“Since you stopped talking to him?”
“Before I met him. He’s had his heart broken a million times, but twice he tried to kill himself.”
She was fixated again. He moved to shake her out of her apparent trance but refrained.
“Better him than you,” he insisted.
“Don’t be so cold-hearted,” she said, her eyes full of pity.
“Cold-hearted would be ignoring your safety. Carrie, this guy is bad news. If you don’t protect yourself now, you’ll regret it later, I promise you.”
“Now you’re scaring me.”
“Good. You should be scared. How many girls have ended up dead because some loser can’t handle rejection?”
With a deep sigh, she placed her hand on the mouse and opened the word processor, then the file named Grannys_Cookbook.
“You want me to look up the statistics and prove it to you?” he asked.
“But if I’m wrong I could push him over the edge,” she said, scrolling down the file to the next dessert recipe.
“If he can be pushed over the edge, that’s still his fault, not yours. You’re not responsible for his actions or how he handles yours. Don’t worry about his emotional well-being; worry about your physical safety. Either he’ll be fine and get over it, or he’ll learn the hard way when he gets locked up.”
Her eyes trailed away again, this time to the boss. Mr. Anderson traversed the maze of cubicles on his morning rounds. She cleared her throat in case Ben didn’t get the clue.
“I’ll let you be,” he said. “Think about what I said. I’ll talk to you later.”
***
It was 12:15 when Ben made good on his promise. Carrie was oblivious to his first attempt to get her attention.
She jumped back in her seat when she saw the open hand wave between her face and the computer screen. His fingers left strobing trails, thanks to the outdated monitor’s slow refresh rate.
“Earth to Carrie,” she heard him say, as if for the hundredth time.
“Sorry,” she said and swiveled around to see him towering above her with his leather jacket draped over one shoulder. “You caught me in my zone.”
“No kidding.”
“How’s your book?”
“Awesome.”
“No, silly. I mean where are you at?”
“Oh. Making progress.”
“Awesome,” she mocked him then smacked his gut softly. “Wish I could say the same. You get fiction and theology, and I get stuck with self-help and cookbooks. What’s the name of your book again?”
“The Fifth Angel—you know, from the Book of Revelation.”
“Is it like Left Behind?”
“No, it’s non-fiction. Still, some whiz in marketing wanted to put the tagline It IS Your Grandmother’s Zombie Story on it.”
“Sounds like a cheesy movie.”
“I’d pay to see it.”
“Considering the epidemic that’s happening right now, it’s a pretty serious topic to be taken so lightly. Not that anyone takes Father Jerome’s writing seriously.”
“There are a few of us who do.”
“And my division gets called the Ichabod section,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“His stuff is scripturally sound.”
“Says you.”
“His stuff is more sound than half the nut job charis-maniacs we publish.”
She huffed, blowing a long lock of brown hair away from her green eyes. “Did you need something?”
“What?” he asked, then shook his head when he noticed her offense. “Lunch. I’m heading to U-Boats to grab a sub. You wanna come?”
“Thanks, but I brought leftovers.”
“Would leftovers include Gramma Collins’ oatmeal cookies?”
She smacked his belly again. “Don’t you dream of it!”
“I’m just saying, if I come back from lunch and see them in the fridge I’m all over it.”
“You better not!” she said playfully.
“Okay, I’ll leave your cookies alone if you have lunch with me tomorrow.”
She frowned. “Can’t tomorrow. It’s women’s lunch day. What about Friday?”
“Cool,” he said, smiling as he donned his jacket. “I’m off. See you in a little while.”
“‘Kay. Bye.”
She watched him from behind as he walked away. She liked how his tan khaki pants clung to the contours of his strong legs, and though she wouldn’t dare admit it to a living soul, she really liked his butt.
She was admiring him all the more when the round yellow sticker on her monitor caught her eye with its purple flowery font: “Whatsoever things are true, honest, just, pure, lovely, of good report, virtuous or praiseworthy, think on these things. Phil. 4:8.”
She mouthed a silent “Sorry, Lord,” and straightened her glasses to continue typing, but half a minute later her stomach growled. It was definitely lunch time. She took the folded letter and balled it in her hand, and dropped it in the wastebasket on top of the empty coffee cup. She saved her work, grabbed her purse and headed for the break room.
***
The clock on the break room wall read 1:20 when Ben returned from lunch. He was pleased to find Carrie quietly nibbling one of her oatmeal cookies and reading something. He returned to his cubicle, and not much later saw her return to hers.
He smiled at the sight of her and focused more intently on his work, until he, too, was lost in the theology of a somewhat higher caliber.
***
The LED clock above the elevator read 5:15 in large, red numbers when Ben emerged into the cavernous underground garage. A dense cacophony of echoing footsteps, voices, slamming car doors, starting engines and rubber tires on concrete welcomed all who entered its architectural abyss.
Ben jogged nearly 10 yards before he was within earshot of Carrie.
“Hey,” he called from behind. When he witnessed a dozen turning heads, he lowered his voice to that just above the noise. “You shouldn’t be walking by yourself.”
“Keep it down,” she said, her face turning red. “I don’t want the whole office to know.”
“Fine, but at least be smart enough to let me walk you to your car.”
“Okay, but if you make a scene like that everyone’s going to start talking.”
He smiled and kept his thoughts to himself. When they reached her car, she took her keys from her purse and unlocked the car door.
“You want me to follow you home?” he asked.
“Then I’d have two stalkers,” she joked and sat inside.
“Be careful, please.”
“If anything happens I promise I’ll call you, cross my heart,” she said, making a large imaginary X over her chest with a finger. Though she wore a modest sweater, it didn’t conceal she was especially endowed.
Ben’s throat tightened as he followed the movement of her finger, but he quickly regained his thoughts. “Don’t call me. Call the police. I mean that.”
She smiled and glanced at his hand resting on the door. Her eyes traced the thick veins running along his forearm. She cleared her throat to distract from her blushing face.
“Oh, sorry,” he said and checked to ensure nothing was in the way before closing the door for her.
He returned to his own car and soon pulled out of the garage behind her, catching up with her at the traffic light. When it changed, the two went in opposite directions.
***
Alex sat straight in his car and turned the key in his ignition. He pulled out of the garage and followed her from a distance. When she exited her car, he casually drove past and parked on the curb half a block away.
He adjusted his rear-view mirror to get a glimpse of her walking in burgundy slacks that revealed she was pleasantly endowed from behind as well. The short concrete drive and grass lawn ended at her modest one-story home’s high brick foundation. Carrie ascended the stair to the front door and disappeared inside.
Alex was still staring at the closed door in the
rearview mirror when he heard two voices. He lowered his eyes to see a pair of young men coming down the sidewalk. His hand fumbled on the gear shift and put it into drive, only to pull out in front of an approaching car, whose driver blared the horn and blasted him with expletives. He sped ahead of the angry driver into the setting city sun.
***
Carrie’s dinner performed an endless pirouette inside the microwave. An aroma of brown rice pilaf and black beans escaped through the crack of the microwave door, making her habitually wonder if more dangerous waves were escaping from the maximum security prison through the same convenient chink.
With her hands under the running faucet, her mind wandered. Maybe microwave food and radiation were responsible for the zombie mutation. She should ask Ben again. He was smart and would probably know.
When she thought of handsome Ben, her eyes were drawn to the framed stained glass that hung over the window above her sink. Dusk sunlight shone through colored glass, casting orange shapes across Carrie’s tired face.
The monarch butterfly design lent itself naturally to the medium. The solder line framework spread through the butterfly’s wings in the form of metal veins, separating orange and black polygons from one another.
She was momentarily lost in the glass’s dancing light when the microwave chimed. She smirked when she realized the water was still running and she was no longer lathering her hands. She returned the now soft bar of soap to its dish then dried her hands off.
The same warm sunlight that cast butterflies on her face flooded the other west-facing windows of her house. Gilt-edged drops of perspiration made locks of her thick hair cling to her forehead. Through the sink window, she saw an inviting breeze blowing the trees beside her home.
She gave the windowsill a push only to discover the thick layer of paint around the frame had swollen it shut. She pounded the bottom of the sill with the butt of her palm to loosen it. With a spirited shove, she launched the window into the top of the frame, which shook the stained glass free from the nail it hung on.
Refracted flashes of broken light passed before her as the stained glass fell into the sink, shattering into fragments of orange and black. After her initial jump, Carrie’s shoulders drooped in disappointment.
***
Outside she emptied the broken contents of the dustpan into the trash bag and pulled the drawstrings tight, then made sure to snap the lid on the trashcan shut—she had learned the hard way the neighborhood dogs were far too curious.
***
She finished her meal when the phone vibrated. Though she saw ALEX on the caller ID, she reluctantly answered. “Hi, Alex.”
“Carrie, I’ve been trying to reach you,” said the throaty voice. “Did you get my letter?”
“Yes,” she said, already exhausted. “I wish you wouldn’t have come to the office.”
“Why? You don’t want people to know we’re friends?”
Already. Couldn’t he just once go five minutes without making every comment part of his persecution complex?
She sighed. “I don’t want people to think I’m dating someone.”
“Why?”
“We’ve talked about this before.”
“Oh yeah, it’s against your religion.”
When she didn’t comment, he continued. “I was on my way to the stained glass class and was wondering if you needed a ride.”
“My car works fine.”
“I know. I just figured we could carpool; save you some gas money.”
“Thanks, but I decided to quit the class. It just wasn’t in my budget. I can’t justify being late on rent or car payment because of a hobby.”
“I thought you liked making stained glass.”
“It’s fun, but it’s not something I can invest all my time and energy into. Certainly not my money.”
“If you need help, I can spot you.”
“That’s generous, but I couldn’t make you do that. You have bills to pay, too.”
“It’s no big deal. Just a small sacrifice to make for someone you enjoy spending time with.”
“You enjoy, or I enjoy?”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“It won’t be the same without you.”
“It’s something you enjoy doing, and there are plenty of friendly people there.”
“I don’t know. It just won’t be the same.”
“Just go. You’ll have a good time.”
“It won’t be the same.”
“Look, I hate to cut it short, but I have to run.”
“Yeah? What are you doing?”
“Dishes, then a little cleaning, and if I have time, a little TV before bed.”
“I could come over and help.”
“No, thank you.”
“Aw, come on. I’m not afraid of getting my hands dirty, and I do dishes all the time.”
“No, really. I can do it by myself just fine.”
“If I helped, you would have more time to watch TV. I could even watch with you.”
“I don’t think you’d like the kind of TV I watch.”
“What is it? Some chick flick stuff? I can handle that. I’ve seen Fried Green Tomatoes. Best chick flick ever. It even has cannibalism. How many chick flicks do you know that have someone eating the flesh of another human being?”
He face twisted in revulsion. “I wouldn’t watch something that disturbing.”
“You’ve never seen Fried Green Tomatoes? It’s great! Kathy Bates, the fat chick from Misery is in it.”
“No. Don’t think I’ve seen that one, either.”
“Sure you have. Where she kidnaps the writer and breaks his legs with a hammer?”
“I’m sure I haven’t seen it.”
“Aw, man, it’s great. It’s based on a real-life stalker Stephen King dealt with, only she didn’t break his legs like Kathy Bates does in Misery.”
“It sounds disgusting.”
“It’s horror—it has to be a little disgusting. But they’re not bad films.”
“I don’t watch R-rated films.”
“Fried Green Tomatoes isn’t rated R.”
“There’s cannibalism in it, and it’s not rated R?”
“Nah. It’s only PG-13.”
“It should be rated R.”
“No way. There’s nothing in it that would make it rated R. There’s no nudity—well unless you count the scene where Kathy Bates wraps herself in Saran Wrap.”
“She what?”
“Yeah. It’s hilarious. She wraps—”
“Alex.”
“What?”
“You know I don’t like that kind of stuff.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. What kind of stuff do you like?”
“I work at a Christian book publisher. I read Christian books. I watch Christian TV. I listen to Christian music. I rent Christian movies. None of that worldly stuff. That’s just a door for the demonic to enter into your life.”
“Well, okay. I’d be willing to watch some Christian TV with you.”
“Alex.”
“What?”
“I have to go.”
“Don’t you want me to come over and help?”
“No, Alex. I want to do it by myself.”
“Why?”
“I just got off work. I’m tired, and my hair is a mess.”
“I don’t care how you look.”
“But I do.”
“Well, I could give you a little time to clean yourself up if you want. How long do you need? Fifteen, 20 minutes, half-hour tops?”
“I’m going now, Alex.”
“Wait, wait, wait—Carrie—wait just a second.”
“What is it, Alex?”
“I love you.”
“Goodbye, Alex,” she said and pressed END-CALL.
***
“Wait, wait, wait!” Alex yelled at the silent phone. “Damn it, you slut! Just let me finish talking, will ya?”
He threw the cell phone against the wall, cracking th
e screen and knocking the battery cover off. “Why in such a hurry?” he shouted at the top of his lungs.
He paced the floor like a ping-pong ball bouncing back and forth. “Not like you have anywhere to go or anything to do! Certainly not the stained glass class we’ve attended together for a month straight, stupid whore!”
In all his shouting he didn’t hear the banging door.
“Who are you yelling at?” the voice shouted and the door swung open. Mrs. Owen stood on the threshold with the key ring in hand.
“You have no right to come in here!” he yelled at her in mid-argument with himself.
“The hell I don’t. Why do you think I carry these?” she said and jangled the key ring.
Alex’ face was red. A bulging, throbbing vein ran up the center of his forehead, pulsing with hot, angry blood. He wanted to smash her head in, but the .45 strapped to her hip was a good excuse not to try it.
She surveyed the scene. His cell phone sat on the floor by the wall. Across the room was the battery cover. The orange prescription bottle on his computer desk appeared nearly full.
Glancing up from the floor she saw the dented drywall, and all around the room, the dizzying array of shapes and colors from his myriad stained glass pieces: butterflies (his recent obsession and ode to Carrie), tigers, zebras, pandas—everything dual-toned, positive and negative, light and dark. She often wondered if the hypnotic colors were the source of his manic madness or peace.
He marched back and forth a few times while swatting himself in the head. She turned away while he finished his argument as she had several times before. She sighed and waited until her own anger subsided, overcome by a recurrent flood of compassion, mingled in a muddy, rushing river of guilt.
“Are you taking your medicine?” she asked calmly.
“Of course,” he pouted. “I’m not stupid.”
“Good. Now why don’t you cut on the news and relax,” she suggested.
He sat down in the swivel chair and reached for the remote. “Cut on the news and relax,” he echoed her advice. “Cut on the news and relax.”
Mrs. Owen pushed the lock on the door and quietly pulled it shut, then backed out of the room. “Thank you, Lord,” she whispered with raised eyes.
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