Entangled Moon

by E. C. Frey

  Charleston is four days away. My ass is grass. I haven’t spoken to Michael Saxton yet. The Dallas audit is reaching a conclusion, but I doubt a good result will save me if the sexual harassment investigation goes south. One cannot equal out the other. Bob made that clear.

  Some paperwork can be done in Charleston but most has to be done here. Taking work with me is forbidden, and I can’t jeopardize this investigation. My job depends on it. In some twisted way, my life depends on it. Leafing through the papers doesn’t ferret out the story.

  My original notes didn’t shed any light. I leaf through Tanya’s personnel file again in the hopes of finding some odd and out-of-place piece of information that would shed some light, or at least give a clue to my next step.

  The standard documents are in order. After college, Tanya had paid her dues in an entry-level position in the finance department of a mid-size company and worked her way up to a supervisory position. According to her application, she’d wanted a more challenging position with potential for advancement in a larger corporation. The position didn’t require a graduate degree, but it was strongly recommended; Tanya did not have one, but she was hired one month from the date of her application as Manager of Accounts Receivable.

  The events in between hiring and firing aren’t good. Tanya’s first performance review a year after hire came with a rating of Excellent and an 8 percent salary increase—something that would have required executive approval. The standard increase for that rating is 4 percent. Nothing in the review had been so exceptional as to warrant such an increase; however, all the required executive signatures were there.

  A year later, Tanya received another rating of Excellent and a promotion to Manager of General Accounting. The change form reveals an 8 percent increase for her merit review and a 10 percent increase for the promotion. Again, the required signatures are in order. Seven months from that performance review and promotion, she went on disability for two months. She returned to work and was fired one week later. The cause for termination was insubordination, a cute catchall word to denote behavior requiring immediate termination and not a three-step warning process. Again, all the required signatures are there. The diagram is clear as day. Tanya Garrison was terminated for something quite different from insubordination, the CFO was somehow involved, Bob Hewitt was privy to the information, and her disability leave is somehow pertinent.

  The last piece of the puzzle knocks the wind from me. I remove my sweater and turn the thermostat down. I could turn the place into an igloo and I’d still be sweating.

  My boss performed the investigation himself and recommended termination, and I was obviously chosen to review the findings and sign off on it. My signature, dark lines and circles, are all I can see. My skin screams and I etch the scribbles into my thigh with my fingernails.

  I remember now. They called me into the office, where all three of them hovered over me. Vultures. I questioned their need for my approval when the Vice President, well experienced in such matters, was involved. Surely his recommendation carried more weight than mine? He accused me of being uncooperative and made a vague threat. I signed the damn investigation as if it were my own. Idiot. I imagined it would go away. Poof.

  I dig my nails deeper into my skin and reach for the phone.

  “Michael Saxton’s office.”

  “This is Heather Collings. I need to speak to Michael Saxton.”

  “Mr. Saxton is out of the office.”

  “That appears to be a chronic state. I need to speak to him. It’s urgent.”

  “Yes, well, he’s unavailable.”

  “He’s unavailable all the time. Does he ever take anyone’s calls?”

  “Of course he does.”

  “Well, why won’t he take any of mine?”

  “I told you before, he wants you to deal with me.”

  “Fine. It’s all yours. Mr. Saxton is the subject of a sexual harassment, sexual discrimination, and race discrimination charge. The details of my investigation appear quite damning, i.e., he’s fucked if this goes to trial. So what is your involvement in this little affair, Ms. Martin? And how can you help me to help him?” I’m losing it. Either way, my job is on the line. “Ms. Martin? Are you there?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

  “Yes, of course you didn’t. I have asked the EEOC for more information. The prima facie case is right on, and the investigator has provided me with the full complaint, which is quite detailed. The Complainant alleges that she had an affair with Mr. Saxton, she got pregnant with his child, he accused her of infidelity with an executive at another company and claimed the other man was the true father of the child, and fired her as a consequence. The investigator has informed me that Ms. Garrison appears to have other personal documentation to back up her claim. I’m just wondering what Mr. Saxton has to say in response to those allegations.”

  “Ms. Collings, I assure you I knew nothing about this. I’ll have Mr. Saxton call you. I don’t think I can help you with this.”

  “No, of course not. Please have him call me. Immediately.”

  I do not believe for a second that Angela Martin knows nothing.

  The investigator warned me there was another executive in another firm involved, but not named, in her suit. This complaint carries a high price tag. Tanya is accusing the two executives, who appear to know each other, of conspiring to ruin her ability to work. Compensatory damages, lost wages, and front wages are mounting, but Tanya is already demanding punitive damages. This one might go to trial. An attempt at settlement is inescapable. Before I approach Bob Hewitt with this information, I need to speak to Michael Saxton, find out the name of the other party, and find out everything I can about Tanya Garrison.

  Chances are my job will not survive this. Bob has more or less told me so. No doubt, the case will end up with outside legal—shortly. I will be the chump, the reason for the matter becoming too big to stay in-house. The coup de grâce, it will be the crack along which my life changes. I have not created the situation, but it’ll destroy me just the same. Caught in the full glare of scandal, I will no doubt become an embarrassment to Brandon. I will be cast aside—no job and no husband. Besides Shannon, they are everything. I could not exist without the entire package.

  I stop at Sharon’s desk. “Sharon, I’m going now. I’m taking the investigation home with me and you can reach me on my cell phone if you need anything.”

  “Have fun.”

  “Thanks.”

  The phone rings. Sharon retrieves it as I hurry to the elevator.

  She races after me. “Heather, it’s the investigator. You know which one.”

  “Oh, right.” I allow the packed elevator to go.

  “Sorry. I know you’re trying to get out of here but she says it’s urgent.”

  “Thanks, Sharon. I’ll get it in my office.”

  Outside my window, the stormy sky darkens. The gloom seeps into my office as I pick up the phone.

  “Hi. This is Heather Collings.”

  The light from my room pierces the blackness on the other side, but it’s the darkness I will most remember. My words are mechanical and empty. Words will never again be enough for me. There’s no comfort in their edges.

  “I have the name of that other executive involved with Tanya Garrison,” the investigator tells me. “I should not be telling you this, but I feel like we have a good working relationship and you may need it to figure out how you might want to settle this situation. She’s not filing a complaint against him, but she has given me his name for this complaint in case I need to speak to him. She, of course, has no grounds against him, only against her employer, and she made it clear she’s in love with him and he with her.” The investigator pauses. The light overhead buzzes. I need another aspirin. “It’s, um, curious. He has the same last name as you. Collings. Brandon Collings. Do you know him?”

  I’ve never been able to run from the ugliness of my life. I want to, now, more than ever. But I’ve n
ever been a runner. I’m more like a drop-and-roll-into-the-fetal-position type.

  I gather my files. It’s time to pickup Shannon from day care.

  The clouds deepen and the dark gray omens a storm. I hope it will hold off until I get across town. I’ve never gotten used to the violence of spring storms in the East and they’re unusually sinister this year.

  My head has been pounding since midday. There’s nothing that could take the edge off the conversation I had with the investigator. The words still swing around and pound off the walls of my mind, the thoughts moving in quick staccato. The investigator asked me her questions, divulged her own knowledge, and wondered if I understood. How could I understand? She had just torn the shroud from my life. The conversation suffocated me until all I could manage was single-syllable answers. I vowed I would call her back when I looked into it. She let me off easy.

  I could still flee. There’s still one thing that lets me know I exist. Shannon.

  I push the grocery cart with her in the child seat. I need to stock the kitchen before I leave. I open a box of kid’s cereal. Shannon reaches into the interior wax bag and cherry-picks her favorite colors.

  “Mommy, I wike this cereal. Can we get another box so Daddy and Sir Galahad can have some?”

  “Sure, honey.” I could lace it with arsenic.

  Shannon beams. “I wuv you so much, Mommy. You’re always so much fwun.”

  I could let Sir Galahad slay my dragon. I giggle.

  “Mommy, what’s so funny?”

  “Nothing. Mommy gets some funny ideas.”

  “I think you have good ideas. Like Sir Galahad. He’s the most beautiful dwagon anyone’s ever seen. All the other kids want one too.”

  “You’re talking a lot about him today.”

  “That’s because we took them all out and did another play.”

  “Ah, I see. Well, that might not have been one of Mommy’s better ideas. In fact, that could be one of Mommy’s really dumb ideas.”

  “How could Sir Galahad be a dumb idea?”

  “Well, sometimes the best ideas are dumb ideas because they’re not at the right time or at the right place, sweetie.”

  Shannon cocks her head. “Mommy, a good idea is always a good idea. Especially when it’s Sir Galahad.”

  “I guess you’re right, honey. I’m just silly.”

  “Mommy, can we go home now? I want to see my toys and Barbie’s s’posed to meet Sir Galahad on TV.”

  Home. I break into a cold sweat. A thought hovers: Flee before you get the shit kicked out of you.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Susan said Barbie and Sir Galahad are going to be on special TV tonight.”

  “Are you sure it’s Barbie?”

  “No, but it could be.”

  “Barbie really gets around.”

  “That’s cuz she’s a princess.”

  “Yeah, well even princesses have to slay the dragon, grow up, and get a job.”

  Shannon looks horrified. “Mommy! I would never slay Sir Galahad. That’s not even nice. Don’t you think it’s nice having something so pwetty in the world? Honestly, Mommy, I love him.” She crosses her arms over her chest, sticks her lower lip out, and turns her head from me.

  I’ve done it this time. Shannon’s right. Sir Galahad, after all, is our creation. To slay him would be the same as murdering a dream. Even if such a thing can’t exist in my universe, that doesn’t give me permission to kill its promise in hers.

  “I’m sorry, Shannon. You’re right. It’s wonderful having Sir Galahad in the world and I don’t want him to go away. Tell you what? I’ll make sure nothing ever happens to him. I promise.”

  Shannon smiles.

  “Let’s go home, my beautiful Guinevere.”

  Shannon giggles. “Who’s Guinevere?”

  “She was the wife of King Arthur of the Round Table. Monsters and wild animals and King Arthur get to live forever. Sir Galahad was also part of the story.”

  “Is Guinevere pwetty?”

  “Yes, she was very pretty, but she got herself in trouble when she betrayed Arthur.”

  “That’s not good. What did she do?”

  “It’s complicated. Maybe we’ll discuss it sometime when we don’t have to go home, make dinner, and get ready for bed. Mommy has something she has to take care of.” And I’m not quite sure Arthur didn’t deserve it.

  Shannon twists her hands around the handle of the shopping cart. “I wish you weren’t leaving soon. I want you to stay here. How can you protect Sir Galahad if you aren’t here?”

  “Sir Galahad will be very safe while I’m gone. I’m putting a special protection around both of you. Anyway, I’m only going for a short time. You’ll have fun with Daddy.”

  Shannon looks at me. There’s no smile in her eyes, just innocence and trust. I kiss her forehead.

  We check out and head to the car. The sky is still blistered black and the storm, stubborn, refuses to spend the electricity and humidity in the air. I’m thankful for the steel around us.

  The conversation I had with the investigator still threatens to knock me flat. I accelerate and almost miss my next right. The tires squeal into the sharp turn.

  I hear the sirens and see the lights.

  “Mommy, that was fun.”

  “Sorry, honey. I almost missed our turn.”

  The cop lingers before he gets out of his vehicle and saunters over. I long to throw my license and registration at him, but they’re always looking for an excuse to torment me.

  The bright light from his flashlight hits my eyes and blinds me as I roll down the window. I must look like a frightened doe, because he moves the beam to Shannon and then lowers it enough that I can see.

  “License and registration.”

  I hand him the documents.

  “I know I took that corner too quickly, sir. I’m sorry. I had too many things on my mind.”

  “Maybe you should have the safety of your daughter on your mind instead.” He takes a quick look at each document while panning the flashlight. “Wait here.”

  I watch in the rearview mirror as he swaggers back to his cruiser.

  Jerk! He must’ve been waiting for someone, anyone, and it just had to be me. It always has to be me. The bright lights shoot out from every angle. People pass and slow to peer in at me. A curtain in a nearby house draws slightly aside.

  Where were they when I needed someone all those years ago? No one cared what my parents did. Where were the cops then? No one bothered. No one peeped from the windows.

  “Okay, you’ll have to pay this amount by the date indicated unless you choose to dispute this, in which case, you’ll have to do so as indicated by that date. You’re free to go. Pay a little more attention to what’s going on around you, lady.”

  Prick! The steering wheel doesn’t give way under my banging. I dig my fingernails into the soft underbelly of my hand and find some release in the deepness and memory of the hurt. The air conditioning struggles against the thick, moist heat of the not-yet-dispelled storm. I roll down the window again and shift into gear. My skin screams and I long to break the window and dig a shard of glass into fresh skin.

  It’s the one word the universe yells in my head over and over. Flee.

  Thirty precious minutes wasted on my lack of attention and an overzealous cop who has nothing better to do with his life than pull me over. The intensity of my rage is equal to the pulsing air. I drive through a soup of anger. Someone is probably murdering someone somewhere or some child is being beaten and he was there giving me a pointless lecture and ticket. I try to remind myself that the world has become more sensitive to the signs of a beaten child, but I don’t really care. Nothing helped me then. I still carry the scars of all that indifference. All I had were my four friends, and their voices were no more believable than mine. We were the undetectable five. Fucking invisible. I pound the steering wheel.

  “Do me a favor, Shannon, and don’t tell Daddy about this.”

&n
bsp; “Why? Daddy never puts you in time out.”

  “No, he never puts you in time out either. He makes me do that.”

  “Yeah, but I know he does.”

  “You’re a smart cookie. I love you.”

  “I love you too, Mommy.”

  Dusk blends with the storm clouds as we pull into the garage. The hairs rise along the surface of my arms and the lowered atmospheric pressure suffocates me. I struggle to breathe; my heart and chest heave with the exertion.

  Dusk is my favorite time. It’s the dividing line between work and home. It’s my frontier between occupied moments. Lights cast a glow against the coming darkness, but today, the lights don’t ease my discomfort. There’s no divide between my two lives. They bleed into each other.

  Crickets bellow from the yard now shrouded in blackness. The garage door closes and we hurry into the house. The faint odor of old smoke suspends itself on the cloying wetness in the air.

  The night remains burdened with the storm’s promise. The steady hum of the ceiling fan moves hot air from one corner of the room to another as we silently eat our dinner, the utensils sliding across china the only respite from the relentless drone of the fan and the fury of the night insects.

  “Did Martha tell you I called this morning?” I wipe perspiration from my forehead.

  Brandon’s utensils halt midair. Time suspends itself. The heavens could have crashed into chaos and I wouldn’t have been deterred from this course. It’s not an accident: the day has been moving towards this point.

  Brandon looks at me coolly. “Yes, she did. I didn’t get a chance to return it. I had something to take care of this morning and I had a lot to catch up on this afternoon.”

  “Really? What did you have to do?”

  Brandon drops his utensils, the noise momentarily dispelling those of the fan and crickets. He wipes his hands on his napkin, the act slow and methodical—dangerous.

  Shannon’s eyes widen.

  He looks at me as he shifts in his seat. He reminds me of a snake. Every ounce of handsomeness I have marveled at for years is gone. Poof. Like magic. “I’m sorry I didn’t return your call, Heather, but my business is my business.” His voice holds an edge along which his words slice. “And it’s none of yours.”