by Nancy Thayer
It was this secretary who greeted Alice as she entered her office. Diane was competent, but she was also thirtyfive, divorced, man-hungry, and swooningly eager to work with Cummings’s secretary, a fortyish man named Barton Baker.
Though Alice knew she could expect no loyalty from Diane, she still stopped at Diane’s desk to chat a few moments, trying to build some kind of camaraderie. Briefly they discussed weather, the latest news on Stan’s health, and commiserated on the chaos the new merger and acquisitions were causing the company.
When Alice headed into the inner sanctum of her own office, Diane followed her.
“Could I bring you a cup of coffee?”
“Thanks, Diane. I’d love a cup of decaf.”
How far would it go toward engendering a close relationship, Alice wondered, if she confessed to the secretary that these days coffee gave her acid indigestion and heart palpitations? Bad idea. Diane was too young; she’d see any weaknesses on Alice’s part as signs of imminent disability and death, and she’d leak it to the rest of the secretaries, and before she knew it, the jackals would be at Alice’s heels.
Settling at her desk, Alice booted up her computer, scanned her schedule, and checked out the TransWorld interoffice daily report. As she waited for her computer to access her e-mail, she eased her feet out of her gorgeous shoes, knowing she was trading immediate comfort for the eventual necessary agony of compressing her feet back in. Diane brought her decaf. Alice stirred artificial sweetener into it and sipped as she blasted directives, responses, and suggestions off into the Internet ether. Five minutes later, the waistband of her skirt was slicing into her skin. What was up with that? Did she have some mysterious illness that made her bloat like an elephant? With the help of estrogen patches and occasional diuretics, she’d pretty much sailed through menopause, and she’d thought by now the worst was over.
The truth was, she now realized, the worst was never over. She was sixty-two, and the worst was inexorably heading her way. What had sagged would never rise again. She’d get back her twenty-two-inch waist only at her deathbed or in the grave. She couldn’t afford time off from work to have plastic surgery, and now that Eloise was gone, she couldn’t even relax her arthritic back with the little secret catnaps she’d stolen every afternoon while Eloise guarded her door.
To add indignity to infirmity, she’d been in her office only twenty minutes and already she had to pee. As senior vice president, she had her own bathroom off her office, but she was painfully aware that out at her desk, Diane would be able to hear the toilet flush. She would be, even unconsciously, alerted to the frequency with which Alice went to the john. For all she knew, Diane was at heart a kind woman, but Alice had to consider her one of the jackals. Alice dare not betray the slightest sign of weakness.
She had to get her own secretary. ASAP.
Among the professional e-mails were two brief blips from her sons: Alan in Houston and Steven in Oregon. She adored them and took pleasure in the knowledge of their continuing health and happiness and that of their wives and children, but she’d never been a warm-and-fuzzy woman, except perhaps the first few years when her boys were babies. She loved her work, and she was damned good at it.
She’d been with TransContinent for thirty-six years. In a way, it was her true home. She’d been a lowly receptionist when Arthur Hudson founded the company in Kansas in 1966. Her sons had been in elementary school then, and she’d been married to her high school sweetheart, Mack Flynn. Women didn’t work so much back then, but Mack had less talent and persistence for keeping jobs than for playing football, and the family needed her income. Eventually Mack got a steady job delivering Coca-Cola, but he was a handsome, good-natured womanizer, and the job provided lots of opportunities to meet women.
When Mack divorced her to go out with someone else, TransContinent provided stability and support. With her boss’s urging, Alice continued working during the day while taking classes toward a master’s in administration at night. Slowly she’d climbed the corporate ladder, becoming administrative assistant to the vice president in charge of personnel and administration. By the time her sons went off to college, she was able— just—to pay their tuition: good thing, too, since their father couldn’t.
When she was thirty-five, she made the mistake she most regretted: She’d had an affair with Bill Weaver, her immediate superior. He was in charge of personnel, and he taught her everything about the job. Founded on mutual respect, their relationship had deepened as the company grew and the stresses mounted. Their sexual affair seemed a natural outcome of the long hours they spent working into the night, night after night after night. But Bill had a wife he loved; he’d never misled Alice about that, and she had thought for a long while that what she had with Bill was sufficient for her life. She had no other life, really. During other holidays when Bill was at home, she was perfectly happy, and even sometimes relieved, to have the time to herself. Often she simply spent the time in bed alone, catching up on hours and hours of lost sleep.
After five years, Bill’s wife discovered their affair. Around the same time, the home offices of the company were moved to Boston. Bill remained, but Alice made the move with them, though it meant leaving behind her home and a scattering of old friends she seldom saw. She’d been forty-one years old.
Since then, she’d been celibate, and the truth was, that was fine. All the passion, energy, and devotion she’d given Bill she now channeled into her work, and it had paid off, finally: At fifty-one, she was made a senior vice president of the company. The only woman vice president. The only woman officer, period.
Alice had seen the company grow from three hundred to over five thousand employees. She’d been personally responsible for researching, targeting, and implementing the personnel programs and benefits that made TransContinent a company where everyone wanted to work. Her office walls were hung with awards presented to her from within the company and from national organizations, for her innovative work in providing all the employees of TransContinent with excellent benefit packages and superior working conditions. Because of her work, TransContinent had been one of the first corporations in the country to provide in-house day care; her system had been used as a model all over the nation.
Now she faced a new challenge: developing human resources guidelines for a multinational organization. It would be a bitch of a job.
No, she had to do the job with a bitch.
During the preliminary conference call with their immediate superior, Melvin Watertown, Alice sketched out an overview for integrating the human resources policies and employment benefit programs, including a humanitarian plan for day-care centers for the workers, and health clinics, and possible educational opportunities for the employees in the new operations.
Alison Cummings had scoffed. “Your ideas are sweet, Alice, but financially unsound.”
Alice snapped back, “The majority of our shareholders are interested in optimizing the environment for the workers.”
“No, most of our shareholders are interested in profit. We’re not a charity.”
“In the long run,” Alice argued, “employee benefits pay off.”
“Our newer shareholders don’t care about the long run,” Cummings shot back. “They’re young, they’re in a hurry, they want to see profits fast.”
Alice had thought the young were supposed to be idealistic! Obviously, this was not a quality Alison cherished, nor did she show any respect for a woman who had struggled through the early years of feminism so some sleek cookie like Alison could step into a high-ranking job.
“Why don’t you formulate an employee package you both can live with and get back to us,” Melvin had growled, and signed off.
True, Alice had rushed things. She knew that conditions and needs had to be studied and humanitarianism needed to be balanced against profit and loss. Some of their new facilities weren’t operational yet. In some project areas further exploration had to be done before the size of the necessary workforce could
be estimated. She’d attempted a preemptive strike, wanting to prove she had the overview and didn’t need Alison, and Alison had struck back, hard and fast, instead of making a conciliatory gesture such as suggesting they discuss it.
Alice was glad for the warning. She’d always intended to stay at TransContinent until she was forced to retire, and just a few years ago the company got rid of its mandatory age sixty-five retirement policy. She had the acumen, knowledge, and experience the company needed. This company was her home, her family, and her friends. She planned to work here until she was carried out in her coffin.
She’d be damned if she’d let Alison Cummings change that.
5
FAYE
The sound of the mail falling through the brass mail slot was so familiar that Faye believed she could hear it from wherever she was in the house. If she couldn’t actually hear it, certainly she could sense its arrival.
She was still in her turquoise kimono when the mail arrived, and, as usual, she took it back to the breakfast room to peruse while lingering over a cup of coffee.
She got a ridiculous number of catalogues. She thought of the waste of trees, and the toll it took on the letter carriers’ backs. On the other hand, she did buy a lot from catalogues, and often looked through them as if they were magazines. Her best friends lived in other states, and since Jack’s death, some of her married friends had fallen away. The catalogue models’ faces were familiar and amiable, and it cheered her lonely days to see them. A free kind of therapy, then.
No bills, but a smattering of ads and a postcard from one of their friends, retired and on a cruise, and—oh! An invitation to a retirement party for Eloise Linley, whose husband Frank had worked at the same law firm as Jack. Over the years, Faye had seen Eloise at Christmas parties and other functions. Occasionally they’d met in smaller groups at private dinner parties in someone’s home. Faye had always admired Eloise, who worked as a personal secretary for one of the vice presidents of a colossal corporation. When Jack died a year ago, Eloise had sent her a note of condolence, and when Frank Linley died six months ago, Faye had returned the favor. She’d contemplated calling the other woman to ask her for dinner or tea, but somehow had never gotten around to it. Now Eloise was retiring, and the company was throwing her a party.
Faye was pleased to be invited, but she wouldn’t go. She wasn’t close to Eloise. She rose to toss the paper into the recycling bag.
“What’s that, Mom?” Laura asked, coming into the room. Barefoot, in a robe of Faye’s that hung on her, her hair tied back in a ponytail, she looked about twelve years old, except for her swollen breasts in their nursing bra.
Laura and Megan had moved in for a few days, because Laura had a killer cold that made her sneeze and cough incessantly. When Laura wasn’t sneezing, baby Megan was screaming, and Laura was exhausted. Faye was glad to help, and she agreed that Laura wasn’t much of a seductive sight at the moment; it might not be a bad thing for her marriage if she and the baby were away from Lars for a few nights. On the other hand, was it wise for Laura to desert her home when she thought her husband might be having an affair?
Laura picked up the invitation. “A party? At the TransWorld building? Cool!” Dropping into a chair, she blew her nose.
Faye poured a glass of fresh orange juice and set it before her daughter. “Oh, honey, I won’t know anyone there.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Laura sipped, then said, “You’ll know Eloise. You’re bound to know someone else. The munchies should be terrific, and I’ve heard the building’s astounding.”
“But I don’t have anything to wear,” Faye protested. Her honest nature forced her to admit, “Nothing that fits.”
“Then buy something!” Laura insisted. “You’ve got to go! It will be good for you. You can’t just mope around the house for the rest of your life.”
That was true, Faye silently agreed. She leaned against the counter, gazing at her daughter and granddaughter, remembering twenty-eight years ago, when she’d been pregnant with Laura. Then, Faye had enjoyed having that extra little basketball-sized attachment on her body. Now, she weighed as much as she had when she was nine months’ pregnant. Furthermore, age and hormonal change made weight accumulate not just in her normal belly, but also in a new rotund protrusion between the bottom of her breasts and the top of her waist. It was rather like having a sleeping puppy lying on a pillow on her lap, except that when she stood up, the puppy, pillow, and lap remained. Plus, every day the puppy grew. It had been a dachshund. Now it was more like a bulldog.
Still, Faye resolved to view her changing body in a positive way. After all, her stomachs were rather companionable. Like mascots. She could even name them. Honey, for the larger lower one, Bunny for the upper. The thought made her smile.
“Mom?”
Faye forced her thoughts back to the present. She peered into the refrigerator. “Would you like some scrambled eggs? Maybe an omelet?”
“I’d love some, but don’t evade the issue. You really should go to this party.”
Faye took down her favorite blue-and-white pottery bowl and began to break eggs into it. She and Laura had always given each other good advice. “All right, then, I’ll go!”
Then it was her turn to counsel Laura. She only wished she knew what to say.
6
SHIRLEY
All night long, Shirley dreamed she was at a wonder-ful party. She woke warm and happy, as if she were floating on the memory of her dream.
Later, as she stood at the kitchen window, eating yogurt and granola for breakfast, she saw a bird she’d never seen before fly to the feeder she kept full on the old apple tree in the backyard. Another good omen.
And the day went by flawlessly. All her clients came to her, so she had time to rest and exercise in between. Two of her clients tipped her that day, which was rare. Hiram Folger, who had arthritis, rose from her table saying that was the best massage she’d ever given—he felt like a new man! And poor Betsy Little, who wanted so desperately to get pregnant, only to find herself each month overwhelmed by debilitating cramps, told Shirley she believed she had magic in her hands. Betsy felt she was receiving such good energy from Shirley that someday her body would surprise them all with a strong, healthy pregnancy.
“You’re absolutely right,” Shirley affirmed, not because she wanted Betsy to continue coming for her weekly massages, but because she knew that when the body was involved, half the battle was won by one’s heart and mind.
When her last client left, Shirley brewed a pot of cranberry tea and curled up in a basket chair to find the movie listings in the newspaper. Jimmy had been in a good mood this morning, as well he should have been, because Shirley, floating on clouds of pleasure from her dream, had surprised him with a blow job he said he’d remember all his life. So perhaps she might be able to persuade him to see a movie with her. Usually he hated movies. Jimmy was a restless man, a man’s man, and the only movies he wanted to see were too violent for Shirley. But she felt hopeful this afternoon. There was a movie starring Jack Nicholson that looked good, and Jimmy loved Jack Nicholson. Maybe they’d go out for dinner, too, at the Thai place she loved. Maybe—
The front door slammed, startling Shirley. Jimmy came barreling into the room. He was a big, burly man with a beard that always needed trimming and eyebrows as bushy as his beard. He wore jeans and a studded black leather jacket. His striped T-shirt strained over his beer belly, and his eyes were wild.
“I’m out of here!” he yelled. “I’m blowing this fucking town.”
“Jimmy!” Shirley jumped to her feet. “What happened?”
“That fucking wop, that’s what happened!” Jimmy said. Turning, he stomped down the hall to their bedroom.
Warily, Shirley followed at a distance. Sometimes, when Jimmy got really steamed, he took his anger out on her. From the hall she watched him yank his duffel bag down from the closet shelf. Jimmy worked at a local discount furniture store, loading and delivering furniture, and his b
oss, Manny Scillio, was forever riding Jimmy about taking too long to make his deliveries. Manny accused him of stopping by a bar on the way. The fact that Manny’s suspicions were true wasn’t of interest to Jimmy.
“Jimmy—”
“He fired me! That stupid cocksucking asshole fired me !”
“Oh, hon, I’m so sorry. But you know, maybe it’s a good thing. You’ve hated working for Manny. Now you can find another job, a better job, one you enjoy—”
Jimmy yanked his drawer out of the bureau so hard it fell on the floor, splitting. He shoveled his underwear, socks, and T-shirts into his duffel bag. Jerked the Ralph Lauren Polo button-down shirts she’d bought him for birthdays and Christmas off the hangers and stuffed them into the bag, too.
“No way am I staying in this town. I’m sick of the cold weather, I’m sick of the gray sky and mud. I’m sick of living around wops and gooks. I’m heading south.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Yeah, I’m leaving, and don’t you give me any grief about it, Shirl. You know I’ve been unhappy here. You know I like Florida. I got friends there.”
“Great, friends who sell drugs. Jimmy, you’ll get sucked right back in—”
“Don’t start with me! Don’t even start!” Jimmy brushed past her, into the bathroom to scoop up his toothbrush and Shirley’s toothpaste.
“But Jimmy, I thought—”
He stormed down the hall to the front door. “It don’t matter what you thought, Shirl. Don’t matter what I thought. Things change. I’m gone.”
He left, not bothering to close the door behind him. Shirley stood there, watching him mount his Harley-Davidson. He did look bad on that cycle. He roared off down the street, taking the corner fast, leaning sideways the way he liked, looking dangerous and sexy as the devil.
