by E. C. Frey
“He was adamant. I’m supposed to take care of this.”
“I’m sorry.”
“All right. I’ll tell him.”
The hang-up is final. I open a new bottle of antacids and pop three of the fruit-flavored tablets. Drawing my sweater around me, I lay my head on my crossed arms to wait for them to take effect. I will have to figure out what is going on from someone else. I was crazy to think that Michael Saxton would talk to me. I am just some invisible HR flunky. What was I thinking? Let the jerk figure it out himself—but I need to decide what I will say to Bob.
Fire burned and sirens screamed.
His face burned. Eyes locked, he would not let me go.
I tried to run in terror, but my feet would not move. Firemen yelled at each other as the hoses, uncoiled and pulled up the length of the stairs from the street below, sprayed the burning house with torrents of water—baptism by drowning. I watched the maelstrom, my eyes shimmering and clouded. Mariah’s protective arm was thrown around my shoulder, but it could not protect me from this. No one could protect me.
Bleeding, naked, terrified, I stood with her and watched the world crumble to the ground. I let myself die in that fire.
It was my shell that was washed clean in bleach. It was my shell that returned the next day to school and listened to the voices that whispered around me. The whispers hushed as it walked by. They pointed at it, but what can a shell feel? Humpty-Dumpty could not be put back together again, why was I any different? He was white and I was dark. He was smooth and I was jagged. I moved through a twilight world and no one could see me if I could not see them. I was becoming invisible. Esperanza, Fiona, Eve, and Mariah watched me, but all the love in the world could not save me from the shadows. It settled down thickly in my shell, like ash drifts from an inferno. An inferno that I lit.
And his face, peering down at me with a mixture of madness and pain, haunted me until I understood and knew that same madness and pain. God could not find me in the moonless night, but then neither could the devil.
The phone wakes me. Shit! I am late.
“Yes.”
“Heather. It’s Sharon. Did you forget your meeting with Mr. Hewitt?”
“No. Sorry, Sharon. Thanks. I’m leaving now.”
“Okay. Do you need anything?”
“No. I’m fine. Thank you.”
I gather the files but they slip. I sweep the papers into a heap. I have no answers, only the chaotic jumble of information in my hands. It is worse than the stains on my clothes. Tiny bits of grimy dirt cling to the undersides of the disordered paper.
It’s clear when I walk in that Bob has been waiting. I cringe a little.
“Heather, have a seat.”
He stands between his desk and the credenza that lines the window of his corner office. Tidy gardens and a park with a running path for employees creates an expansive picture. His world is larger than mine. Despite the detached look on his face, he jingles the coins in his tailored pockets. He does not know that I know he does it on purpose to throw his audience off. He is like Brandon. Their pockets are always immaculately creased, each pleat a promise of the next. But Brandon would never let someone know he wished to throw him or her off. He holds his cards closer than Bob.
“How are you coming along on the Tanya Garrison investigation?”
“Well, I’ve interviewed most of the people in her department and I’ve retrieved her personnel file. There were some rumors, but there was no verification of them. Her file is even less helpful.”
“Have you spoken to Michael Saxton yet?”
“I requested an interview with him, but his schedule is . . . uncompromising. He had his secretary call me instead.”
“I don’t think I need to remind you of his position and the need to be as discreet and professional as possible. A lot is hinging on a good outcome.”
“No. There’s no need to remind me. I find it just as important for her as it is for him, if not more. We all know how these matters work to the disfavor of the woman, especially when she is in a less important position. We also know how much the courts love to make examples out of the management of large corporations.”
“I didn’t mean to diminish her need for your discretion. John Sturbridge has informed me that Michael Saxton is uncomfortable meeting with you without some assurance of your . . . care in this matter. He also wishes to be ensured of a satisfactory conclusion without too much damage.”
“I’ve been doing this type of investigation for years, Bob. May I remind you, I’m also working on the scheduled OFCCP audit in Dallas? I’m sure you remember how poorly Dallas did in our last company-initiated audit. The federal government will be less favorable in their dealings.”
“Yes, I know. You’ve handled worse. But Saxton has been responsible for turning this company around, and the CEO and Board of Directors think highly of him. I just want to make sure that in your quest for the truth, you factor in that reality. If anything should harm his reputation, whether real or perceived, it would ultimately affect his career and this company. I don’t think I need to tell you how that will affect yours.”
“Are you telling me to make this go his way?”
“I’m not telling you anything except he’s been earmarked for the CEO position when Charlie Woodson retires. It wouldn’t be wise to unduly implicate him in this or to follow your investigation in a manner that could compromise his situation. You can draw your own damn conclusions, Heather. You’re my best investigator, but I’m warning you to tread lightly. There are a lot of land mines for you and this entire department. There are people who have a lot vested in Saxton’s success.”
“I’ve worked for this company for eleven years. I’ve performed my duties well enough to receive excellent reviews and promotions. Are you telling me that won’t matter in this case?”
“Like I said, Heather, you’re my best. Remember, I’ve given you the majority of those reviews and promotions.”
“That’s my point. At no time has anyone ever made reference to a person’s position in the company as a reminder of how to perform any aspect of my job. In fact, it has always been made abundantly clear that doing things right is what ensures the company’s reputation will never suffer undue outside scrutiny. The truth has always been the happy by-product. Why the sudden change?”
“There is no change, Heather. Perhaps the change is in you and how you perceive things. I haven’t asked you to deviate from performing your duties any differently than you have ever done in the past. I’m reminding you not to screw it up. There is no hidden message, except that the consequences won’t be pretty if you do. Don’t fuck this up, because no one will be able to save your ass. Do you understand?”
Shifting in my seat does not make me comfortable, nor does it hide the stains on my suit. I feel so . . . naked. “Yes,” I say, “I understand. I’m sorry if I jumped to conclusions. This case has me on edge. I’m also dealing with an OFCCP Compliance Officer on the Dallas audit who insists on operating outside the rules and procedures.”
“This case has everyone on edge. I’m named in it, for Christ’s sake. In the case of the audit—you’ve handled plenty of investigators who have tried to operate beyond the scope of their duties. I haven’t known an auditor who hasn’t tried to flex their muscles and seek a broader interpretation. It’s rare they bother themselves with the intent of the law. Do your best without going to their supervisor, but if that doesn’t work, pull out the stops.”
“Sounds like the territorial imperative at work.”
The mood lightens. I smile as dismissively as I know how. It is no more than a crack, but I am willing to pull at its edges.
“Look, Heather, you know I don’t make the rules. I just try to keep this department moving within the parameters of those rules, both written and not. Right now, we’re operating in a firestorm.” Bob jingles the coins in his pocket as he moves around the desk. “It’s not just your case. There are a million reasons why others would want to s
ee us fall.”
“I understand.” I am bleeding into the chair fabric. Soon, I will be a hide-bound seat.
Bob gives me one of his full grins. It is that revelation of male charisma that allows him to move successfully through the halls of the company.
“I don’t make the rules and I don’t have to like them. They are what they are. I try to keep this in mind at all times. You catch my drift?”
“Yup. Thanks for the lesson in reality, boss. I’ll try to keep it in mind. But what happens if the information I collect doesn’t look favorable to Saxton?”
“You’re letting the cart get in front of the horse. We’ll have to sort that out if the time comes, but I think you should also ask yourself what will happen if it doesn’t look favorable for his accuser. You’ll have to hit back hard. Remember, she has the full burden of proof and he has the presumption of innocence until proven otherwise, even in the court of public opinion—in this case, that of upper management.”
“You’re right.”
“There’s nothing wrong in asking the question. It’s what you do with it that matters.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep you informed of my progress. By the way, did you remember I’m on vacation next week?”
“No, I didn’t forget. You know what you have to do and how to accomplish it. I have faith you’ll succeed in time.”
“Thanks.”
I hurry back to my office. This day just could not get any worse. What the hell was he telling me? Lie. Take the fall. What? My visibility reminds me that I can still be obliterated. “Woman is Annihilated at Work,” reads the headline.
I dial Brandon’s office. I cannot imagine how he can help me. I just need him to make me feel safe.
“Brandon Collings’s office.”
“Oh, Martha. How are you?”
“I’m fine Mrs. Collings. How are you?”
“Fine. Is Brandon there?”
“He’s been out of the office since this morning. Can I take a message?”
“No, well, just tell him I called. Was he expecting to be out all day? I don’t remember him saying anything.”
“I’m not sure. He just said something had come up, to take his calls, and he would be back sometime in the afternoon.”
“It’s already late afternoon.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I’ll see him at home. Thank you, Martha.”
“You’re welcome, Mrs. Collings. Have a nice day.”
To hell with Brandon, to hell with Martha, and to hell with Michael Saxton! I am in a dangerous predicament. I think of roller coasters, see myself as a whirring vision in air.
I could take Shannon to an amusement park on Saturday. I should work, but I desperately need a diversion, and it would not hurt if Brandon noticed my absence. It is maddening. I want him to care and I want to care less. Things have changed so much in our marriage, and I don’t even know when it happened. It slithered up on me. I know why I married Brandon, but his reason for marrying me is still a mystery. I thought I knew, but somewhere along the line that knowledge disappeared. My work and marriage have become a reflection of everything that is wrong.
I do not have the stomach to bust loose from my life. I would not know how even if I did. I face the window. The haze of the late afternoon hangs heavily over the vegetation. The sense of oppressive heat reaches through the pane of glass and wraps itself around me. Spring has skipped southern New England and summer has settled in as if it had never left. I am stuck here, where I am a sitting pigeon. The only ones who can teach me how to climb out of this life will be in Charleston, and that trip is not looking promising. I cannot even blame it on everything I have to do. I have been avoiding life with thoughts of roller coasters and imaginary dragons.
I need to feel alive again. It has been a long time. The truth, I am not sure I even know what the feeling should be like. After all, I have never been alive any more than I have ever been visible. I lift my skirt and trace the lines of my recent wound. Equivocate.
9 Eve
I hurry home. I pray Jerome will be there. Each chore has seemed an eternity, coming back to the apartment a sense of destiny. My decisions are fated to collide. My life can no longer shield me from the past. Worse, it seems to be casting obstacles at me from every direction. I have been chasing the righteous path for years. But now things are different. I have been running. Running as fast and as far without actually getting anywhere. I am still the teenage girl who believed the world could make sense. How do I explain this to Jerome so he understands?
Last night he stayed out with his friends. No doubt they reminded him that New York City is big, so why limit one’s selection, especially when the woman in question plans on leaving your bed cold for 365 days. Their world consists of the five boroughs: the epicenter of the universe, a reflection of the greatest accomplishment of man, a vision of how the globe should be. And I know they reminded him that if I am not there, I am not part of his world. It’s simple arithmetic. It would be nice to live that simply. Just awesome. All I care about is how Jerome feels separate from his male pride.
It was in the small space of my apartment, the noises of the city street muffled, that I slept and awoke through a nightmarish night. Every bad dream vomited the pain of my memories back into existence. I’ve marveled at my ability to compartmentalize my life in the past, but everything is jumbled together now. If there was a particular point in time I could point to as the beginning, it all started the year Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. The Black Panther Party created a force field that spilled next door into Sunny Hollow. My beloved brother, Terrell, wore a black beret as a sign of solidarity. Within two months, he was drafted. I remember the day he received the letter.
“You have to report for a physical exam? To Local Board No. 50? What does that mean?”
Terrell grabbed the sheet from me. “Don’t worry about it, Pipsqueak.”
“Why not? They didn’t even spell your name right. Maybe it’s not really meant for you.”
“It’s my address. I have to go or I’ll go to jail.”
“What’s the difference if you’re in jail or fighting in some stupid war? You’ll survive jail.”
“People like me don’t always survive jail.”
I wrinkled my nose. Terrell reached out and pretended to capture it between his fingers.
I tossed his hand away. “There has to be a way to get out of this stupid thing.” I looked at Mama and she looked at Terrell.
“There’s deferment, but I’m afraid we don’t fit into that social class.” Mama wiped her eyes with a well-used handkerchief, the embroidered letters of her initials dangling at the exposed corner.
“Why not? I know what you mean, but you’re white.”
Terrell and Mama exchanged a glance.
They were driving me crazy. “Why not? I wouldn’t go. You could say no one by that name lives here. You could buy time. Pretend you’re stupid and only answer to the correct spelling. They think we’re stupid anyway. Then you could pretend to be sick, to be handicapped, to be crazy.”
Terrell chuckled. Shrugged, his voice betraying his resignation. “That would only buy time. The end would be the same. I have to go.”
“No. We could go to Mexico. No one would stop us. I’ll go with you. We could all go. Or we could go to Canada.”
Terrell smiled a one-sided smile. “You have to stay here. You have to do something with your life. Make me proud. Make Mom and Dad proud.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yeah, Mom and Dad need you.”
“No. No one needs me. I need you. I won’t let you go.”
“I need you, Pipsqueak.”
“Then you wouldn’t leave.”
“I don’t have a choice. I’ll be back. I promise.”
Promise? Terrell never broke his promises. Ever. He would be back.
On the precise day at the precise time indicated on the notice, he reported to his local board and passed his physical exam.
> It would only be a matter of time before he finished boot camp and left for Vietnam. There was no comfort in his geographic proximity—that was semantics. He was gone. Everyone told me to feel grateful he was not yet in ’Nam. As long as he stayed on American soil, he was safe. Safe? What about when he did finally leave? Hungry for young and inexperienced blood, Vietnam chewed up and spit out boys like Terrell. At eighteen in the state of California, they were too young to possess vodka in public, but they were old enough to kill or be killed. As if the act of killing or dying were benign compared to that of consuming a shot of vodka. What? Like I was stupid? I could no longer stomach the lies and apathy around me. My teachers and guidance counselor clucked amongst themselves. For me, they had become part of the problem. The establishment seeped right down to the school level. For all I knew, it began there. Mariah was right. No one seemed to care and that suited me fine.
A week from summer vacation, I’d had enough. The heat had been rising throughout the day, and by the time social studies rolled around, the rooms in the old school building were like a furnace. My civics teacher turned the lights off and opened all the windows to cool things down, but the edge in the air hovered the way smoke in a burning building swims around the ceiling.
Mr. Curtiss started his lecture by staring straight into my eyes, then quickly averted them. Busing. The issue was busing and desegregation. Was he looking at me? Was he trying not to look at me, now? I was the only black girl in class—or was I, really? My mother was white. What did that make me?
I stood, pumped my fist in the Black Power salute, and left the room, slamming the door on the collective silence.
Mama retrieved me from the principal’s office. My parents finally noticed my anger, but their sadness added to my distress. I retreated into my shell. I had done it for Terrell, but he was gone, no more than a ghost, his promise buried safely in my heart. And I waited.
Granite, known only to the Earth, is the most abundant rock underlying the continental crust. Continents twitch and move along a foundation long ago forged from fire and magma. Even under the extreme forces of erosion, its strength and soundness are legendary, its crack systems the only sign that even the strongest may yield. Terrell had been the strength, the granite, upon which all depended. But every rock has its breaking point.
