by Janis Thomas
Adolescent ambivalence morphs into genuine curiosity. “What tree, Mom?”
“The tree in the front yard.”
Her expression screws into one of mistrust. She shakes her head. “You mean the one that was here when you guys bought the house? Colin got rid of that tree as soon as we moved in, Mom. Remember?” A brief flash of concern crosses her face, only to be replaced seconds later by disgust. “Are you losing it, Mom? ’Cause if you are, let me know. I don’t want another psycho parent. I already have one of those.”
She jerks away from my car and heads down the street, her fingers typing out a text.
I hold my hands up in front of my face and inspect my palms, then scoot up my skirt to expose my knees. I was so focused on the lack of evidence of Richard’s attack that I forgot about the wounds from my tumble yesterday morning. My hands are perfect, and although I’m wearing hose, I can see through the sheer fabric that there are no abrasions on my knees. I suffer no aftereffects of my harsh encounter with the redbrick pavers.
My earlier suspicion is correct. I’m gone.
TEN
I spend the fifteen-minute drive to my office mulling over the one question that matters more than any other. Not whether the tree was actually there yesterday, or if my boss really violated me in the ladies’ room last night, or if my neighbors purchased a puppy named Charlemagne. Those things exist for me, real or imagined. The question that dominates my thoughts is this: If a person is insane, does he know he is insane?
At a stoplight, I close my eyes and rewind the minutes and hours to yesterday morning. I can still feel the impact of my knees hitting the pavers, my teeth clacking together, the raw burn of the skin on my palms being scraped away. And yet, when I imagine the tree, I can no longer visualize its presence in the remembered scenario.
A faint recollection emerges of a large, dented cargo truck and a Hispanic man wielding a chain saw and a half dozen laborers hauling the desiccated limbs and branches and leaves away while Colin and I watched from the window of a living room full of unopened boxes.
A horn sounds from the car behind me, pulling me from my dendrological musings. I press the accelerator and revisit my earlier conundrum. If I think I am crazy, am I?
I consider the possibility that I’m asleep, that the past twenty-four hours of illogical and impossible occurrences are merely an extended dream. Perhaps I’m lying in a bed in the ICU of our local hospital after suffering some sort of trauma. An accident. The Honda was T-boned at an intersection and the doctors put me into a coma to give my damaged organs an opportunity to heal. This explanation seems unlikely, but I am willing to explore it further if it means I’m sane.
But it doesn’t ring true. I know I’m awake. I know I’m not dreaming, nor am I in a coma. My choices are limited. Either something inexplicable is happening, or I am truly, absolutely out of my mind.
I slide the Honda into my designated parking spot in front of my office building and stare through the windshield at the day around me. So normal, so typical is this early summer day. Shining sun, bright-blue sky, puffy white clouds. No distortion, no illusions or prisms of light or shimmering mirages, no chimera lurking in the shadows waiting to swallow me up. Only an idyllic facade of reality.
My mind is suddenly blank. I know I have to make a decision. Usually I’m good at making decisions, but now, in this moment and in this circumstance, I falter. Panic sets in.
Should I get out of the car and go into my building and pretend that my world has not turned on its axis? Or should I drive to the hospital and have myself put under observation?
I was never accomplished at meditating, but I know I need to calm down and I have no other method at my disposal. I lean back against the driver’s seat and close my eyes. I concentrate on my breathing, on my heartbeat, on the blood pumping through my veins. I disallow thoughts from forming, although they try to breach the fortress, cracking, pounding, pressing in on my consciousness. The effort it takes to keep them at bay is exhausting.
When I open my eyes, fifteen minutes have slid by. I am late. Again.
I pull the key from the ignition and alight from the car.
Mr. Mosely is back, and his presence behind the security counter grounds me. Briefly.
“Good morning,” I call to him.
He nods his white-capped head at me. “Good morning, Mrs. Davies.”
“Mrs. Davies,” I repeat. “So formal. I’m glad to see you back. You’re feeling better?”
He cocks his head to the side and gives me a strange look, not unlike the look Katie gave me this morning when I asked her about the tree. “Feeling fine as per usual, ma’am,” he says.
His stiff posture and solemn manner unnerve me. This is the man who regularly poses for me, making silly faces and often bringing with him comedic accessories so that I might coax a grin or a chuckle from my son. This is the man who pens rhyming couplets poking fun at my fellow employees without ever being truly mean and recites them to me on my way in, hoping I will be able to guess the person about whom he writes. This is the man who spent forty minutes showing me his photo album from his trip to Nepal, where he scattered his wife’s ashes—upon her request—at the base of Annapurna Mountain. His polite indifference this morning is unnatural and distressing.
“Is everything all right, Mr. Mosely?” Ironic that I ask someone else this question, when, for me, everything is inarguably not all right.
“Right as rain.” A canned response, a conversation closer.
As I move past his counter and through the lobby, I wonder if the security guard has been reprimanded for his familiarity with some of the employees, including me. Unlikely, but how else can I explain his behavior?
A couple of my colleagues stand in line at the deli, waiting for last-minute cups of coffee and possibly doughnuts or bagels or sweet treats they can hide in their desk drawers in case they are berated by their bosses and find themselves in need of confectionery solace. I used to keep a Twix bar in my desk until Richard found it and paraded around the staff meeting, holding it up for all the employees to see and casually suggesting that my hidden stash might be the reason for my expanding middle.
A ponytailed young man wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt gives me the peace sign from his place in line. I know I should recognize him, but I don’t.
Still distracted by Mr. Mosely’s ambivalence, I pause at the elevator and dig into my purse for my phone. I unlock the device and touch the picture gallery icon, then spend the next minute, a precious sixty seconds that will extend my tardiness and probably draw further wrath from my boss, scrolling through the stored images. Yesterday morning I couldn’t locate the picture of Charlemagne, but I passed the picture of Mr. Mosely and his rubber nose. Today I can find neither puppy nor security guard. Backward I scroll, a flurry of images popping up at me while my fingertip furiously slides along the screen. No Mr. Mosely, not anywhere in the gallery. Surely I could not have deleted every single image of the man.
I drop the phone into my purse and head to the far end of the lobby, where the glass doors of Canning and Wells are situated. I grab the distressed-nickel handle and pull. The door seems to weigh a thousand pounds, and the muscles in my arm strain with the burden.
Several employees have arrived ahead of me, and I will receive a severe lambasting because of it. But I can’t bring myself to hurry. The closer I get to my desk and Richard’s office, the slower my pace becomes. Dread is a living creature, clutching my blouse from behind, tugging at me. I hunch my shoulders and press forward, but I can’t break free of dread’s grasp. My heart pounds and bile rises to my throat. I haven’t seen the man yet, but I already know that when I do, the moment I lay eyes on his vile face, I will be sick.
Blessed relief washes through me when I turn the corner. Richard’s office is empty. I’ve been given a momentary reprieve.
Valerie Martin sits at my desk, staring at my computer monitor. I feel a stab of anger at the sight of her. She is likely going through my files, s
crutinizing my work for the slightest mistake.
Valerie, an intern, freshly scrubbed, communications degree neatly folded under her arm, came to Canning and Wells just after Xander’s departure. She worked hard and submitted to the misogynistic atmosphere of the company in a most gracious manner, flirting mildly, complimenting greatly, and taking the blame for her superiors’ missteps with nary a complaint. She was promoted to VP of marketing last year. Above me. And from what I can glean from the water cooler conversations, she never had to perform fellatio on Richard, or any of the other partners, to garner the promotion.
I have tried to hate her, but I cannot. She reminds me of myself—the me before my life went to hell. Bright, optimistic, enthusiastic, and warm.
I near my desk and gaze down upon her. I refrain from asking her what she’s doing there. She is my superior, after all. Underlings do not question their superiors lest they are prepared to forfeit their jobs. I know what I am willing to endure to keep my job. Allowing Valerie to pore over my hard drive is the least of it.
She looks up at me, and a smile unfolds across her face.
“Good morning,” she says brightly.
No. Not a good morning. A terrible morning that will be made worse by the appearance of my boss—the devil.
“Where is he?” I ask, shrugging off my purse and setting it on my desk. I gesture to Richard’s office.
“Where is who?” As if she doesn’t know. Valerie and I have shared a few confidences regarding our boss, none of them positive.
“Richard? Is he getting coffee?”
She peers at me, then her eyes go wide with understanding. She types a command into my keyboard and peers at the monitor screen. “You mean Richard Stein with SoundStage? He’s not due in until ten.”
I vaguely recall the names SoundStage and Stein, and a user-friendly software program for in-home recording studios. It was an account we failed to land because of Richard’s obstinacy. I had suggested he go with a modern, alternative-music vibe with his proposal, but he saw my input as a threat and went with his own archaic sensibilities, backgrounding his PowerPoint with an old Jimmy Dorsey tune. SoundStage went elsewhere with their PR business.
I’m about to tell Valerie, No, not Richard Stein. Richard Green, our boss. But something stops me before the words reach my lips. That not-right feeling. I glance down at my desk, at my nameplate, and my body goes cold. The nameplate, which for the last six years has had my name etched into its plasticized surface, now bears the legend VALERIE MARTIN.
“Oh, I put the revised Peters proposal on your desk. Let me know if you want any tweaks.”
I don’t respond. I can’t. My throat is constricted, my vocal cords frozen, every fiber in my being thrums.
“Thanks for giving me a shot at it, Em,” she says. “I think it’s good, but I won’t be offended if you make changes. You’re the boss. Oh, and I booted you up.”
“Okay.” It’s all I can think of to say. I turn away from her and trudge toward Richard’s office on legs that simultaneously feel disconnected from my torso and heavy as anchors. Even before I see the nameplate affixed beside the door, I take in the office as a whole—the cheerful yellow paint, the verdant plant on the side table next to the overstuffed chocolate-brown couch, the Frida Kahlo print on the wall, the framed family photo of Colin, Josh, Kate, and me on the prized real estate of the desk.
I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them and lower my gaze to the nameplate. It reads: EMMA DAVIES, DIRECTOR OF MARKETING AND BUSINESS ACQUISITION AND RETENTION.
I don’t faint. My knees don’t buckle beneath me. I don’t become hysterical and draw curious looks from my fellow employees as they make their way to their stations. Instead, I cross the threshold and enter Richard’s office, my office.
I feel Valerie’s eyes on me, so I make a concerted effort to appear as though all is well with the world, my world, which has suddenly become unrecognizable to me.
I make it to the desk, then collapse into the distressed black leather ergonomic chair, the one I found for Richard, the chair he refused to let me purchase because he deemed it an uneconomical expense.
A folder sits neatly atop the desk, the Peters file. I brush my fingertips across it.
At what point does mounting incomprehension cause the mind to snap?
I open the file and pretend to read the contents, even going so far as to occasionally nod my head and smile. But my thoughts are far from the proposal. My brain is puzzling over a mystery, trying to work it out, to unearth the clues that will explain what brought me to be where I am at this moment: in an ergonomic chair I never bought in an office that, until this morning, belonged to a cruel tyrant who stole my dignity and my marital fidelity.
It began with a puppy and a wish, I realize. Charlemagne.
The puppy, I understand now, was not a dream, even though my subconscious rewrote the story and I willingly accepted the revision and made it my own. The puppy was next door, barking at all hours, and I wished him away.
And then . . . and then . . . the tree.
I wish you took that damn tree out when we first moved in!
And then . . . and then . . .
I think back to yesterday morning in this office, this same office, which looked very different, when Wally Holleran stood in the doorway suffering Richard’s degradation.
I wished . . . I wished . . .
I wish Richard Green had never come to work here. I wish he never existed.
“Can I get you some coffee?” Valerie asks. I flinch and the file slips from my grasp.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say automatically. I haven’t yet caught up with the fact that I am now her superior.
“It’s no trouble. You always do it for me, Em.”
Do I? Am I that kind of considerate boss? I’ve never held a position of power, so I can’t conceive of my conduct in that circumstance. We all desire to put our best selves forward, but more often the world sees us as we really are: flawed, challenged, oppressed, denied the lives we feel we deserve, and resentful for it. Valerie’s one small sentence inspires hope that my demeanor as an administrator is that which I would want it to be.
“This is good,” I tell her, although I haven’t read a word. I know Valerie’s work. I’ve witnessed it from the background for five years. The proposal, I’m certain, is perfect.
Her eyes light up. “You think? Then I’ll go ahead and tell Roger to print and stitch.”
“I think you should run the meeting, too.”
Valerie beams. “Really?”
“Yes,” I say. Because I have no idea what the fuck is happening. “You’ll be great.”
She practically vibrates with enthusiasm. I wonder, for a moment, when the last time was that I felt such excitement. The specific occurrence eludes me.
“I’ll be back in a jiff with your coffee, yes?”
I nod. She starts to leave, but I call to her. “Val, does Richard Green still work here?”
Her forehead creases. “I don’t recognize that name. There’s Ritchie Fields in SoMe.” Our term for social media. “Did he work here before I came aboard?”
I quickly change the subject. “Cream, no sugar.”
“Like you need to tell me.” She gazes at me for a moment. “Are you—you seem a little preoccupied this morning.”
I almost laugh at the understatement, but I’m afraid my laughter will sound ghoulish. I force a casual smile. “Caffeine will help.”
She nods. “I’m on it.”
Beneath my skirt and blouse and panty hose, my skin is slick with nervous sweat.
ELEVEN
As soon as Valerie disappears down the hall, I turn to my computer and type in a command. The Google logo appears on my monitor and I type Richard Green into the search box. Thousands of hits, a common name. I click the box and revise my search. Richard Green Canning and Wells. No hits.
I rub my index finger against my upper lip, then type in another command. Richard Green Delilah Amherst.
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Delilah is Richard’s wife of twenty-seven years. She is the daughter of Henry Amherst, a real estate magnate responsible for most of Hoboken’s urban renewal. I’ve encountered Delilah on numerous occasions in the last six years and found her to be a harpy. I could never decide whether she was always a mean-spirited nag or if serving a life sentence with Richard made her one. She gave him four children, two boys and two girls, all of whom are grown now, but still feeding off the family teat, as Richard likes to say. The eldest have children of their own, and the only time I have seen the humanity in Richard is when he talks about his grandchildren. If the man is truly capable of love, it is for them only.
The new search yields hits solely about Delilah Amherst. I quickly scan through the many articles but find no mention of Richard Green.
A Google image displays the photo of a woman I hardly recognize. Delilah Amherst, frothing with joy, has her arm hooked through the elbow of an attractive silver-haired gentleman with a twinkly eye and mischievous grin.
Ronald Clayton and Delilah Amherst-Clayton enjoy the Van Gogh exhibit at the Met.
An image captured two weeks ago.
Shaking hands is my new normal. I move the mouse to the text box. My fingers hover over the keyboard. What do I know, what do I know?
Richard graduated from the University of Ohio. I search the alumni database at the university. No hits. I scour my memory banks. Born to Alma and Joseph Green, Cleveland, Ohio. I search the public records for Cleveland, Alma and Joseph Green. No hits. I google Joseph and Alma Green, Cleveland, Ohio. One hit.
Proud parents Joseph and Alma Green root for their only child, daughter Sybill, as she leads John Jay High to softball victory!
Only child.
Bile rises again. Horror pulsates through me. There is no possible way, in any known reality, that I could have wished away a person’s entire existence.
I lean back and force myself to breathe. My emotions are a swirling, frantic vortex.
A few cleansing inhalations and exhalations help quiet my mind. If I am honest with myself, I feel little or no remorse about stealing Richard’s life. How could I? This man was a sadist, a rapist, an abhorrent human being. But what about his children? His grandchildren?
