Elevator, The

by Hunt, Angela

  Shelly caressed the jacket sleeve and tried to imagine that softness caressing her arms. In an outfit like that, she’d look like a completely different girl. She’d feel like a million bucks.

  Forgetting about the supervisors, she searched for the pieces on a nearby rack, pulled out the items in her size, and ducked into the hallway that led to the changing rooms. A glance beneath the doors assured her that Ms. Calvino had not sneaked to the dressing rooms for a cigarette. Morris’s girlfriend was probably in the hall with the vending machines, munching on M&M’s or downing a cup of coffee.

  Shelly kicked off her sneakers, then unbuckled her overalls and pulled her T-shirt over her head. Ignoring the reflection of her tattered underwear in the long mirror, she slipped into the new clothing and breathed deeply as a transformation took place.

  The skirt fit like a second skin. The satin halter top accented the boniness of her shoulders, but the jacket disguised that shortcoming. She spun in the full-length mirror, then tugged her braids to the back of her head. In this outfit, with her hair up and eyeliner around her eyes, she could pass for twenty-five, maybe twenty-six. Of course, there was no way she could afford this getup, not even if she saved for months and used her employee discount.

  So switch the price tags.

  The thought whipped into her brain so unexpectedly that she glanced behind her to make sure she wasn’t hearing the voice of an imp. Change the price tags? Easy enough to manage because Maxim’s Department Store still did things the old-fashioned way; price tags were either pinned to garment sleeves or attached with ribbons and safety pins. She could gather these pieces in her arms, take the escalator downstairs to juniors’ and replace these prices with tags from inexpensive cotton shirts and skirts. She could wait until after four, when the part-time help came in, to pay in the junior department. The harried housewife or young girl working there wouldn’t recognize the outfit, or she’d be too tired, bored or distracted to care.

  Shelly studied her image in the mirror. Was she crazy for even thinking about such a stunt? Could she and her bony shoulders pull off an outfit like this, or would people laugh as soon as she passed by? If she couldn’t carry it off, she’d look like a little girl playing dress up. Everyone would know she was only Shelly Tills from Bald Knob, the girl who spent her days pushing a broom because she couldn’t afford college and couldn’t spend another day in her drunken mother’s trailer—

  So become someone else.

  This time she recognized the voice in her head—the cultured tones belonged to the woman Shelly had always imagined but never dared emulate.

  Pinocchio had Jiminy Cricket as his guide; she had Michelle Tilson—the polished, professional career woman she had always dreamed of becoming. Was Michelle only a dream…or a possibility?

  Shelly bit her lip and stared into the mirror. From shoulder to hem she looked like a fashion model, but the illusion faded at her bare knees and vanished at her dingy socks. Her feet couldn’t be helped, but she could work on what remained.

  She unwound her braids, then pulled a wide barrette from the pocket of the overalls on the floor. After twisting her hair at the back of her head, she slid the barrette into the winding cord and clipped it into place. The look was more funky than chic, but it could work.

  She pulled a container of lip gloss from another pocket and smoothed it over her mouth, then fished an almost-empty tube of mascara from the same pocket. Quick swipes of the left and right lower lashes left her eyes adequately smudged. She had no blush with her, but Momma used to pinch her cheeks just below the far corners of her eyes—there and there—and…done.

  In the rectangular mirror Shelly saw Michelle L. Tilson, a sophisticated career woman who had never in her life received Christmas charity. Michelle knew how to win friends and influence people; she had a vocabulary so refined folks automatically assumed she’d attended all the best schools. Michelle didn’t work in retail; she worked in an office. She didn’t have a secretary; she had an administrative assistant and a staff.

  Shelly caught her breath when she heard rustling from beyond the door. Someone moved in the hallway—another customer, or Ms. Calvino?

  An unexpected knock sent a thrill of panic shooting through her. “Yeah? Yes?”

  “How are you doing? Can I bring you anything?”

  “No,” Shelly managed to answer. Then, taking comfort from the locked door, in Michelle Tilson’s voice she added, “Thank you, I’m fine.”

  “Ring the bell if you need me.”

  Shelly held her breath until the departing swish of the salesclerk’s panty hose faded into silence. Ms. Calvino was probably returning to her post outside the entrance to the dressing rooms.

  Exhaling in a slow and steady stream, Shelly pulled one arm free of the luscious jacket, then let it fall from her shoulders. She wriggled out of the skirt and unfastened the halter top. Her overalls still lay on the floor, so she put her T-shirt on, then stepped back into the familiar denim.

  She sank to the edge of a bench and tied on her sneakers, then clasped her hands. What was the word she’d learned yesterday? Audacity—the willingness to tackle a dangerous or difficult undertaking.

  If she were going to make something of herself, audacity would have to carry her through the next five minutes. The clock was already approaching four, so Ms. Calvino was probably busy at the register, getting ready to go home. Shelly could tuck the outfit under her arm and hurry past. By the time she made it down to juniors’ and completed the switch, the downstairs register would be manned by a part-timer.

  She replaced the designer garments on their hangers, then dropped one hand to the doorknob and bowed her head. What would happen if she were caught? She might be arrested. What would Momma say? The chorus of I-told-you-so would last as long as the mountains.

  If the store manager didn’t have her arrested, he’d certainly fire her. Without a job, how would she support herself? Her one-room Charleston apartment wasn’t fancy, but it beat sleeping on the street. The macaroni and hot dogs she’d been eating weren’t gourmet meals, but they were a lot more filling than empty dreams.

  She closed her eyes as her thoughts drifted toward her mother, whose world these days revolved around a bottle. Her mother did nothing and produced nothing, yet somehow she managed to survive on Daddy’s monthly benefit check. Shelly could always go home and live like Momma, but she wanted something better.

  She wanted to be more than Eunice Tills’s daughter. She wanted to be Michelle Tilson.

  Michelle wouldn’t sit in a trailer and watch the world go by; she’d take risks with her life. Michelle might not have money, but she had class, an excellent vocabulary, and knowledge derived from years of reading and people-watching. With those qualifications, enthusiasm and a designer outfit, she could get an office job that would take her a lot further than the custodial department at Maxim’s.

  Nothing in the quiet cubicle told her she was standing at a crossroad, but she knew it as certainly as she knew the sound of her mother’s voice. The decision she made in the next five minutes could change the course of her entire life.

  After a long hesitation, Shelly lifted her head and stepped out of the dressing room with three of the store’s most expensive items tucked under her left arm. She strode straight toward the escalator, but her heart nearly stopped when Ms. Calvino called, “Did you find anything you liked?”

  Shelly hesitated, but she didn’t turn around. Instead, Michelle Tilson twiddled her fingers over her shoulder and said she’d try again another day.

  Without a backward look, she rode the escalator down to the juniors’ department, then ducked behind a tall display. A table had been covered with stacks of clearance items, mostly sleeveless tops and cotton skirts, so she took those tags and pinned them onto the designer pieces.

  Nervousness gripped her as she approached the cash register. As she hoped, a part-time girl was working the floor, but talkative Ashley Stock wasn’t the clerk Shelly would have chosen. She hesitat
ed, then decided to plunge ahead with outrageous audacity.

  “Hey, Shelly.” Ashley greeted her with a smile. “You on your break?”

  Shelly nodded. “Just thought I’d pick up a couple of things. I’m thinking about looking for a new job and need, you know, something to wear to the interview.”

  Ashley picked up the skirt. “Wow, this is nice. Haven’t seen this before.”

  “It was—” Shelly pointed vaguely over her shoulder “—in the clearance pile. I didn’t see any others like it.”

  Ashley punched in the amount.

  “Say,” Shelly said, leaning on the counter, “have you seen the new guy in sporting goods? I hear he graduated from Florida State. Used to play football for them.”

  “Really?” Ashley picked up the satin top. “You like him or something?”

  “Or something. He’s cute.”

  Ashley slipped the jacket from its hanger. “You got a good deal on this, girl.”

  “I know.” Shelly pulled her wallet from a pocket. “This’ll probably clean me out, but I reckon it’s worth it.” She moved closer and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “So…you want that guy to ask you out?”

  Ashley’s smile froze. “You know him?”

  “No. But I could ask around, see who does. He’s got to have friends somewhere, right?”

  “Or maybe he’s lonely and needs a new friend.” Ashley punched the last number into the register, then frowned. “Uh-oh.”

  Shelly felt her stomach drop. “What?”

  “Your employee discount. You want that, right?”

  “Um…okay.”

  “So that’s an extra twenty-five percent off.” Ashley tapped another two keys, then totaled the sale. “There you go—an entire outfit for fifteen bucks. Can’t beat that with a stick.”

  “Sure can’t.”

  With the package under her arm and Ashley’s “thank you” ringing in her ears, Shelly took the escalator down to the basement where a stack of boxes waited to be unpacked. After finishing that task, she would find Morris and ask for the night shift. For the next few weeks, she’d need a couple free hours each day to interview for a more prestigious position.

  An entire world waited outside West Virginia, and she would do anything necessary to explore it.

  At nineteen, after experiencing the benefits of an exercise in audacity, Shelly Tills found that shedding her past was no more difficult than stepping out of a pair of overalls.

  CHAPTER 11

  Gina is leaning against the elevator wall, trying to take relaxing breaths and imagine herself on a spacious snowy mountaintop, when a piercing alarm shatters the silence. The strident blaaat-blaaat-blaaat jerks her back to reality and rockets her adrenaline level.

  As her body tightens, she stares across the car at the brunette who identified herself as Michelle. A faint flicker of unease moves in the woman’s brown eyes, then she glances at her watch. “Gus,” she says, raising her voice above the din. “Remember?”

  Gina leans forward, a hand cupped around her ear. “What?”

  Michelle points at her watch. “It’s a quarter after ten. I’m guessing Gus figured the fire alarm would be a good way to clear the office suites.”

  The maid is sniveling again, trembling as she dabs at her eyes and nose with a tissue. “Is a fire?” she manages to croak between sniffs.

  The brunette shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

  A shiver passes down Gina’s spine as the shattering sound continues. Will it ever stop? By the time the mechanic arrives, they’ll be raving lunatics, driven out of their minds by this torturous racket.

  And what if Michelle’s wrong about Gus? A generator or something could have caught fire; flames could be shooting up from the lower floors at this instant. If so, they’ll be toasted in minutes if they don’t die from smoke inhalation first.

  Gina covers her ears, trying to lessen the ear-splitting sound’s impact by anticipating it, but each blaaat of the siren shatters her defenses. Over and over the alarm blares, scraping across her overtightened nerves, without deviation. Now she understands why the army uses rock music to torment suspected terrorists. This repetitive racket is enough to give anyone the screaming meemies….

  She is about ten seconds from beating her head against the wall when the alarm stops. She tenses, bracing for another explosion of noise, but a balloon of quiet fills the car instead.

  Finally, a moment of mercy.

  Michelle breaks the silence with a subdued whisper. “I don’t smell smoke, so Gus had to have pulled the alarm. There’s no way he can do an office-to-office search to make sure everyone’s out of the building.”

  The maid lifts a trembling hand. “They…will not come for us?”

  Michelle gives her a twisted smile. “I wouldn’t count on Gus. Did you see the way he walks? The man needs a hip replacement—there’s no way he could climb stairs to help us.”

  Gina struggles to find her voice. “He might try—”

  “I know Gus,” Michelle interrupts. “He’s got a good heart, but he’s not the type to take chances. He probably hit that alarm, locked the front door and headed out, convinced that he’d done all he could be expected to do. But that’s okay—Eddie Vaughn is playing the part of knight in shining armor, remember? He’s on his way.”

  Gina closes her eyes. Yes, the elevator guy is on his way…across a windblown three-mile bridge that may be closing at any minute. In the meantime, she can’t keep hoping for invisibility. Judging from what she heard through the telephone speaker, they’re likely to be sitting in this elevator at least another hour.

  She sighs and settles one shoulder against the wall, then gives Michelle a rueful smile. “I suppose I should introduce myself. I’m Gina…and I’m sorry for snapping at you a while back. With all that’s going on today, I’m a little wound up. I hated to leave my kids at home, but I wanted to run up here and help my husband handle some last-minute things in his office.” She shrugs. “I never imagined this scenario.”

  Michelle shakes her head. “Who could?”

  Gina forces a smile, then lowers her gaze to the floor. Sonny is a workaholic, but he can’t work without power and he won’t wait forever for the electricity to be restored. If he can’t work, he’ll go home. With that fire alarm blaring, he probably headed for the stairs and the parking garage, where he’ll find his car and…see hers.

  She blinks as the shock of realization hits. He’ll see her car. He’ll know she’s come downtown to find him. He’ll ask himself why she would leave the kids in this kind of weather, why she would come without calling first…and then he’ll realize he’s been found out.

  What will he do next? The question has only two possible answers. He will either return to Gina and his family, or he will go protect the other woman.

  Trapped in this cage, Gina is helpless to prevent either action.

  She turns her face toward the door as frustration stirs memories of a dark time in their marriage. Sonny’s mother died the year before Matthew was born, and Donald Rossman, Sonny’s father, grieved quietly for two years. Sonny and Gina were delighted when he met and married June.

  But when Donald entered a Kentucky hospital a few months later, they learned that June had convinced him to write a new will and change the beneficiaries on his life-insurance policies. “Of course I expect him to provide for June,” Gina whispered to Sonny as they kept a vigil by Donald’s hospital bed, “and I know your dad’s a fair man. I’ll appreciate anything he leaves us.”

  What she could never appreciate was his indifference to his only son.

  Two days after Donald’s funeral, they learned that he had left everything to June. As they prepared to return to Florida, Sonny put a few of his mother’s handmade quilts and photograph albums into the back of the van, only to be stopped by June’s attorney. With a policeman by his side, the lawyer demanded that every piece of property be returned to the house.

  Gina wept all the way home. Donald had k
nown they were struggling to establish a business and provide for two small children, yet he surrendered everything to a woman he’d known only a few months. “Lust,” Gina told Sonny, her throat raw with grief. “It addled his brain.”

  Sonny no longer speaks of his father, but the pain still exists, simmering and hot, beneath his confident facade. One has only to mention Donald’s name and the agony boils over, undercutting Sonny’s assurance and self-esteem.

  How can a man who has suffered under that hurt fail to see that he has been caught in the same trap? Sonny met a young woman and was overcome by lust; he is spending his children’s inheritance on an outsider. Given time, he will mortgage their futures to satisfy his sensual cravings.

  But his time has run out.

  Gina lifts her gaze to the dark ceiling, where the lights refuse to burn. If her husband has done the smart thing and left the building, she’ll catch up to him later. No one, especially not their father, will hurt her children like Donald hurt Sonny.

  Gina stared numbly at the check in her hand: Pay to the order of Regina Meade Rossman the sum of fifty thousand and no dollars, dated September 4, 1985. A bittersweet bequest from her last surviving parent.

  Her father had been in his grave three months before the lawyers settled his affairs. After taxes, expenses and selling his house and office building, fifty thousand dollars was all that remained of a once-sizeable estate built from her father’s insurance business.

  Her father had been more indebted than she realized, but that wouldn’t alter her plan. Her suggestion would be slightly more modest, a minor adjustment to a proposal that could bring them independence, stability and, eventually, a steady income. Most important, her offer could help Sonny fulfill his dreams.

  She had left work at noon, pleading a headache, and pulled into her parking space just as the mail carrier finished stuffing envelopes into the apartment’s mail station. Thanking him with a smile, she pulled out her key and opened her box. Hard to believe, but the lawyer had kept his word and mailed the check on time.