by Nancy Thayer
Alice’s jaw sagged. How in the world—?
“We have it from the horse’s mouth, Alice. Marilyn told Barton Baker last night. He told Alison, who told me this morning, when she got here at six-thirty, as she does.”
Alice closed her eyes. Then she scrambled to get on the offensive. “Well, hell, Melvin. Are you surprised? You know better than anyone what’s going on with this merger. I’m fighting to save as many TransContinent people as possible, and I suppose Alison’s trying to do the same for Champion, but frankly, I find her inflexible, cold, and arrogant. You know half the office gossip gets carried by the secretaries, and Alison’s got her old faithful Barton, while my old faithful secretary Eloise retired, leaving me with no protection. What I did was only sensible!”
“No, Alice. What you did was paranoid.” Bowing his head, Melvin ran his hands through his white U of fringe, then looked up. “Alice, we go back a long way together, you and I, and I think you know I have always admired the hell out of you.”
“I’m aware of that, Melvin, and I appr—”
“So I am just downright sad to see you lose your vision here.”
“Lose my—”
“I’ve felt for a while now, and I speak for the others as well, that you’re just not interested in keeping up with the program. You’re seeing this merger as a problem, a negative, not a challenge, a positive.”
“Come on, Melvin, I—”
“And look what’s happened, just in one day. The computer business plus the more serious problem of your paranoia toward a new member of the team. We just can’t have this kind of attitude here now. Not with so many enormous new responsibilities.”
“Melvin. Listen to—”
“Now, I’ve talked it over with Bill and Carl, and here’s what we’ve decided.” Leaning back in his chair, he held his hands out, palms up, as if offering a gift. “We want to give you a nice three-month paid leave. You can go to that massage retreat place you’re so interested in. Do whatever you want.”
“That’s ridiculous. I can’t leave when there’s so much work—”
He interrupted, very slightly raising his voice. “After that, you can retire with a really first-class settlement package. A golden parachute that will keep your boat afloat in style. Perhaps, if you’d like, a banquet honoring you for all the work you’ve done for this company over the past thirty years.”
“For God’s sake, Melvin,” Alice said brusquely, “it’s Alice you’re talking to here. If I’m not working up to expectation, just say so. I’m a big girl. I can handle it. I can—” Then she saw the expression on his face. The compassion stopped her dead.
For one long, horrible moment, Alice and Melvin stared at each other. She might as well be staring at a doctor who’d just diagnosed her terminally ill, or a judge sentencing her to death. Her heart rattled beneath her ribs like a prisoner shaking iron window bars.
“You’re going to force me to retire?” she whispered.
Melvin rearranged his face into a painful rictus of a smile. “Alice, you know I’m your biggest fan. Always have been. I know how much you’ve put into TransContinent. I know what a hell of a fine worker you’ve been all these years. To be honest with you, I’d like to see you enjoy life a little bit, because that’s what you deserve.”
Alice pounded her fists on her thighs. “For Christ’s sake, Melvin, don’t talk down to me.”
“I’m not talking down to you, Alice. I’m telling you the God’s truth. I want to see you enjoy life, and that’s why I’ve managed to get you a one-million-dollar retirement bonus.”
Alice nearly spat. “One million dollars? I make that in three years!”
“But do you want to spend the next three years working with this new team?” Before she could answer, Melvin plowed ahead. “I don’t think so, Alice. You haven’t given me any signs over the past six months that you’d enjoy the work, or, frankly, that you’d have anything to offer. This is definitely the best solution for everyone involved.”
A stinging sensation pushed at the skin of Alice’s face. God in heaven, she was going to cry. She was going to wail. She was going to fall on her knees, crawl around the desk, kiss the toes of Melvin’s shiny wing tips, and beg him not to do this to her.
She swallowed her pride. “TransContinent is my life, Melvin.”
He shook his head sadly. “It’s TransWorld now.”
Alice recoiled. Melvin spoke gently, but his words hit her like a blow in the chest. Then, in a flash of mortification, she understood the depth of her own failure, so clearly, precisely, betrayed by her use of the name of the former company, the old company. TransContinent, and the entire world it represented, had been, like a discontinued item, yanked off the shelf, replaced by a shinier, more efficient, and flashier toy.
“Can I get you something, Alice?” Melvin pulled open a desk drawer and brought out a silver flask. “How about a little brandy?”
Alice shook her head, not trusting her voice not to quaver. She, who had once held the fates of hundreds of people’s lives in her hands, was now considered obsolescent, passé—worthless.
“A glass of water, then? How about a cup of coffee?”
“No, thank you, Melvin.” Long ago, she might have said to Melvin, her old friend and colleague, “Are you kidding? Coffee gives me indigestion and makes me pee like Niagara Falls.” Now she could only salvage what little dignity she had left. Clenching her hands and jaw, she rose. She was relieved to find her legs actually supported her; she’d half expected her knees to buckle or shake.
Once again Melvin extended his hand across the desk. “Good luck, Alice. And I’ll be in touch.”
She could not bring herself to shake his hand. She gave herself that much satisfaction: Head high, she sneered at him, but her insult was lost, because at just that moment, Melvin’s eyes flickered down to check his watch. She’d overstayed her allotted time.
Alice pulled Melvin’s door shut, firmly, and quietly, but she could tell by Elvira Gray’s frozen face that the secretary knew exactly what had just happened. With a flash, Alice realized everyone in TransWorld knew about her termination. Her retirement.
Melvin couldn’t have made the decision alone. He must have discussed it with the other execs, the new TransWorld people and some of Alice’s old cronies as well. The thought of that, of muttered private discussions about her competence, her failures, her uselessness, made her nearly sick with shame.
Briskly she moved down the corridor, face implacable, eyes fixed in front of her to prevent catching even a glimpse of anyone staring at her with amusement or triumph or—gag—pity.
“Alice?” Marilyn glanced up from her desk, her face tense. “Tech support came. They took your computer—”
Alice swept past her, shut her office door, rushed into her bathroom, and closed that door. Turning on both faucets full blast, she prayed the noise would cover her sounds as she fell to her knees over the toilet and regurgitated her breakfast. Her heart thumped so rapidly! She was afraid it would explode in her chest, and only the fear of being found dead against the toilet made her lurch to her feet. She rinsed out her mouth, drank some water, and stared at her wide-eyed face in the mirror. Jesus Christ, was this the last time she’d be in this room?
It was.
Frantically she began retrieving personal items from her cabinet. Mouthwash, toothpaste, toothbrush, deodorant, perfume, face cream, all the stuff she needed for working late or rushing off to a business dinner. Under the sink, she found her box of Kotex. She’d finished with periods long ago, but the past ten or so years, whenever she sneezed, coughed, or laughed, she leaked— it was like her damn bladder was attached by a rubber band directly to her nose. How clever she’d thought she was, instead of buying Depend or Poise or any of the other “incontinence” pads, she’d bought sanitary napkins, in case anyone, from the cleaning lady on up, ever looked in her bathroom cabinet. She’d actually thought she’d prevented everyone from knowing she was getting older.
; But she was older.
And everyone knew.
Clutching the sink, Alice threw her head back and grimaced, expelling a silent howl. She was in so much pain she thought she might die. Perhaps this was how people did die of heart attacks.
She had to keep going. She grabbed the makeup pouch, stuffed with her hygienic needs, and stepped back into her office. Now, to clean out her desk.
Slumping in her chair, she pulled open her drawers, discovering to her shock how little, really, there was for her to take. A roll of breath mints. A handful of change. A zippered leather nail kit. Several emergency packets of panty hose. From the top of her desk, framed photographs of her two sons and their families.
One wall was hung with beautifully framed photos: a black-and-white shot of Alice with Arthur Hudson, in Kansas, in 1966, when he first started the company. Well, Arthur had died two years ago. A color shot of Alice, Arthur, and three other men on the site of the new TransContinent building in ’76. Bill Weaver was standing next to her, and after all the intervening years, the radiance of his sexuality still plucked at Alice’s nerves like a harpist’s fingers. The next shot was taken in 1980, when TransContinent moved to Boston and Alice left Kansas, and Bill Weaver, with his wife, behind. In that photo, Alice looked gaunt. After four years of secret passion, Bill had chosen his wife. Alice had had to move on, and although she smiled, her eyes told of pain.
Several wooden plaques were interspersed among the pictures. The smaller, plainer wooden ones made her smile. Best Secretary of the Year, 1968. Most Valued Employee, 1979. The newer ones, won when TransContinent had grown huge, weren’t so meaningful; some motivational type had insisted they give out lots of awards, claiming it would improve company morale. Hell, it had been her decision to hire the motivational consultant.
Alice took the earliest two plaques and the photos down. They left pale rectangles on the wall.
She paused, staring at the small collection of articles. Did she really have so little to carry with her?
Probably there were files on her computer she’d want to copy or send to her laptop. She’d have to wait until tech support cleaned off the virus. How long would that take? Should she wait there?
Doing what?
Dear God, she no longer belonged in her own office! It wasn’t her office any longer, or it wouldn’t be, once she walked out the door. And after she walked out that door—why, her entire life would be over! She’d been married to TransContinent longer than to Mack! Her head held more information about TransContinent personnel than any damned computer—how could they imagine they could exist without her?
A tap came at her door, then Marilyn stuck her head in. “Got a moment?”
Alice glared at Marilyn, who looked pretty in a pale rose silk top, not one of the neutral shades the HFC had helped her buy. Did this mean Marilyn had actually gone shopping for herself? Yes, of course, to be more seductive to Barton, who had obviously hypnotized her. Marilyn, whose purpose was to help Alice.
“I’ve got all the time in the world,” Alice stated flatly.
Marilyn stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind her. “Tech support—”
Alice cut her off. “You got me fired.”
Marilyn blinked. “What?”
Leaning forward, Alice growled, “Oh, not fired, per se, they’re not about to fire an aging African-American female. No, retired is the word. Because of you, I’m being forced to retire.”
Marilyn’s mouth fell open.
“You were supposed to help me!” As she spoke, all the anger and humiliation of the past hour gathered force inside her, bubbling beneath her breastbone like lava. “Instead, you blabbed my fears about Alison to her secretary? Thanks, Marilyn, thanks a lot. ”
Marilyn went pale. Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, no,” she whispered.
“Oh, no, what? Oh, no, lover boy Barton wouldn’t betray you? What did he do, tell you you’re beautiful? Did he make love to you?” Her voice oozed irony. She could see she was hitting the truth. “He seduced you, didn’t he? You told him everything, didn’t you? And he told Alison, who told Melvin Watertown and probably every other executive on this floor. Now I’m an object of ridicule, but that’s all right, I won’t be around to be laughed at, because I’ve just been handed my walking papers!”
“My God,” Marilyn cried, “I’m so sorry! I was sure—”
“You’ve cost me my job, my income, my reputation. You’ve ruined my life.” Alice had to look away from the other woman’s horrified face. She’d be damned if she’d be the one to console her! With savage movements, she snatched up her photos, her makeup kit, her briefcase. Stalking around the desk, she growled, “Open the door.”
Marilyn reached out a shaking hand and pulled the door open. “Alice. Let me—”
Wearily, Alice said, “Go home, Marilyn. It’s all over.”
To reach the elevators, Alice had to walk by all the other offices and desks, past Alison’s office, and Barton Baker’s desk.
She felt like Marie Antoinette being led to the guillotine. Joan of Arc on her way to the stake.
She felt her failure dragging behind her like a piece of toilet paper caught on her shoe.
She hesitated, looking back at Marilyn’s desk, hoping to appear as if she’d forgotten something, when in fact she was only stalling. This was going to be the longest walk of her life, and she felt as if she had to do it stark naked. And in a way, this was true, because she had been stripped of all her power, prestige, and pride.
Well, she couldn’t stand there all day. Suck it up, she told herself, and began to walk the plank.
As she passed Barton Baker’s desk, he rose. “May I help you carry anything?” His voice was greasy with self-satisfaction.
Alice whipped her eyes his way, caught his smug smirk, and saw, behind him, Alison leaning one slender hip against her secretary’s desk. Alison wore a red power suit the size of one of Alice’s thighs, red heels with points sharp enough to puncture a heart, and a cat-that’s-got-the-cream smile.
Without speaking, Alice moved on. All around her, the normal office business noises stopped dead, as if the entire floor had been paralyzed by a rush of toxic gas. Men and women stopped laughing and chatting. They looked up from their desks and stared openly as Alice strode past.
But no one said a word.
When she reached the bank of elevators, she saw old reliable Frances come around her desk toward her.
“Alice.” Frances’s voice was rich with sympathy.
Sympathy. That stung worse than snideness. Alice ignored her.
“Could I help you carry anything?” Frances asked.
Brusquely, Alice shook her head. She would die if this woman offered one word of pity.
“Alice—I’ll miss you so much,” Frances said. “Will you call me sometime?”
The elevator doors opened. Alice stepped on and hit the DOWN button without replying. She fixed a look of disdain on her face. At the moment, it was all she could do.
30
Beneath the buzzing light of the MIT lab, the slab of shale lay, gray, mute, and dead. Marilyn sighed as she stared at it. No one knew why, 500 million years ago, all trilobites had been decimated. Other creatures had begun life then, the rugose and tabulate corals, starfishes, even some vertebrates. Time always crept on, carrying nature on its back.
Some trilobites had been able to protect themselves by rolling the ventral side of their tails up to meet the ventral side of their heads, forming little armored balls. She imagined them, curled inside their hard shells, snoozing away in peace.
She wished she were a trilobite.
Marilyn covered her specimen, then reached up and turned off the buzzing light, which crackled accusingly at her. She had accomplished nothing the whole day. That morning she’d hauled her dispirited self to her lab, intending to find comfort and reassurance in her familiar and beloved work, hoping to recover from the terrible shock of Barton’s betrayal. But for the first time in her life, fossils c
ould not fascinate. She’d just stood staring, replaying her asinine after-sex chatter that had cost Alice her job.
It was the worst thing Marilyn had ever done in all her life.
And all because she’d been suckered in by Barton, by the way he’d touched her, by the words he’d said— deeper than her guilt was a burning pit of shame at her foolish, eager gullibility!
She turned her back on the lab, trudged along the corridor, up the stairs, and through a door to the fresh air. The bright sunlight made her blink, but as she traced a familiar path through the campus, the warmth of the early-spring day gave her no consolation. She was glad to head back down underground to the T.
She slid her token into its slot and plodded along with the anonymous mass, down the steps to the subway stop. She liked being underground, it usually made her feel at home, and as she leaned against the wall, waiting for the train, she thought, not for the first time, how simple life must have been for the trilobites, how uncomplicated! Trilobite mating would have been so easy, so pure, unriddled with doubts about aging or sincerity. They never would have used the breeding process for bizarre motives, such as finding out whether one’s friend’s new assistant was after her job. They couldn’t have had sexual intercourse for political reasons.
With a roar and a squealing of brakes, her train rumbled into the station. She duly boarded and collapsed in a seat. The train rushed forward. Marilyn watched the windows fill with light and dark and movement, like clips from a jumble of movies. At the Harvard Square stop, she got off, climbing back up to ground level, her heart so heavy she thought she’d have to crawl up the steps to street level on her hands and knees.
On the street, crowds flowed around her, students and professors, salespeople and secretaries, hurrying to and from classes, work, coffee breaks, early lunches. Young women passed by, lithe in their bodies, fresh in their skin, and men, young and old, followed them with their eyes.
