The New Order

by Karen E. Bender

  “The explosion would engulf him,” she said. “He would be gone in an instant. That would be my reimbursement.” She paused and sounded almost wistful when she said, “Can you do that for me?”

  I put down my pen. My tongue felt numb. I stared at the script, the words arranged there; they did not resemble letters, but weird, contorted bars.

  “At first, I woke up, got dressed, went to work,” she whispered, in an even tone. “I did. I timed my entrance so that I would not see him. I did the same for lunch. I called in sick if we had a meeting together. But then I remembered. This is my job. I will be here forever, always listening for him—”

  “Miss Trotman,” I whispered. “Can you please give me a number—”

  “That’s not what I want,” she said, terse. “I want you to do something else.” She hung up.

  My office was silent; for a while, I sat in that silence. I tried calling her back, once, twice, and then later that day. She didn’t answer. The phone rang and rang; there was no machine to take a message. Even if she had picked up, though, I didn’t know what I would say. I could not bear to ask her again to give me a number for her reimbursement. Line 43 was still empty, which meant I was useless in helping her.

  At the end of the day, I stood up, walked out of my office, and saw my coworkers standing by the elevator. They looked tired, but not prohibitively so. Each one held a large bouquet of roses; they looked as though they had all placed in a beauty pageant.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Floor six left these for us,” said Marianne. “By your mailbox.”

  I glanced over at our mailboxes, set by the elevator; inside mine was a large bouquet of roses, red and pale orange, the flowers surrounded by baby’s breath. The bouquets smelled wonderful, and the air around us glimmered, sweet and pink.

  “Are we being fired?” I asked, concerned.

  “No, we all got cards,” said Kayla, shrugging. The card said, Thank you for your continued generosity and service. In the elevator, we clutched the bouquets, wrapped in crisp white paper, and when we walked out into the dying light of the afternoon, I noticed how people glanced at us—with a sort of amusement, these women with bouquets, perhaps the recipient of love and flirtation—or with bitterness, unsure if we had received a promotion at work. The second interpretation was the most troubling for the observers. Kayla pressed her bouquet to her chest like a baby; Jana gripped hers like a torch.

  Kayla slowed down to giggle, a little wildly. “I’m so glad my sweetie knew I liked roses!” she said a little too loudly, wanting others to hear her.

  I understood. The bouquets had to seem romantic, or others might follow us. Gripping her bouquet, she rushed off.

  I did not go home just then. Joanne’s address was written on a scrap of paper in my pocket. I boarded a train that was not my train, toward a different neighborhood, about thirty minutes away. The roses, in their paper wrapping, made my palms cold and wet.

  At her street, I got off and walked around. Her apartment was located at 37 West Street. She was in Apartment 6-A. It was an older building, the type guarded by regal, bored marble lions. I went to the entrance, scanned the mailboxes, found 6-A, and pressed the buzzer. It made a bleating sound. I waited and then pressed it again, for a longer moment. I waited. Then there was her voice. Soft but angry, like a sharp, digging knife.

  “Who is this?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Hello?”

  She hung up. I pressed the buzzer again.

  “Hello! Who is this? Speak!”

  I stood, frozen, as I didn’t know what to say.

  She hung up.

  I paused, pressed the buzzer again, and then left my bouquet on the floor, right under her mailbox, and crossed the street. I didn’t want to leave just then; I pretended I was looking for something on the sidewalk when I saw a woman step out of the building. I remembered her photo from the file, so I knew it was Joanne: late twenties, tall, very dark hair. She picked up the bouquet but regarded it with suspicion; her face was tight with fear. She looked up and down the street and I pretended I was brushing dirt off the leaf of a bush. I couldn’t quite see her face, but her movements were quick, tense, as though she sensed some disturbance in the air. She tossed the bouquet into the street and went inside.

  I waited there, as though I were now watching over her even if she did not know it, and I felt a readiness inside me, for an action, I did not know what—a desire to beat something back. I wanted to have a use. Or I wanted a different one than I already had, one that I could not articulate, that was what I wanted to tell myself—I wanted to turn myself inside out, be something new. I was just standing across the street like an idiot, watching for a threat I couldn’t see.

  After half an hour or so, I went home.

  The next day, in the basement, the others continued to work on their packets, as usual, but with more energy; the bouquets seemed, oddly, to have cheered them. And a few days later, they gathered at the elevator, now compelled by another small item: everyone had received jars of imported jam in a basket. Raspberry, blueberry, and apricot. The jars were tiny and adorable. The basket was accompanied by another card. Our efficiency was being rewarded. We were still receiving unequal raises, but this, it seemed, led to another route of discussion—what crackers or bread went best with the jams, who might bring crackers in the next day, who preferred raspberry to peach, and so forth.

  I felt forced to display the basket in my office, but when I opened the jam, the sweetness of the smell almost made me choke.

  My packets were going more slowly, jam and bouquets notwithstanding. I kept looking back at Joanne’s file, rereading it as though hoping what was inside might change, that what had happened did not happen, or not as I remembered it. But each time I read her account, everything happened the same way. I hoped I would see the story shift at key moments, and sometimes felt sad to the point of tears or then angry so that I felt hot light flash in my skin, or was other times irritated, wishing that she had just unlocked the door and escaped. I tried to calculate an enormous, impossible reimbursement for her.

  I went to Mr. Watson with Joanne’s file to ask what to do about line 43. I had forgotten that this was originally Marianne’s file, but I noticed him glance at her name on the folder; he froze.

  “There has been some sort of mix-up,” he said.

  “Oh,” I said, remembering. “I can be effective with all files,” I said.

  He closed the file and pressed his hands flat against it. “I’ll take this one,” he said.

  “I already spoke to her,” I said. “I’d like to finish—”

  “That’s fine,” he said, cheerfully, as though I had said something else.

  “I have time,” I said, my voice more insistent. “I can—”

  “It’s no problem at all,” he said. “Don’t worry. By the way, did you like the jam? Which was your favorite?”

  The file was right there, under his hand, and I wanted to lunge across the desk and grab it. But I didn’t.

  “Apricot,” I said. When I returned to the basement, I passed the others, who were sitting in the pale glow of the TV in Marianne’s office, watching Your New Home. In this episode, a man became so excited that he knew the answer to the question “What is the capital of Nebraska?” He tried to slam the buzzer with such force his hand missed and it didn’t go off. Rules were rules; his competitor won; he had to be carried off the stage by three security personnel as he screamed that he was, in fact, the rightful winner. Part of a set toppled over; there was a scuffle offstage. The show instantly switched to a montage of the most recent family to win a mansion, with shots of them enjoying a catered dinner at their newly furnished, sixtieth-floor penthouse in midtown Manhattan. The city glimmered outside the window like an enormous jewelry box. The serving staff tenderly set sculpted chocolate desserts with red raspberries on each plate. We watched as the triumphant family leaned back in their chairs and relea
sed a buoyant laughter.

  The next day, the mail person dumped a load of new files on my desk, about twice as many as I usually received.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  But I knew. Walking by the other offices, I noticed that my coworkers were not receiving the same number of files that I did. It was not that I was more efficient; Mr. Watson was trying to keep me busy.

  I received less taxing files, involving mostly bizarre comments, and I read through them carefully. My voice was as tender as it always was, but I heard a new sound in it: a pause, a slight hesitation. This alarmed me, and I imagined my reluctance was something else—an oncoming cold, or simply tiredness. I tried to correct this hesitation, but I felt it, a slowness, as I spoke.

  I left work early and again I took the train toward Joanne’s apartment. I didn’t think about it, I just wanted to go; I wanted to talk to her, to ask her what she wanted, if not a reimbursement, then what? Why file a claim at all? Our great nation could do something for her, I had to believe this was true; there was a fluttering in me, a feeling of spreading, of some expansiveness I could not name. The golden evening air around me was very clear. I stood on the sidewalk outside her apartment again. I waited.

  I stood there for maybe an hour. Then she walked out. She was moving very fast, trying to cut a hole into the air in front of her. She was as sharp as scissors. I watched her walk down the street, and I wasn’t sure how to proceed, but I found myself following her.

  She turned a corner; I continued, about a half a block behind. She was striding along quickly, but then she glanced back and noticed me.

  I had never followed anyone before, so I just continued. She rushed ahead, faster. I planned in my head what I would say to her, wanting to find the right words that would encourage her to name a reimbursement. Joanne turned a corner and she kept looking back; she went down a street and then I realized that she had made a circle and was approaching her building again.

  She stopped.

  Her hands were on her hips and her face was sharp with fear.

  “Don’t follow me,” she said.

  The street was empty, darkening. She stared at me as though I might hurt her, and I felt sadly misunderstood.

  “Hello,” I said, holding out my hand. “Miss Windham. I’m from the Department of Reimbursement.”

  She did not shake my hand.

  “Why are you here?” she asked.

  I shivered. “I am a representative from the Department of Workplace Grievances. You sent a complaint to us. We are here to help.”

  She stepped forward, just slightly. “You want to help? This is how you can help,” she said. “Get rid of him. Get him fired. I want to walk through that office knowing that I never have to see him again in my life. I want him to vanish.”

  Her words lit up the street. How clear they were. I shivered, a little awed, listening to her.

  “I see,” I said, carefully.

  “So do it,” she said. She waited. She was like a giant sword standing there. She held some hope. I wanted to say anything but what I would say, I wanted to say yes, yes, we would do that, we would protect her. But I could not.

  “We are unable to get involved in personnel issues,” I said. “But we can offer you some money.” My voice rose, tarnished. A shudder passed over her face. She stepped toward me and I thought she might shake my hand, finally, we would figure this out, and I was smiling, when she raised her hand and then whooom, her fist crashed into my face, and I crumpled forward, a streak of pain blazing through my head, and then Joanne was gone, and I was sitting on the sidewalk.

  A woman rushed up to me. “Dear! Are you okay?” She held out a tissue and I pressed it to my nose, which was bleeding. The world was a little bent and hazy. She helped me stand.

  “I think so,” I said.

  “You poor thing,” she said. “Do you want to go to the ER?”

  I sat on a bench and took some deep breaths. My nose slowly stopped bleeding; there was just a dull throb in my head. I was not a violent person, and I would not advocate violence toward others, and this was not the reaction that I expected from her. But I also had a thought that I did not want to admit; there was something about the pain in my head that felt somehow terribly logical and correct.

  At the office, the others came over and inquired about my bruise, but I could not tell anyone what had happened. I had gone to the home of a person sending in a complaint, which I was not supposed to do. I touched my bruise with my fingers and I felt my conversation with Miss Trotman was not finished. This feeling of incompletion made me restless. I closed my office door and looked through that day’s files, but I found that I could not concentrate on them; without Joanne’s file to focus on, I was lost. I felt like I had a terrible itch on my scalp that I could not quite locate. After some pointless organizing and alphabetizing, I went to see Mr. Watson.

  “I wanted to check on something,” I said. “The file you took over. Were you able to figure out a reimbursement?”

  “Which file?” he asked.

  “Joanne Trotman,” I said.

  He nodded and gazed over my shoulder.

  “Who?” he asked.

  “Joanne Trotman,” I said. “We discussed her case—”

  He brushed his hand through the air, waving away some dust. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

  “Joanne Trotman,” I said, my voice rising just a little, and, in my mind, I felt a bright tinsel of fear. I leaned forward and my fingers gripped the edge of his desk.

  “Please remove your hands from my desk, Miss Windham,” he said, his voice cold. I lifted my hands. The discussion was over. A shriek built inside me but I could not let it out. There was a silence between us as thick and voluminous as a boulder. Mr. Watson scooted back his chair. He pushed a glass bowl of mints toward me.

  “Would you like a mint?” he asked.

  I shook my head no.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, and I realized he was talking about my bruise.

  “I had a little accident,” I said. “I am fine.”

  He gave me a long, sad look.

  “Good,” he said. “You know our great nation needs you. You know how fortunate you are.” He paused. “Maybe you can tell me, Miss Windham . . . why would anyone reject any opportunity? Why would anyone turn down what we have to give? Why would anyone not want to be part of this great country?” He leaned forward abruptly, as though blown toward his desk, and his face was pale and thin. “Or perhaps what I am saying is, why would anyone choose to separate from the rest of us? Why would anyone choose to be alone?”

  Two weeks later, I went back to her apartment. Joanne’s name was not listed on the mailboxes. I stepped outside and examined the building, wondering if I had the wrong address; but this was where she lived. When a man opened the door, a little dog eagerly pulling on a leash, I asked, “Have you seen Joanne Trotman? I thought she lived here.”

  The man stopped, his dog softly murmuring around our feet. “Who?” he asked.

  “Joanne Trotman.” I said her name, slowly.

  “Dark hair, young? She in 6-A?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “No one lives there now,” he said.

  “What,” I said.

  “It’s empty.”

  I felt myself breathe. Then I crouched, petted the dog, and asked, quietly, “Where’d she go?”

  “I think she lived there until two weeks ago. Then I don’t know, I heard some noise in her apartment one night, I think it was 6-A, and then I didn’t see her anymore. No one knows where she went.”

  “What do you mean no one knows where she went?”

  He shrugged. “She’s gone. Management just dumped all her stuff on the sidewalk. You need anything? You can just take it. It’s there.”

  I turned to look at the curb, where there was indeed a jumble of furniture; a blue couch, some lamps sitting on a dresser, a dining room table, a couple bookshe
lves, plates and towels and cups in cardboard boxes.

  “Some of the lamps are rather nice,” said the man; the dog strained at the leash, and they rushed off.

  I looked at the furniture, everything that Joanne had owned, and I carefully settled myself on the blue couch. It had rained earlier that day, the fabric held the damp, cold scent of it. I sat on the couch where Joanne had been, and I wondered what she thought about everything before she started her job, if she had been happy to find it, what she hoped for when she started, what she arranged on her desk, and what her plans had been. I felt a chill against my skin but I did not move. I wished the couch would tell me where she was, but it did not. “Where,” I said, out loud, but my voice did not help; I wanted to help. Day was sliding darkly into night, and I watched everyone coming home from work, or those who worked and those who pretended to, and I wondered where Joanne was now, and I wondered who I was, and about my place in this world; I knew that this would be my only job, in my one life, and that stacks of files were waiting on my desk at this very moment, and that there was, truly, nothing I could say to any of them. I sat there for a long time. The faces of the others, rushing by, blank, revealed nothing. A woman picked up one of Joanne’s lamps, examined it, tucked it under her arm, and walked away. The damp couch sunk a little under the weight of my body. I wondered what would happen to all of us.

  On a Scale of One to Ten

  Let’s get this straight: We did not want to be here. We were Jews, and we were sitting in the principal’s office of the missionary evangelical school. We were three people, two adults and our child. But we had decided to visit this evangelical school of our own free will. Not because we were religious, no. We were here because of the world’s paucity of love.

  Our history of religious belief was short and shoddy. Sometimes we went to temple, sometimes we tried to pray about various things, or joined the local Jewish group to feed the homeless. We lived our lives in a midsized city in the American South, me, my husband, our daughter, age thirteen. We went to our places of employment, purchased groceries, bought new appliances when the old ones finally went bust, tried various diets, helped our daughter with homework, cheered at various competitive sports events, hoped for a raise, assembled salads for school and temple potlucks. At night, my husband’s breath was hot on my ear. The sun rose and plunged behind acres of parking lots.