He leaned against the doorframe. "Do I really look that bad? Oh, God...I just..."
She stared.
It was him. Alan, her always-together boss. Well, except at the company's annual holiday party in December and the family picnic in June. Then he always drank too much, talked too loudly, wrapped his arm too familiarly around Sharon, before Margie finally collected him and bore him off, his face contrite after she'd whispered in his ear.
This man was more than a little drunk. He was leaning heavily against the door now, and his face was that of someone dying of poison. And Sharon knew exactly what kind of poison it was: gin, his favorite libation.
Staring at him, she wavered. She could walk away right now. Wash her hands of this. It wasn't her problem. His family could help him.
But then she remembered: there wasn't any family to help him. The couple never had children, their own parents were long dead, Margie was an only child, and Alan's older brother was ill and in assisted-care living. And she couldn't walk away, not after he'd been so supportive of her while she was going through her divorce, covering for her, looking the other way when tears uncontrollably appeared in her eyes, telling her to take the day off when she was at her lowest.
"Oh, Alan. What have you been doing to yourself?" she said, choking out the words and trying to steel herself. But it was hard to do. She had a weak mutinous stomach, an easily disgusted nature, an obsession with tidiness and order, and whatever lay inside the house, inside this poor shambling mess looking at her through the still-closed screen door, would surely push every button she had. She took a deep breath and forced herself to reach for the screen door handle, pulling at it and feeling as if it weighed a ton, a mammoth oak door rather than a featherweight aluminum-framed screen.
What came after was even harder. The house had been clearly well-tended at one time, but now it was littered with abandoned finger-printed glasses and dirty plates on almost every surface, the cute red-and-white kitchen repulsive with its rotting stinking garbage and piled plates in the sink as well as encrusted pots and pans on the range. She kept stepping on intermittent scatterings of broken glass on the floor and when she opened the door to the closet-like pantry, large empty gin bottles and plastic tonic bottles that were piled there rolled out and under her feet.
The worst was Alan, who had fought her at first when she started to clean up and fought even harder when she found the remainder of his stash of gin and began pouring the bottles out in the kitchen sink. When she was holding the second bottle upside down over the drain and watching the sharp-scented liquid glitter down into the basin, he grabbed her arm and she had turned on him, screaming out all her fury and pity and disgust, unable to stop herself, even when his face and body crumpled down onto the floor and he heaved below her, sobbing. At last she relented, put down the bottle and sank down beside him, tentatively patting his convulsing back. In that moment she realized that nothing would ever be the same again between them, that they were no longer simply supervisor and employee.
Things turned around after that day. Alan started seeing a therapist, quit drinking – albeit briefly – and finally returned to work a month later, an official brief leave of absence having been approved. They started meeting occasionally for dinner after work, Alan issuing the invitation and Sharon accepting with trepidation, not wanting to get any more involved than she was. Their dinners were usually in the brightly lit diner, Frannie’s, across the road from the entrance to TMB's office complex.
They’d sit in the florescent-glaring light talking shop and eating comforting homey dinners of pot roast swimming in muddy gravy or Thanksgiving-style turkey-and-fixings brightened with globs of red jellied cranberry sauce. After the initial feelings of obligation wore off, Sharon grew to enjoy and then even anticipate these dinners, appreciating Alan’s insights into their organization and the people that worked there. He was brilliant, really, and never stumped or scared by the stupid machinations of upper management, always knowing the way to wiggle out of trouble and doing it with style and panache. He became her go-to, her tower of strength in the carnage of corporate America.
That tower of strength now sat in her office’s guest chair, still slowing shaking his head, the ragged sound of his breathing having abated.
“Alan? You’re scaring me here,” she said, surprised to hear a wobble in her voice.
He sighed and sat back in the chair, his face having returned to its usual coloring. He looked up at the ceiling and shook his head again. “This place really blows me away. It really does.”
“What? Please tell me what’s going on.”
He finally looked at her. “Well, I’m gone. Larry just told me, caught me before the meeting. They're going to do it tomorrow; along with all the others they're giving the heave-ho. The old Friday cardboard-box exodus," he said, and narrowed his eyes. "I should have known it. Seen it coming. Another reorg. Lots of young tireless talent banging down the door. And I’m a dinosaur. A good dinosaur, a deeply talented one who isn’t the slightest bit humble about it, but a dinosaur nevertheless. An old man with a fat salary they could cut in half. And they just did. So, it looks like I’ll be taking up golf after all.” He tried, unsuccessfully, to smile.
Sharon felt as if the floor had just dissolved underneath her chair, a pin-wheeling helplessness. Alan, gone? “What! No! Are they kidding?”
“No, they’re not. I’m being retired. But that’s not the worst of it. Not for you. Old pencil-neck is stepping up and into these colossal shoes,” he said, and then let out a little puffing sound of mirthful disbelief, smiling at the irony.
“Bob Crandall?" she said.
He nodded.
"Bob! No. Way. He'd be a horrible team leader. He can't even play nice with the team when he's just a member of it. And of all people." Sharon realized she had picked up her pencil and was gripping it in her sweaty hands so hard it would snap in a minute. She put it down and folded her hands on top of it.
Alan leaned back, put his hands behind his head while stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankle. It was as if he was doing some poor imitation of a relaxed person. "I know. I could've gotten rid of him, should've. I don't know why I didn't, especially after all of you complained. I'm getting soft in my old age. Felt sorry for the guy. Another reason to send me off to graze the pasture. Or play golf on it wearing ridiculous plaid pants."
"I just can't believe it. Who would promote Bob? He’s got the personality of a…paper clip. A smug paper clip. A paper clip with delusions of grandeur. And he's only been here a year!"
"Hey, keep it down. That door's not soundproof."
Sharon glanced at the closed door and leaned on her elbows before putting her moist hands over her face, her fingertips massaging her eyebrows where a headache was starting, a pinched pain of exhaustion and shock. She spoke through her fingers, "I know. You're right. I just can't believe it. And he's not just a paper clip, he's a last-name-caller."
"Hey, Wozniak," Alan called.
She laughed in spite of herself. "Stop! Agh! I swear I might smack him the next time he calls me that." She whipped her hands away from her face and shook them out in the air on either side of her head.
"Ah, well. You better get used to it. There aren't any other big market research firms around here, nothing like this place. You'd have to go into the city."
"Can you imagine the commute? It would be three hours each way, what with traffic and then the train. And the money for the train…and the parking! It's so expensive. No, I'm staying here."
"You better get used to Bob then. Hey, it's not that bad: the rest of the team's intact. And you're one of the best here. I'm sure he'll grow to appreciate you. I, on the other hand, am clueless about what I'm going to do all day, golf jokes aside," Alan said, letting out a gruff non-laugh. "I'll have to figure something out."
She looked at Alan. How she depended on him. He was her safety raft in the stormy sea of TMB. Now she'd have to swim alone. Her team was a good one, but they
all looked out for themselves ultimately. Things just weren’t going to be the same, and she hated that, hated change more than anything. Intellectually she understood and accepted that change was part of life, but emotionally she rejected it with every particle of her being. Why couldn’t things just go along as they were?
But it was more than just the safety and comfort of the status quo – she’d miss Alan being there at the office. Her job was fun in a large part because of him and his honesty and humor. She tried to imagine Alan at home every day, retired, and came up blank. The golf jokes really were just that. He wasn't going to be the guy taking up tennis or golf and joining the local country club. An intellectual, Alan's main hobbies were passive pastimes: reading and listening to music. But you couldn't read and listen to music all day. You had to do something with yourself, something interesting.
Sharon had an idea and straightened. "What about school? Taking some classes?"
Alan raised a furry gray eyebrow at her. "Classes? Maybe. Eh, who knows. What are you doing tonight? Want to get dinner? Maybe we'll go someplace else other than Frannie's this time; I could use a drink."
“Oh, God.”
“What?”
Sharon slumped again, leaning heavily on her elbows. “Chelsea invited me out for drinks with the girls,” she said, making quote marks in the air at the words "the girls". “And I actually said yes. Now I really don’t want to go.”
“No, you should," he said, looking at her thoughtfully. "You could use a night out. You’re too young to be holed up at home all the time. And I know from all the television shows you tell me about that’s what you do, sit at home with your cat watching TV. Am I right or am I right?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but slowly got to his feet. “Speaking of home, I’m going to avoid it tonight. I think I’ll visit O’Malley’s. I haven’t been there in a while. After a day like this, it’s time to belly up to the bar and take a load off. Their greasy cheeseburger’s calling my name.”
She looked up at him and felt a pang. She didn’t want to go out with Chelsea, and now to make it worse, Alan was going to go to a bar by himself. At least if she was going with him, she could pressure him to go home after one drink, get some rest. By himself he’d probably close the place.
“Alan, please. Promise me you won’t drive if you have more than two,” Sharon said, putting her hands together as if in prayer.
He rolled his eyes at her. “Stop looking at me like that. I’m better now. Just getting some dinner.”
“Please.”
“Okay, I promise. And you. Don’t go too wild, getting up on the bar and dancing like you usually do.”
Mollified, she laughed. “No. I think not. Okay, I better get going myself. See you tomorrow? God, I can’t believe this. Tomorrow’s the last time I’ll see you at the office. We’ll still get together for dinner, though, right? Hit a diner up near your place? It’s on my way home. Or we can meet at Frannie’s?”
He pointed his finger at her with his thumb cocked like a gun, while using the other hand to open her office door. “You got it, sister. I need a regular exchange of wisecracks with you, the wisest of crackers, or I’ll lose my edge as a master raconteur. You’ve got to keep me on my toes. Plus, what’s life without Frannie’s famous fresh-out-of-the-can gravy?”
“Mmm, good! Nothin’ like home cooking,” she said and rolled her eyes around while smiling as if delighting at the thought of something delicious.
He turned his palm outward in a brief wave. “See you tomorrow.”
Then he walked away and she was left staring at the blue fabric of the cubicles outside her office. She could hear someone typing in one of them and voices beyond in conversation. She could not hear any of the whispers and irate tones of dissention that usually accompanied a re-org, though. Perhaps they were all still digesting it. The firings would certainly set things off tomorrow. Alan’s firing alone would be enough to cause doors to slam and screeches of disbelief to pierce the air. If only she could let one out now, a shrill shriek of dismay, then maybe it would give her something to hold on to, because she really would be adrift now at work, the constant rising and falling waves of change breaking her loose from her moorings.
She turned back to her computer screen, saved her work, and then packed up to go. Maybe Ibiza and a cocktail with the girls would be just what she needed. For the first time ever she could actually say she craved a drink: a nice extra-dry vodka martini, clear and cool and straight up.
Corona
Kate smiled at Bianca even as she walked away, the pharmaceutical sales representative’s long flowing dark hair swishing back and forth as she crossed the reception room and pulled open the door to leave. She couldn't believe her luck. That beautiful and charming woman, Grant's old friend from back-when, wanted to include her, Kate, in her girl's night out. There was hope after all.
Ever since she and Grant moved to Darien she'd felt like a duck on the ocean. This was not her world, and she'd known that when they moved from Vermont to Fairfield County. At least she'd thought she understood. But then she got here and it was so...fast. And sharp, full of edges. And shiny-sparkly like a fancy Christmas ornament. It was overwhelming. She missed her family and all her friends back home every day. Maybe tonight she’d start making new friends and it wouldn’t be so hard anymore.
Every time she yearned for the mountains that shouldered every view in Vermont, the coziness of being known and knowing almost everyone, she reminded herself that Fairfield County presented opportunities for them not available back home. In Vermont, Grant’s patients had presented flimsy paper insurance cards and they had to fight for every last dollar they had earned; here the patients proffered shiny credit cards, gladly paying for expensive beautifying procedures and prescription miracle creams. Darien was where women spent the kind of money on their skin that could make all the difference for Grant and Kate's children, money that would pay for things like summer camp and braces if they were needed and, eventually, college.
Kate felt a faint flutter in her lower abdomen, as if a ghost-child turned over there, knowing it was being thought of. If she hadn’t seen the disappointing result from a pregnancy test that morning, she’d have taken it as a sign. Instead, she put her hand on her belly and closed her eyes to make a wish. I know you’re not there, not yet. But I’m not giving up on you.
Just as she was opening her eyes and moving her hand back to the keyboard of her computer, Grant appeared with his last patient, walking her out personally and assuring her that the sunburned look and feel of her face from the Fraxel laser treatment would disappear in a few days.
“Re:fine was the best choice for you, with your sensitive skin. I think you’ll be very happy with the results after we’ve done a few more treatments,” he said, guiding her up to the reception desk.
“Oh, thank you, Dr. Palmer. I really thought the big heavy-duty laser was my only choice. But have you seen how those people look? What a massacre!” Mrs. Klein said, bugging out her eyes and throwing her hands up, her narrow face bright red. Mrs. Klein was one of their regulars, a woman in her early fifties who was in their office practically every week for something new. Slim, tiny, and chic, she reminded Kate of a Frenchwoman. Until she opened her mouth. Then she became a Frenchwoman with a heavy vowel-stretching New York accent. Grant frequently remarked on all the New Yorkers that had swarmed into Fairfield County, but Mrs. Klein was the only New Yorker Kate had met in Connecticut.
Grant smiled and said, “More intense lasers that penetrate deeper sometimes are the solution, but not in your case. You were wise to wear sunscreen.”
“Religiously! I wouldn’t leave the house without it. Still won’t.”
He nodded again. “Good,” he said and turned to Kate. “Let’s schedule the next in a month.”
“Oh! I don’t want to wait that long!”
“Your skin is very delicate, Mrs. Klein. You want to give it time to heal.”
“Oh, please don’t call me Mrs. Klein. It makes me f
eel like an old woman. Sara. Please!”
“Sara, fine. Four weeks. I promise you’ll be glad you waited.”
“Oh, okay. Doctor knows best,” Sara said, fluttering her eyelashes at him before turning toward Kate. Grant rolled his eyes elaborately and smiled a little before turning to go back to his office to make notes in his files for the day.
Kate stifled the urge to laugh and helped Sara select a time and date that worked for her, knowing she’d be calling next week and begging for an appointment for yet another “emergency”.
Grant told her that he felt like a shrink whenever Sara Klein showed up, the woman telling him about her fears of aging, relating things her husband had said and wondering aloud about "what he was getting at" and pointing out various marks on her skin, convinced they were melanoma moles instead of the innocent freckles they were.
"The only thing that dispels the illusion is Janice standing next to me, icy as they come," he said, shaking his head about his nurse's lack of affect and indifference to their patients. If Janice White, their small office's one nurse practitioner, hadn't shown herself to be talented and fearless in addition to apparently emotionless, he would have gone looking for a replacement by now.
Mrs. Klein left and then Janice followed shortly after, shrugging on a light rain jacket and giving Kate a wave as she walked out the door.
"See you tomorrow!" Kate called after her, trying to encourage some kind of friendliness between them. Janice didn't reply, the only sound that of the reception door slowly sighing as it shut. Wanting to sigh herself, Kate turned back to her computer, completed her entries in QuickBooks, and then got up to go tell Grant about Bianca and her impromptu plans for the night. Grant would probably be thrilled; he'd been encouraging her to join some local clubs or take a class - anything to alleviate the loneliness and yearning for her family and old friends she'd admitted to him.
She stopped at the door to his office which stood open and regarded her husband, who was looking at something avidly on his computer screen, the back of the monitor facing the door. Looking at him, she wondered again at his handsomeness, at what a smart successful man – a “catch” per her mother – her husband was. How did this happen? Kate wasn't pretty, she knew that. Her personality wasn't sparkling, her intellect was average, and she came from a large dairy farming family that struggled to put food on the table, so there was no lure of riches.
Cocktail Hour Page 5
