“You have got to see this,” Danielle said, walking up to him and pushing his laptop aside while placing hers in front of his face. He wished she wouldn’t do that. He was working. Did he ever do that when she was messing with her hair or painting her toes? Just shove his computer in her face when she was just about to slap on a layer of toenail paint?
“I wasn’t working on anything important,” he said, tamping down the irritation of having someone interrupt his work.
“It can keep. It’s just farm stuff anyways. You are forever working on that,” she said, hitting the play button on the must-see YouTube video of the week. He checked the title. Crazy Carter, it read. He sat back and watched as what must have been Crazy Carter, an African American woman, standing up, her hand raised, attempting to interrupt a wedding—a very large wedding.
She was pretty, her hair falling softly around her face. Nice figure. Not as tall as he preferred, but nice legs under the short skirt of something white and swirly, which could have been her wedding dress, and given the situation, he guessed that had been her plan.
His gazed moved to check out the others in the video. The bride and the bridesmaids’ reactions were priceless. Shock turned quickly into I’m-about-to-kick-some-ass-up-in-here, causing him to chuckle. It look liked the bride was just about to handle her business, and he couldn’t argue with that. Hopefully it would serve as warning to other potential disrupters and curtail any future wedding break-up ideas.
He would have been pissed if someone had tried something like that with him, and would not have been nearly as gentlemanly as the groom had been.
He laughed as he watched Crazy Carter’s reaction to the groom’s words and smiled as she sat down, then popped back up out of her seat, a few seconds later. He laughed outright at her Look at the time comment. She was crazy.
Fortunately, she had some good friends, who looked like they had her back as they worked to extract her from a potentially dangerous situation. He thought it was funny of her friends to act like she was crazy, which really, you kind of had to be to break up someone’s wedding.
“Isn’t it hilarious?” Danielle asked, looking at Rafael. “It’s had close to 100,000 hits since Saturday.
“Yep. Very funny,” he said, but not enough of a reason to interrupt him, he thought. He answered her anyway, hoping to end video night, wanting Danielle to go back to painting her toes or whatever she had planned for herself.
Nope. Finishing his budget was not to be, as Danielle pulled up another video. This one was from the bridesmaids. It seems they had created a song, complete with dance moves in order to pass along a few choice words to this Crazy Carter if she happened to view it. They told her how lucky she’d been to escape them.
“Can you imagine if she hadn’t gotten away?” Danielle mused. “I wouldn’t want to encounter that group.”
“Nope, me neither,” he said, hoping they were done now? He was eager to get back to his work.
Not yet. Danielle had a few more videos for him to view. “Look at this one, made by the bride after the wedding,” she said. It was similar to the one that the bridesmaids had made, but with a little bit about how happily married she was with Bentley—the future NFL Hall of Famer.
“Here’s another one,” she said. He checked his watch.
“You’ve got time,” Danielle said, catching him. The next set of videos were all of the copycat variety—re-enactments of the wedding—each with their homegrown cast and crew. Someone had even created a Crazy Carter Facebook fan page, which Danielle had taken him to. Some of the remarks were mean, some were funny, and some were just plain weird. Apparently, people did not have other things to do with their time he thought. He sure as shit did.
“I’m glad I’m not her, although I do feel sorry for her,” Danielle said, looking at him. There was a different look in her eyes now. “I can understand women like her. She had to have been desperate. A person would have to be desperate to do this,” she said, still watching him. He couldn’t understand why she kept staring at him so intently.
“You know, it’s hard for them to find men,” she said, causing Rafael to look up.
“Who?” He said.
“Black girls, black women,” she said, looking at him, serious as a heart attack. “You hear it on the TV and on the web all the time—46 percent of them are not married, and don’t have a chance to be, compared to 23 percent of white women. Not to mention all of those single female-led households. Seventy percent I think it is,” she said.
“Didn’t know that,” he said.
She removed her laptop and he pulled his toward him, hitting the button to wake it up.
“You coming to bed soon?” she said, turning to leave him alone.
“In a little bit. I need to finish this,” he said and watched her leave, thinking that she would have to go, and soon. Yes, she met the basic requirements of his list, but he needed to add one new characteristic—limited talk when you didn’t have much to talk about. He didn’t think he could put up with a lifetime of listening to her chatter.
Wednesday afternoon
Carter sat in her cubicle at work, watching again and then again the YouTube video of herself, for what seemed like the fiftieth time. Crazy Carter, it had been aptly named. Talk about blowing up in your face. This definitely had, and the whole world got to witness her meltdown; there was no going back from that.
What had she been thinking? Apparently she hadn’t been. She’d been too lost in her stupid, self-induced quest to find happiness, and of course, it included a male, hearth and home. Why was it so hard for her to find, anyway? Other women met men all the time.
She clicked over to her new Facebook fan page, so graciously set up by a sympathetic blogger. She could have reported it and gotten it removed, but hadn’t. She could hear her father’s voice in her ear. Actions have consequences, and she would unflinchingly accept hers.
She would not show that it bothered her, but it was painful like you wouldn’t believe, watching yourself make a fool of yourself over and over and over again. Then to read some of the comments that followed the videos and those left on her Facebook page. Yikes. People were harsh, bordering on cruel.
A new e-mail appeared in her inbox. Only one, thankfully, since tax season was over, the flow of work e-mails had slowed from an avalanche to a trickle. She opened it, noting the sender’s address. It was from the big boss, an unusual occurrence for sure.
She scanned the contents quickly. He wanted to see her after lunch; 1:00 to be exact. She closed the e-mail and sat back in her chair wondering what this meant. She knew—more fallout.
#
“Hi Carter,” Shannon, her immediate manager, said. She was standing outside of the main office—the swanky part of the accounting operations. It was five minutes to one.
“Hi Shannon. What’s going on?” Carter said, giving Shannon one of her best efforts at a smile.
“This will all work out for the best,” Shannon said.
Wasn’t that helpful, Carter thought. “Okay,” Carter said, hiding her panic underneath the smile she gave back to Shannon. Inwardly, her heart sank. This firm was a very strict place to work. Most of corporate America had moved into this century, become flexible in their work place attire and attitudes. Not here. Her place of employment, Johnson and Sons, a locally owned accounting firm run by a family of accountants from the old school of bow ties, suits, stern expressions, and abacuses. It was major work on her part, daily major work to fit in here.
She followed Shannon through the executive outer offices. She gave another smile to the receptionist and took a seat on a small couch set up for guests.
Mr. Johnson’s office door opened and he stepped out.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” he said, dressed in a grey wool suit, white starched shirt, black bow tie. He was conservative from his wing tips up to his short military-style hair and clean-shaven face. He moved aside to let them enter.
His office was about the s
ame size as Carter’s apartment. All of it. A desk with two chairs sat in the middle of the room. A small grouping of chairs were situated to the right of it and a large conference table sat to the left.
“Let’s have a seat at the conference table, if you wouldn’t mind,” Mr. Johnson said, closing the door behind him, moving to take his place at the head of the table. A manila folder rested on the table in front of him.
Carter walked around to one side while Shannon took the chair opposite her.
“So, Carter, let me get straight to the point,” he said, looking at her. Not a smile was in sight.
“Yes, sir,” she said, smiling brightly back at him, hoping it would be enough for the two of them.
“I’ve reviewed your records,” he said. He opened up his folder and scanned the document inside.
“Let me be honest and upfront with you. It has come to our attention that your outside activities have followed you into the office. Some of our most important customers have called us regarding your recent behavior. Behavior that has not reflected positively on you, or the firm,” he said, sitting forward in his chair. “Personally, I like you Carter. I hired you amid my many doubts and concerns about your academic record. My misgivings were slightly assuaged by the many references and testimonials of your professors attesting to your solid work ethic. Added to that was my relationship with your father, whom I’ve known for a very long time. We started our business careers together. He is a fine man,” he said, peering at her over his glasses.
“Thank you, sir,” she said.
“So as to our current predicament,” he said, sitting back. His fingers made a steeple at his chest. “You intentionally interrupted the wedding of one of our most prominent customers—a current and potentially lucrative relationship for our firm—as well as disrupting one of the Lord’s most holy sacraments—marriage.”
“Mr. Johnson, if I may say something in my defense,” she said.
He raised his hand, cutting her off. “If it were only this one event, we might consider riding this thing out. But that’s not the case, is it Carter?” he said, sitting forward again, glancing down at the folder that lay on the table in front of him.
“This event has called into question your prior work performances, and some of those have been less than stellar,” he added, pushing the folder away, sitting back in his chair.
“You’ve left me and the firm with no other choice,” he began, waiting until her eyes met his. “Carter Woodson, effective immediately, your employment with Johnson and Sons has been terminated. You will receive two weeks severance plus any vacation time accrued. Shannon will see you back to your desk to retrieve your things and escort you from the building. I wish you luck in your future,” he said standing up, putting an end to the meeting.
Okay. This was bad. She’d been fired. She sat for a moment, letting those words settle into her brain. Then she stood, joining Shannon, her feet moving obediently as they followed the senior Johnson to the door. He gave her a small head nod as they passed by.
“Thank you, ladies,” he said, closing the door behind them.
“Carter?”
“It’s okay. I can do this alone,” she said as they exited from Mr. Johnson’s outer office.
“I have to follow you,” Shannon said, catching up to Carter. “I have to walk you out. It’s company policy, unless you would prefer a security guard.”
“No. No security guard,” Carter said, walking back to her cubicle. She pulled her purse from her drawer. A cardboard box had been placed on her desk. She threw her purse in, added the pictures of friends and family, a few other personal mementos and headed for the elevator with her trusty sidekick, Shannon, to make sure she didn’t do the firm any more harm.
The elevator was making its descent as they approached. The door slid open just as they reached it; even the elevator conspired to make her departure easy. She and Shannon stepped inside, joining an elderly woman already on board.
It was quiet for the first two floors down. Carter felt the eyes of the elderly woman staring at her. Another spillover from her breakup attempt and the YouTube video which had also played on the local news. It seemed there was always a desire for comedy. As a result, people stared, gave advice, and often made wisecracks. She kept her eyes facing forward.
“Could I pay you to break up my son’s wedding?” the woman asked. Carter didn’t respond. The older woman touched her shoulder. “He’s about to marry this awful woman,” she said, taking in Carter’s fixed forward expression. “Don’t look so shocked. You are Crazy Carter, aren’t you?” the woman asked.
“I don’t think so,” Carter said, eyes still facing forward.
“Humph,” the woman said, irritated by Carter’s lack of response. “It’s never good to seem desperate, hon. But you know, you can’t tell this generation anything,” she added, turning to face Shannon. “In my day, the men did the work. Women made it difficult, but not anymore. That’s all gone. Now it’s all barely-there clothing, friends with benefits, pole dancing, dropping it like it’s hot—whatever that means—and breaking up weddings,” she said, tilting her head in Carter’s direction.
Carter had tuned her out, as much as she could. She’d become inured to people giving her their opinion of her actions—at the grocery store, in the parking lot, standing in line for her favorite brew. Strangers who thought they knew the whys and whats of Carter.
Thankfully, a few minutes later, they reached the ground floor. Carter stepped out of the elevator, waved goodbye to Shannon and headed to her apartment, wanting nothing but to be alone.
#
Three
Friday
Carter rounded the bend in the road, smiling to herself as the Woodson family ranch and homestead came into view. Carter’s great-grandfather, an ex-slave turned ranch owner and horse trainer, had built it. He’d made becoming a landowner his lifelong goal and spent his life working to fulfill his dream, leaving behind this legacy to his heirs. It had been his pride and joy and a testament to what dedication, commitment, and hard work could do to make a dream come true.
It was dusk when she’d left her apartment and almost completely dark by the time she’d pulled off the main road and onto her family’s smaller drive. The drive forked 200 yards off the road. If you went right, you’d end up on a circular drive that dropped you off near the front porch of the house. It overlooked the Guadalupe River and was in the middle of Hill Country, about an hour and a half west of Austin.
She’d spent many a night sitting on the porch with her great-grandfather, listening to what life had been like for him, and why this place was so special. Her decision to come home now had been a wise one. She’d felt this rush of homecoming running through her body, removing the tension and stress that had become her constant companion of late. She took the left fork, taking her to the back of the house and to the garage, which was a separate structure from the main house.
Except for the stars and moon overhead, there wasn’t much by way of light in the country. She parked her car, turned off the ignition and sat for a minute, staring at the house, familiarizing herself with it.
She had spent the early part of her life here. It was a place where she’d felt at home amid the horses, the land, her great-grandparents, grandparents, her mother and father, for a while. They’d been one big happy family, full of love and laughter. Her great-grandfather had started out with an acre or two in 1932, the year before his only son was born, and over his lifetime had managed to accumulate about a hundred or so acres of prime Hill Country land. Her great-grandfather had wanted his family to live with him—all future generations—so he’d built his home large enough to accommodate them.
Hopefully here she would leave all that had transpired since her attempted break-up of Bentley’s wedding and her subsequent firing behind. Had it just been a week? Not even. Tomorrow would mark the one-week anniversary of her public crash and burn.
And what a week it had been. Monday and Tuesday had been fil
led with people blowing up her cell, and a million drive-bys from people checking out the home of one Crazy Carter. And all the YouTube videos, her short stint on the local news station—where she’d been the butt of the nightly news jokes. Her place in infamy now was forever secured.
Wednesday and Thursday she’d spent huddled under a blanket, on her couch, parked in front of the TV. She didn’t answer her phone. Mr. Johnson’s words had swirled around and around in her head. Had she been that bad of an accountant?
By Friday, she’d had enough of herself. She’d started to lose track of time. Nights had turned into days. Her sleep—fitful at best—left her tired, cranky, and depressed. The idea to leave town had caught hold in her mind and gained traction the more she contemplated it. It wouldn’t be considered running away, either. She would go down to check on the family property to make sure it was in good shape. She was being a good great-granddaughter, and that was her motivation. She was definitely not running away.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been here, and realized how sad that was. A place that had meant so much to her deserved much more than she’d given. Her memories of the happy times growing up with her great-grandfather included scenes of a very different girl—miles away from the woman she was now. Those thoughts had her near tears, purging her closets and packing suitcases. Maybe this was fate intervening, an opportunity for her to make peace with her past before she had to part with it. The ranch was going to be sold.
It had been decided a few weeks back. It was final; no more discussions. Her stepsisters—sisters—she corrected herself, needed the money. She hadn’t voted. She would have been the only “no,” so what was the point. Plus, her father had called her beforehand, and asked her personally to cooperate. He had abstained. Of course he had. It wasn’t a good thing to appear too partial to one’s flesh and blood child. It could make the new wifey and sisters angry.
“Let it go, Carter,” she said out loud.
When You Fall... Page 3
