by Janis Thomas
“What?”
“Mr. Canning and Mr. Wells want to see you. It’s about SoundStage.”
I shrug my shoulders. After Owen, Bill and Edward will be a piece of cake.
Again, I’ve miscalculated.
Twenty minutes later, I’m seated in a chair across from Bill Canning’s desk. He and Edward Wells perch on the near side of the mahogany desktop like twin statues, arms crossed over their chests.
“But they signed the contracts,” I hear myself saying.
“We gave them a ninety-day out,” Canning says. “They’re taking it.”
“But they loved the presentation . . . and everything we’ve given them so far.” My voice is tissue-paper thin.
Canning and Wells exchange a look. Wells rubs at his chin with a leathery hand. “They liked it, at first,” he says. “But they’ve decided to go in a different direction.”
“They want a more old-timey feel,” Canning says. “Jimmy Dorsey, Benny Goodman, that kind of thing.”
Goose pimples erupt on the flesh of my arms. Jimmy Dorsey. I think of Richard Green, ex-boss, ex-person, a man who never was. His presentation for SoundStage was backgrounded by Jimmy Dorsey’s “Amapola.”
“Stein liked the modern spin, but apparently the CEO is a second cousin once or twice removed to Ol’ Blue Eyes and has a penchant for the big-band era. It’s a shame you didn’t have that information.”
Meaning, if I’d done my homework, I would have known not to use KONGOS’s music during my proposal. I now understand Richard’s obstinacy when I suggested going modern. He wasn’t simply dismissing me. He knew what he was doing, although he would never lower himself enough to offer me an explanation for his choices. My boss was a bastard, but he did his job well. He did his homework. I’ve been faking it.
“Richard Stein also implied that he is more comfortable working with a man.”
“Excuse me?”
Edward Wells shakes his head. “I know, Emma. It’s difficult to imagine that such sexism is still prevalent.” This from a man who asks that his female employees call him Mr. Wells, while his male employees are free to address him as Ed. “We’ve come across this several times before, as you know.”
I don’t know, but I can guess. I need no memories to understand the direction of this conversation. Our business is male dominated. If Richard Green had lost a new client, the onus would be placed on the client’s capriciousness. But because I am a woman, the blame lands squarely upon my shoulders. I may have banished him from the face of the earth, but Richard Green exists somewhere, on some plane, and he’s laughing at me.
“Look,” Canning says, “times are tough. The economy isn’t what it was a few years back. Businesses are reluctant to part with their money unless they feel completely confident in their partners.”
“I understand.” Despite the cool air being pumped in through the vents, I’m sweating.
“Xander made a good choice in you, Emma. You’ve been a great addition to management around here. But we need to focus on the bottom line.”
“I know.”
“Sometimes it’s good to shake things up and move people around.”
I swallow hard. Losing SoundStage is a blow from which I might not recover.
Five weeks ago, I was an executive assistant. I took no responsibility for the success or failure of Canning and Wells. I now see what a luxury that was. I wouldn’t wish Richard back, the sadistic prick. But if I’d made a more specific wish, perhaps I wouldn’t be facing the firing squad. What will I do if I lose my job? Colin isn’t working. We have no other income. How will we survive? How will I, a middle-aged woman who just got fired for inferior performance, land another position elsewhere? I’ll have to start over. I’ll end up as an assistant again, only without the fancy “executive” title.
“Emma, you look worried. We’re not firing you.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Bill Canning smiles kindly, but his eyes are black as a shark’s.
“We’re just having a conversation at this point,” Edward Wells agrees. “Why don’t we take a few weeks and let the SoundStage dust settle. See what you can bring in. Make sure you keep everyone happy. Then we can meet again and talk about how everything’s going.”
I nod mutely, then stand and leave the office. I head down the hall. I wish I were heading for my old desk, but I know it doesn’t work that way. Unless I wish Valerie Martin away.
And I won’t do that.
When I was six, I dreamed of growing up to be a fairy princess, with a dress and crown like those of Glinda the Good Witch. When I was eight, I wanted to be an astronaut. Weightlessness appealed to me even then. In third grade, I did a report on the first moon walk, complete with a bulky, silver spray-painted costume and a recreation of Neil Armstrong’s famous declaration. During the Q&A that followed my report, Kevin McCleary informed me and the rest of the class that the entire moon landing was a fake. I punched him in the face with my helmet and had to sit in the principal’s office for the rest of the day.
When I was twelve, I decided I wanted to be an Olympic figure skater à la Katarina Witt, Debi Thomas, and Jayne Torvill, if I could find an appropriate partner. I implored my mother to take me to the salon to get a haircut just like Jayne’s. At the time, my lustrous chestnut hair spilled down my back almost to my bottom. Even though Mom would no longer have to brush through my tangled locks, she cried with every snip of the stylist’s scissors.
When I was sixteen, I wanted to be a movie star. Doesn’t every girl at some point dream of stardom, walking the red carpet in stiletto heels and a Valentino couture gown, arm intertwined with a fetching tuxedoed gentleman who happens to be her leading man? I learned, after a disastrous debut in the junior play, that I had no gift for drama. I spoke my lines with less emotion than the automated voice of the time-telling phone operator.
By the time I entered university, I had realigned my goals. My stoic and dispassionate delivery would be perfect for television news reporting. I practiced in the mirror of the dorm bathroom, earning titters and eye rolls and the occasional insult from classmates. But I was not deterred. Not until Dante, who unintentionally stole all my focus, energy, and enthusiasm.
Of all the things I dreamed of becoming, I never had in mind “executive assistant.” I’d never even heard the term.
But now, as I collapse behind my desk, with Valerie nervously watching from the other side of the glass, I dream of being an executive assistant again.
I could wish my own job away. Before I lie down tonight, I could say the words aloud. But I am afraid. What would the outcome of such a wish be? Can I make the words specific enough to ensure that I am still employed in some capacity tomorrow morning? I don’t know. I don’t know.
And will such a wish undo what I have gained from this prosperous position—full custody of my daughter and full-time care of my son? If I wake up as a clerk in the post office, surely those precious rewards will be lost.
If I am fired from Canning and Wells, I will likely lose both anyway. Owen will pounce immediately, a lion striking an injured antelope, claws extended. We will have to cut back on the caregivers, return to Raina solely. I don’t care for Lena, but I appreciate the respite she provides me.
According to Bill Canning and Edward Wells, I am safe for at least two weeks. I will not wish away my job tonight. Who knows what reality I’ll be living two weeks from now.
TWENTY-FOUR
I’m not myself when I arrive home that night. I’ve spent the day prostrating myself to clients, deferring, placating, prostituting myself in exchange for their acknowledgment that they are happy with our firm. I’ve done research on every prospective client we have in the hopper, reading blogs and wikis and news articles and press releases until my eyes felt like they were bleeding. I met with Valerie and Wally and several people from the other departments in what was to become an equal parts brainstorming and browbeating session.
I called home to let my family know
that I would be late and not to hold dinner. Colin, usually so in tune with my moods, dismissed me quickly, told me not to worry, not to hurry, and everything was fine.
Lena’s car is in the driveway. This has happened frequently over the last few weeks, and I’ve been given the same explanation each time: that Lena has brought groceries and needs easy access to the refrigerator in the garage. Tonight the excuse doesn’t dispel my irritation. I park at the curb and stomp up the herringbone path to the front door.
Kate and Josh are together in the living room. Kate is seated on the couch with a large book open in her lap while Josh looks on from his wheelchair beside her. Ella Fitzgerald quietly croons from Colin’s office.
“Hi, Mom,” Kate says as she turns a page.
“H’, Maah,” Josh echoes.
I cross to the couch and kiss both of my children on the tops of their heads, then peer down at the book they’re reading. The lush full-color image of the African savannah nearly bursts from the page.
Two years ago, Katie declared that she wanted to go on safari and planned to do so after graduating from high school. Colin and I saw this as a momentary fancy, but she was not to be swayed. She said she would pay for it herself, that she would work through her junior and senior years of high school and all through college if she had to. Colin and I made a deal with her. If she waited until after she finished college, Colin and I would finance the trip. God knows why we made the offer—at the time, a trip to Africa for our daughter was not something we could afford. But she accepted, and we figured we could somehow find a way to produce the funds by then.
To show our support and commitment, we gave her this book for her sixteenth birthday. She stopped looking at it and talking about going on safari when she started with that boy. But now that she’s never met him, I see that the pages of the book are tired and worn from her constant perusal.
“Maah. Aye wa’ t’ g’ ah safa w’ Kae,” Josh says. Mom. I want to go on safari with Kate.
I don’t say that will never happen. I never say that. “Wouldn’t that be great?” I say instead.
It doesn’t matter that I never say it. He knows. He looks up at me, his expression pained. I’ll never go on safari, his eyes tell me. I have to look away.
“You know, they have special safaris for people with disabilities,” Kate says matter-of-factly. She turns the page to reveal a pack of cheetahs loping across a grassy plain. “I read about it online. Josh could totally come with me.”
This conversation coupled with the pressure of my day feels like a vise grip on my skull.
Do you know how much those special safaris cost? Do you have any idea what it would take to get your brother to Africa? Do you?
Behind the couch, I clench my hands into fists, then force myself to relax my fingers. “Where’s Lena?”
“She was in the kitchen before, doing dishes. Oh, look at the baby hippos, Josh. Aren’t they cute? They’re called calves, like cows.”
He turns his attention back to the book. “Th’ uhlee.”
“They are not ugly. They’re darling,” Katie says as Josh starts to snort.
I back away from them and head for the kitchen. As soon as I reach the archway, I realize I’m famished. I skipped lunch to get more work done and subsisted only on coffee (from the new/old Keurig) and a PowerBar Valerie gave me when she saw I was beginning to lag.
There is no sign of Lena. The dish drain is full and the countertops are sparkling. A lone plate sits in the middle of the granite counter, loosely covered with foil. I peel away the foil and sneak a rosemary red potato. Even cold, it tastes good.
Where is Lena?
I tuck the foil back around the edge of the plate and walk to the family room. The room is dark and empty. I cross to my desk, then rummage through my purse for the lion pendant I bought from Dolores. I tuck the package into the top right drawer of the desk, then retrace my steps to the living room, where Kate and Josh are still arguing about the adorability of baby hippos. I glance toward Colin’s office and see that the door is slightly ajar. Without contemplating the reason, I slip off my pumps and kick them aside, then walk on bare feet down the hall.
I stop at the open door and peer into the office. Colin is seated at his desk wearing an undershirt, head lolling against his chest, eyes closed. His collared button-down is carelessly draped across the back of his desk chair. Lena stands directly behind him, her hands on his shoulders, her fingers kneading his flesh. Ella sings. Colin moans. My body goes rigid.
I push the door all the way open. It bangs against the inside wall of the office with a thwack.
Colin straightens immediately. Lena looks up. The kneading ceases, but she doesn’t remove her hands from my husband’s shoulders. She doesn’t blink or recoil, doesn’t bat an eye, just looks at me with her usual expectant expression.
“Hi, Em,” Colin croaks. He stands up, forcing Lena’s fingers off him.
“Hi, Mrs. D.” Not the slightest hint of contrition.
“Tough day at the library, dear?” I ask.
“Hours in front of the computer puts me in knots. You know that. Lena was being kind to an old man.”
“You’re not old, Colin,” the girl says, and I bristle at her use of his first name. So casual. So familiar. I am not a violent person, save for the whole astronaut helmet/Kevin McCleary incident in third grade. But I would very much like to throttle Lena. She moves around the desk and approaches me.
“You look like you had a rough day, too, Mrs. D. I could do some work on your neck, if you want.” She smirks at me.
I know what I’m going to wish tonight.
“Thanks anyway, Lena.”
I could simply fire her and be done with her the old-fashioned way. But that method involves forms and phone calls and explanations and the protracted search for a replacement and arguments with Colin and Josh. A wish will circumvent the red tape.
“Did you know that Lena is a licensed masseuse?” Another item for her résumé. I shake my head.
“It’s good for my patients,” she says, still smirking.
“You should let her have at you, Em.”
“Leeah!”
We all turn toward the door at the sound of Josh’s voice.
“Oh, well. Duty calls. Maybe some other time, eh, Mrs. D?”
“Yes.” When hell freezes over.
Lena passes me and heads down the hall. I glare at Colin as he dons his collared shirt and starts to button it. He looks at me.
“What?” he asks as though he doesn’t know. I say nothing. I see his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows.
I turn and leave the room, pausing only long enough to grab the doorknob and slam the office door shut behind me.
I watch her. I don’t intrude. This will be Josh’s last night with her. Tomorrow she will be gone—not erased, just absent from our lives as though she’s never been here—working in another household with another special-needs person, possibly seducing another husband and alienating another wife. Josh will not know what he has missed. So I will grant him this night. Perhaps the feel of her hands on him will leave an indelible imprint upon his subconscious, create a memory he can access as a dream or a fantasy. I hope so, in a way, for his sake.
Kate is downstairs watching something on the big-screen TV while chatting with Simone. I stand in her darkened bedroom and peer through the crack in the bathroom door, a peeping Tom. What I’m doing is reprehensible, perverse, but I do it anyway.
Tonight is bath night. Lena has Josh situated on the heavy-duty medical shower bench. When we moved in, one of the few improvements we made was to gut the entire upstairs bathroom and put in an enormous stall to accommodate the bench and my son.
Josh is naked. For modesty’s sake, his genitals are hidden beneath a folded towel.
My son’s limbs are long. Fate is cruel. Colin and I are average height. Were Josh able to stand, he would tower over us. If his limbs were equal to his parents’, as they should be due to genetics, they w
ould be far easier to cope with. But, no, they are elongated and gawky. Fate is a bastard.
I watch as Lena massages soap into the cramped muscles of his calves and thighs.
Josh flinches and color creeps up his cheeks.
“It’s okay, Joshy,” she coos to him, her hands whispering up and down his legs. “It’s totally normal and natural. We’ve talked about this before. There’s no reason to be embarrassed.”
My son has an erection. Of course he does. An attractive woman is massaging his legs. Apparently this is not the first time the issue has presented itself.
I’ve read the books and been counseled by professionals, and on an intellectual level, I understand that my son’s disorder does not preclude him from experiencing sensations of a sexual nature. But the idea of Josh’s sexuality has always been an abstract.
Here, in this moment of purposeful voyeurism, the concept is no longer hypothetical. It is reality.
I wonder about the future and how his needs will be met. Will Josh marry and procreate? Will Colin and I have to procure prostitutes for him? Will I stand outside his bedroom door, much like I’m doing now, to make sure that the woman is not abusing him but delivering him the satisfaction he craves? I make a mental note to reach out to the Facebook page with these questions, where my anonymity will guard against my humiliation.
Josh moans, not with pleasure, but with shame. I know him well enough to know the difference.
“I love you, Josh, you know that,” she says. “But not that way. I can’t.” She reaches for his hand and begins to lather his fingers, one at a time. She moves to his palm, his wrist, all the way up to his biceps.
“Plee,” he whispers. I have never known one syllable to contain such misery.
“I can’t, Joshy,” she tells him.
A tear squeezes from the corner of his eye. “Plee, Lee-nnaah.” The magnitude of his distress inspires him to pronounce the N. My son is not capable of satisfying himself. The pressure he feels must be intolerable.
