfortable. And everyone wants to be comfortable. I grew up with people like that. I walk amongst them but they cannot make me disappear.

  And I know how to live amongst them. I just do not know how to make them friends. Yet working within the corporate environment requires it. I am reminded of that at every performance review. I struggle to remain visible and relevant. There are times I want to give up, go home, and be Shannon’s sole caregiver. But that cannot be. My career provides validation, but it also chases away the ghost of the monster inside. Could I be my mother, the taint of genetic evil waiting to be set loose? No, it is better to avoid the answer, safer for Shannon.

  And it makes me more equal with Brandon. I cannot afford to be invisible in our marriage.

  I pour a fresh cup of coffee. The aroma, strong and sensual, suffuses my senses and pulls me back to a time when I sat in the alcove of my parents’ kitchen and listened to weekend banter, times when my mother’s guard was down and she almost seemed happy. It evokes memories of those Sunday mornings when my father stirred up a frittata, his only dish, and “Moonlight Serenade” played in the background, the California sun gentle and coaxing. The muffled sound of tousled silverware in soapy dishwater added muted noise to birds chirping under the wisteria, its flowered vines hanging from the trellis guarding the kitchen door. The perfumed fragrance and the scent of protected earth mingled with the savory smell of eggs and spices. Those were the good memories. They sharpened the sting of disappointment. The difference made them more affecting. But then there were the other memories. And that is the divide. The wisteria trellis harbored black widow spiders.

  “Heather, you wanted to see me?”

  I swish and spill my coffee. I am covered. Again.

  Sharon has found me.

  “I’m so sorry, Heather. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Twice in one day. Sharon is spotless, of course, and she does not have to go upstairs to the big guns. We are dissimilar. Sharon’s clothes are a cotton and polyester blend, economical in appearance. They are a reflection of how she views her job. It’s a job and nothing more. Her garments are taken straight from the dryer, shaken, and hung on salvaged dry cleaner hangers. I, on the other hand, make sure my clothes are professional and designed with the barest hint of avant-garde taste, just enough to exude independent thought. My hair, cut and styled regularly, appears uncontrived. I work hard for the look. My secretary is a direct reflection on me. It is like carrying a brown vinyl handbag while wearing a pair of black designer shoes. And yet here I stand with separate and competing coffee and milk stains. Somehow it just does not seem right.

  “What is it?”

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “Yes, please come to my office.”

  Sharon follows. When we walk inside, I pull the door closed.

  I straighten the desk blotter while I assemble my thoughts. “We’re performing a confidential investigation. I’ll need you to be discreet. If people ask you questions, you’ll have to answer without actually telling them anything.”

  “I understand. But how bad is it?”

  “It’s bad. It involves corporate officers, including our boss, who is accused of knowing and not responding appropriately.”

  “What are the charges?”

  “Sexual harassment and discrimination based on sex and race. I don’t need to tell you how this could turn out for both of us. In some ways, we’re in deeper trouble than they are.”

  “Do the charges appear credible? Should I be looking for another job?”

  “That would be premature. I know very little about the complainant. I do, however, have verification from the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission that she has been able to establish a very solid prima facie case. I have to go forward with collecting evidence, but let’s assume for now that she’s just a disgruntled ex-employee. I don’t want to jump to any conclusions. I assume it’s nothing, but if it turns out to be something, I’ll keep you posted.” I glance at the door. “You’d better return to work. Someone will question why we’re behind closed doors. There are way too many eyes and ears around, and everyone is still gun-shy from all the talk of layoffs. I don’t want to be the cause of rumors.”

  Things just seem to be spiraling out of control; I cannot keep my mind pinned to the tasks at hand. I need to keep this time bomb under wraps for everyone’s sake. The weight cripples me, and yet still my mind wanders like an exile. The Charleston trip is less than a week away, and life is more complicated than ever. There are rumors of more layoffs, a politically dangerous investigation to be resolved, an audit in the Dallas division that has turned nasty with a government bureaucrat who has to be reminded of his own rules and procedures, and none of that takes into account my family life. There is still the little pesky problem of Brandon and an unwanted visitor.

  I check my briefcase but my scheduling system is not there. I left it at home. My mental list of things to do blurs like vanishing ink. The smell of drying coffee on cloth reminds me of the stakes. It is 10:00 a.m. and the day just keeps getting worse.

  I can at least start on the investigation. I head toward record keeping.

  “Hello, records.” The disembodied voice on the other side is muffled, but clear enough to understand.

  “Hi. It’s Heather Collings from Human Resources. I need some info on a former employee.”

  “Come in.” The door buzzes.

  “Hi Judy,” I say when I see the person behind the speaker. “I didn’t recognize your voice. There’s been someone else here the last couple of times.”

  “That was my assistant. Her position was eliminated in the last round of terminations. You’re not here to tell me mine is being terminated next, are you?”

  “No. I’m sorry. I need a file.”

  Judy smiled. “I’m just kidding. What file do you need?”

  “The name is Tanya Garrison. She’s been gone about two months.”

  “Okay. I’ll be right back.”

  The row of overhead lighting illuminates rows and rows of filing cabinets. Within this room, within those cabinets, lies the personal information of all employees, past and present, neatly catalogued and filed within communal chambers. That is the other side of human resources—all the human traits of the company’s inhabitants eventually reveal themselves as they play out the dramas within the employment relationship. But human behavior can never be reduced entirely to a statistic. Even perceivable patterns are little more than an illusion. The human spirit always rises above and transcends such attempts at correlation. But that is a dying thought in a dying time. Soon, the files will be gone, lost to the digital age. A person will be reduced to a few blips on a screen. The gatekeeper won’t have to be human. Poor Judy. Our company is just enough behind the times that she still has a job, but her days are no doubt numbered.

  Judy emerges with the file in hand. “I need you to sign it out.” She grabs the pen from behind her ear and I mark the name and number of the file on the ledger.

  In my office, I open file number 163878. It is full of the usual. Name, address, telephone, references, social security number, number of claimed dependents for withholding purposes. It will be hard work shaking the truth from this file. The parties involved will not help, they may even hinder. I will have to solve it or I will be expendable.

  I have four hours to make headway before I meet with Bob Hewitt. Charleston is becoming a pipe dream. I do not know when I will be able to break the news to my dearest friends. I have never missed one of our yearly vacations, and until now I have been unwilling to be the one to set a precedent.

  But this year is different. It is more than the sum total of everything I have to do. It is this complaint, and the investigation. Something is horribly wrong. I can feel it in my bones.

  My boss, Bob Hewitt, is named in the charge as being put on notice and not responding. Why didn’t he pass the issue on to me, like usual? I suspect it
has something to do with the fact that the Claimant accused both his boss, John Sturbridge, Vice President of Human Resources and the CFO, Michael Saxton, both residents of the sixteenth floor of discrimination. She also accused Saxton of sexual harassment.

  I wash aspirin and antacids down with bottled water. What does Mariah say about bottled water? I know I am not supposed to be drinking it. Something about privatization and power and greed and human rights. I am supposed to be bringing my own bottle in—but then I just have to fill it up from bottled water in the break lounge. Mariah is an idealist. I live in the real world. I work for a real-world company that pays my real-world paycheck with real-world money. And I work in the corporate headquarters of a company that owns a division devoted to water. Life gets so complicated.

  The phone interrupts my thoughts.

  “Heather Collings.”

  “Hello. This is Angela Martin. I’m Michael Saxton’s secretary. You left a message for him, but he had to leave for a business trip. He wants me to help you. I’m assuming it is about some human resources matter.”

  My job is to keep this confidential even if Mr. Saxton is an uncooperative pinhead. If it leaks, he will be fine and I will be jobless. It is still a man’s world. The conversation will be between two women concerning the actions of a man against a woman. Such matters barely morph with the times. I do not care who tries to tell me otherwise. The sixteenth floor is still dominated by men, and they move as a pack. It is the same in Brandon’s company. They have each other’s backs, and the women who manage to rise to the top have to play their game by their rules. Testosterone rules, baby, and if you do not get that you will be annihilated. I am always on the edge of destruction.

  “Yes, it’s about an HR matter, and I’m not at liberty to divulge it to anyone except Mr. Saxton. I’m sorry, but I must speak to him directly.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  “Please tell him I need to speak with him privately as soon as possible. It is of the utmost importance.”