[Reviews - 122]
-
Table of Contents [Report This]
Microsoft Word Chapter or Story |
Printer Chapter or Story |
ePub eBook Chapter or Story |

Has been viewed 2780 times

- Text Size +




“Logan, would you mind closing the door?”

“Not at all.” The office was tidy and silent, save for the faint hum of his supervisor’s hard drive and the ticking of his wall clock. Logan had the urge to linger by the door. Mac’s manner was stiff as he nodded for him to take the seat opposite his desk.

“You saw the recent memo that we were downsizing a few departments, Logan, so let me make this brief. Your department’s being affected by this change. You’re being offered early retirement as an alternative to being terminated.” Logan’s stomach sank as though it were made of lead.

“Yer kiddin’ me.”

“I’d never kid you.” That wasn’t true. He kidded him all the time by the water cooler. But his voice was matter-of-fact, his blue eyes sober and full of sympathy.

“Geez.” He leaned back and shook his head in denial. “Whaddya want me ta say, Mac? This ain’t somethin’ I had on my docket today. Finish the Dane account, head out on a new business go-see with Summers Brothers, that much I planned; I just didn’t plan this, Mac.”

“I know,” he replied quietly. “And I’m sorry.” He slid a thick manila envelope across his desk. “That’s the offer of all the usual stuff. Stock options, 401k rollover, COBRA benefits, terming your life insurance policy “ “

“I ain’t even 65,” Logan grumbled.

“Fifty-five and up was all you needed to qualify for early-out, Logan. Thank God for small favors.”

“Sure,” Logan added. Long enough to give one company his lifeblood, his soul, for twenty years. He didn’t feel that thankful. That ugly haze of tingles rushed over his flesh and his palms felt hot. His collar suddenly felt itchy and too tight. Mac noticed his consternation and sighed.

“You’ve been a fantastic member of the team, Logan. This company’s greatness was built on the quality of work you’ve given us.”

“That ain’t much of a comfort right now,” he informed him curtly. The folder was burning a hole in his hand.

“I wasn’t a part of this decision, Logan. Please realize that.”

“I don’t blame ya, Mac. It ain’t yer fault, yer just doin’ yer job, like I’ve been doin’ mine all this time.” Logan rose to leave.

“Don’t go yet.” Mac shoved himself away from his desk and stood as well, opening up his desk drawer and extracting a bottle of Jack Daniels. Logan’s mouth quirked.

“Ya could get into trouble fer havin’ that here.”

“Are you gonna have a drink with me or not?”

“Ya got a glass?” He was gonna miss Mac.

AlphLight was an industry leader in annuities and in Forbes’ top ten. Logan came into the company when it was still a mom n’pop savings and loan, and he was still green, fresh out of BU. He’d been hopeful, back then. They ran him through the gauntlet. Yes, Big Brother, can I have another? That was his mantra to himself every day for the first five years until his efforts paid off.

So now, they were cutting him loose. His face gave nothing away of what transpired in Mac’s office. He hadn’t had one shot. He’d had three.

Clementine looked up from a sudoku puzzle book at the sound of his footsteps. A cooling cup of ramen noodles sat half finished on her desk; she was on her lunch break. Her eyes studied him, immediately dropping from his to the ominous folder tucked under his arm. Her face was wreathed in understanding and sympathy.

“Mr. Howlett…is that what I think it is?” she whispered. He nodded. She leapt up from her desk and circled it, hurrying to close the door to her tiny office. She turned back, plucked the folder from his hands and engulfed him in a hug that nearly knocked the breath out of him.

Clementine had been his secretary for nearly a decade. Loyal, in tune with his needs, sensitive and professional, and she never let classified details of any kind leak out of his office. She kept a tight rein on his expenses and on her own mouth. Clementine adored him, particularly after he gave her an additional two weeks off for bereavement leave when her son Jean-Paul was killed in a skiing accident.

“I’m so sorry,” she cried. He felt her tears drip onto the shoulder of his silk blazer and mastered the urge to break down. Instead he returned her embrace, patting her. “You’ve been so good to all of us. Don’t let any of these bastards ever tell you different.”

“I can’t lose when I have you in my corner, Sunshine,” he chuckled weakly. She released him and gave him a sheepish smile when he snatched a Kleenex from the box on her desk and handed it to her. “Don’t believe what they say about teachin’ an old dog new tricks. I’ll get back in the saddle.”

“This is just so much after everything you’ve been th…I’m sorry. I should keep my mouth shut.”

“I’ll manage. Paperwork’s almost finished. Carol’s a free woman, which means I’m free, too.” Even though he never wanted to be.

“As long as she didn’t get your baseball card collection.” Her tone was momentarily stern as she clasped his sleeve.

“Hell, no.” She exhaled her relief.

“Thank God for small favors.” He winced at hearing Mac’s words coming out of her mouth.

“I get any messages?”

“Just one from your lawyer. I told him you’d call him back.” She hadn’t left him a sticky note. She tried not to leave a paper trail of his personal calls, even though she had a shredder right beside her desk.

“Yer a peach, Clem.”

“You can’t take me with you?”

“Don’t think I’m allowed.” That was his last word before he retreated to his office.

He tossed the folder onto his desk with a slap and surveyed his belongings. It already looked like someone else’s space. Blood rushed in his ears, and he felt faintly sick.

The first wave of dizziness hit him like a Mack truck.

He heard his own heart pounding, feeling his pulse throb in his ears, his wrist, his neck. Itchy. His skin itched abominably, every nerve overstimulated and chafed.

He dropped to his knees, coughing and gasping, accidentally knocking over a pitiful little cactus plant on the edge of his desk. The terra potta pot cracked in two, scattering sandy soil and embedding the plant’s spines in the carpet.

That’s when he heard the voices.

When’s he out?

Next week. Didn’t even give him full notice.

Crusty old fart. Who’s getting his office?

His wife just left him. This has gotta suck.

Place needs some new blood.

You could be next. Give him a break.

Could you get me a turkey on wheat from the cart downstairs? Here’s a fiver, I’m working through…

Clementine came rushing inside. “Are you all right? I heard a crash…oh, sir, you don’t look all right at all!” He rolled to a sitting position and leaned his forehead against his knees.

“M’all right. Just need a sec…shit.”

“You’re scaring me!”

“Said I’m all right, Clem.” He waved her away. “Water?”

“Stay here,” she ordered, not unlike a drill sergeant.

She came back with the water and a cool rag. Her color was hectic; bright spots rose up into her apple cheeks. He gulped the water gratefully and leaned back against the wall.

“Helps,” he pronounced. She shoved a small piece of candy into his palm. Starburst fruit chew, lemon.

“Leftover Halloween candy. I’m not setting out Christmas candy til this stuff is gone.” The sweet was sour enough to make his mouth water, but it helped to restore his equilibrium.

“I can manage. Just felt…overwhelmed.”

“It’s okay.” She excused herself and headed off two visitors, explaining that Mr. Howlett was working on a project and couldn’t be interrupted.

Logan stayed late enough to pack up some of his belongings and walk them out to his car. If there was ever a night to eat out, this was it. After tossing back his drinks with Mac, even three hours later, he was in no shape to drive.

He decided on the little Italian place where they served a mean sausage and peppers. It was crowded, but there didn’t look like that long of a wait in the front lobby. Odors of garlic and marinara assailed his nose. It was overpowering. His stomach churned, growling almost audibly even above the clatter of dishes being loaded into busing carts. He felt himself break out into a faint sweat.

Noise. Too…much noise. What the fuck was wrong with him?

He looked the worse for wear when the hostess peered up from her guest book to mark him down as a table for one. Her smile drooped when she saw his pallor and the strain around his dark eyes.

“Do you need to sit down, sir?”

“Just let me know when ya get me a table, sweetheart,” he rasped, retreating from her counter.

He scratched absently at his scar. It always itched when he came inside from being out in the cold, and tonight was no different. Clem said it gave him character; all Logan knew was that it was the devil to shave around every morning, trying not to nick the spidery scar tissue. At least the ones on his chest had faded and healed flat, not visible to the public beneath his dress shirts or beloved flannels.

The doctors told him he was lucky to be alive. Carol’s face had gone white the last time they met in court, aghast at the angry red line of stitches down his chin and neck. Logan had always been rugged, puckishly handsome. His looks had “character,” like Jack Palance, Robert Redford, or Paul Newman. Her friends always seemed to pull that out of their asses. In the wake of Logan’s divorce, Logan realized he’d just married too damned young.

Carol had given him nine pretty good years, or at any rate, eight and a half. He’d met her at the Black Dog, buying some hot rolls.

She’d hated this place whenever he insisted on it for his birthday. He wasn’t into large gatherings or nights on the town. It never suited him, and, he thought ironically, nor had the cottage suited Carol. It was the only time he could ever remember that not bugging the shit out of him.

Not that he wasn’t a night person. Logan liked moonlit walks or just heading to the beach to listen to the waves at low tide. He just didn’t thrive on “night life.” He could rent a DVD and pop his own popcorn without standing in line, and he could fast forward through the previews. He didn’t dance and he seldom drank, unless the occasion begged it, such as having his job yanked out from under him. That was worth a shot. Or three.

He remembered the first day that she’d been hesitant with her morning kiss and was evasive about when she was returning home from work.

She stopped giving. Affection, time, opinions, patience, and eventually, respect. It was like staring inside the window of a candy store, unable to grab the treats that were just out of reach.

“I’ve met someone.” He’d waited, like an idiot, for her to tell him she’d simply made a new girl friend to hang out with for activities like pottery or ballroom dance. Then he saw her eyes, and his heart leapt up into his throat.

She didn’t want the house; Prince Charming came fully loaded with a Benz, a dog, and a four-bedroom split-level overlooking Quisset. It was a lot emptier now. All of the little feminine touches were gone. His Bruins fleece throw replaced the delicate afghan she’d draped over the couch. The bedroom and bathroom smelled like a man lived there, not a shred of potpourri to be found.

Roiling hunger gagged him. The cacophony of noise, of smells, sent him reeling. He sprang from his seat when the hostess called his name. He stumbled after her, but the jumble of voices and the clink of flatware and stemware battered him as he crept past.

Before she could even hand him a menu, he fell upon the bread basket, tearing off a huge chunk of sourdough with this teeth. Her eyes widened and she laid it down, mumbling something about sending his drink server over in a couple of minutes. He ignored her, reveling in the feel of the chewy crust grinding between his teeth. It wasn’t enough, but it centered him, making the noise easier to tolerate and driving away the dizziness. He made a mental note to visit his doctor for blood work. Maybe he was just anemic. He had a late uncle who was diabetic.

“What would you like to drink, sir?”

“Water.” Not “Just water, thanks.” Not “What do you have?” Blunt, to the point, and more forceful than he intended. A vicious thirst clawed at him, competing with hunger.

He didn’t make it through the server’s spiel about the night’s special. “Steak. Rare. Biggest one you have.” The words poured out of him, etiquette be damned. “No sides.”

“We can’t cook it any less than medium, sir ““

“I want that damn thing to moo when I stick my fork into it! And hurry!”

He craved blood. He couldn’t explain it.

When the food came, he mumbled a nearly intelligible thank you and unwrapped the silverware from the napkin with shaking fingers.

The fork practically scorched him; he might have imagined it. The first bite calmed him, spicy, tender ambrosia. He tore through it with his knife methodically, ruthlessly.

It was better than sex. And nothing was better than sex.

He was licking the last of the bloody juices from his fingers (having given up on utensils more than halfway through the meal, gnawing on the bone) when the bill was slapped down on the table. His server was out of sight before he even offered the dessert menu. Logan didn’t care. He was sated.

He was also sober enough to drive home. The night air felt crisp, invigorating him and lightening his steps. He’d felt starved for it.

~0~


“I liked the other cover better,” Ororo complained.

“It’s not up to you.” Ali took back the camera-ready artwork from her and tucked it back into its folder.

“Then why show me at all?”

“So you can tell your friends what it’s gonna look like printed, and they can buy a copy when it comes out,” Ali shrugged, grinning at her. Ororo toyed with her coffee, stirring the whipped cream with her straw until it was a soupy froth.

“I just got the edits back yesterday.”

“And?”

“They might as well have handed me a Dick and Jane primer and sent me back to school.” The redlining had been ruthless. Her manuscript was practically bleeding, but Ororo had to admit, the story was cleaner and her prose took no prisoners.

“So it sounds like they caught everything!” Ali turned back to her calendar. “Oooooh, Ororo, I meant to tell you, I’m having a wine and cheese party at my place on Saturday.”

“Mmmmm. That’s nice.”

“I’m expecting a pretty good turnout. Are you free?”

“Maybe.” She waited for the other shoe to drop.

“Annnnnddd I’ve got this friend I’d like you to meet.”

“I just remembered, Al, I’m busy.” Ali tsked.

“Spoilsport.”

“Sue me.”

“You’ve gotta get back out there.”

“My heart belongs to Giblet now.”

“That sounds like a copout if I ever heard one.”

“She doesn’t leave the toilet seat up.”

“Come to the party. It’ll be fun, whether you like him or not.”

“I don’t have anything to wear,” she hedged.

“Bullshit. You walked out of Filenes’ door with half the store in your bag. Wear the red one,” she ordered.

“Al-“

“The red one!” Ororo opened her mouth to protest. “Nope!”

“But-“

“Uh-uh!”

“Al-“

“Don’t even try it, Munroe.” Then she softened. “If you’re nice to me, I’ll even be your alibi if you decide to cut out early.”

“So what’s my alibi?”

“Cramps. Hives. Gas. All of them, or take your pick.”

“Gads…” Ororo snorted into her coffee. “Evil, evil woman.”

Ali chuckled “ evilly “ as she shut down her PC and reached for her coat. The two women headed outside into the foggy mist and climbed into Ali’s little red Volvo.

The pizzeria was packed. Ali marched up to the pick-up counter and barked “Order for Blaire, one large pizza? We called twenty minutes ago.”

“It’ll be up in a few,” a large employee informed her. His nametag introduced him as Guido. He used the pencil tucked behind his ear to scratch an itch. Ali hoped he wasn’t the one handling the food.

Ororo scanned the headlines of the free newspaper she’d swiped from the rack. “Weird,” she remarked thoughtfully. “Look.”

“Ew. They had to put that on the front page?” The photo showed the grisly scene of a hit and run. Bits of glass from someone’s broken tail light surrounded the body of what looked like a large dog. “Why’d they even think they found a story out of that?”

“Because it’s a wolf,” Ororo murmured. “We don’t get them around here. We’re not heavily wooded, and it’s the wrong region. Look how big it is, Al.”

“I don’t even wanna think about what it was eating.”

“That’s just weird,” Ororo repeated. The photographer zeroed in on the creature’s face; it’s vacant eyes seemed to stare back at her, silver and icy cold. Chills ran down her back. She took one last glance at the photo and chucked it back into the rack. Guido called Ali’s order, and they made haste back to her office. The pizza box warmed Ororo’s lap.

“It smells like they put onions on it. I hate onions.”

“Pick ‘em off. Or give ‘em to me, I love ‘em.”

“Just don’t kiss me with that mouth.”

“You wish.”

Several hours later, Ororo went back over the edits over her usual cup of cocoa. Giblet took up residence on her lap once she leaned back from her desk to clean her glasses.

She checked her email. There were only a handful that looked like they were from real people. She opened Ali’s first. It was an e-vite for her wine and cheese party, closing with “P.S. “ Wear something hot!”

“Sheesh.” She scanned through nearly a page of spam and checked the boxes to delete them, and she was surprised to see another unread message flash at her from an address it took her a moment to recognize: giftedshaman@tribaltech.biz.

Forge. Damn it.

The urge to delete it lost out to insatiable curiosity.

Hi.

Thought about you yesterday when I went out to the aquarium that you loved that time that we went. They got a new whale named Tiny. Boston’s pretty cold already. Looks like we’re in for a bitter winter.

I just wanted to get in touch with you. It’s been a long time. I’m still working out of that space I rented off of Main.

Reply to this if you want, or call my cell. I miss you.

The ball’s in your court.

JS

She sighed wearily and rubbed her eyes. Giblet meowed plaintively, nudging her in the armpit with her paw and nosing her chin. She applied the cat to her shoulder like a hot compress and scratched her ears.

“Men suck, Giblet.”

“Meowr.”

“Glad we’re on the same page. Let’s eat.”

Ororo headed into the kitchen and fixed herself a microwavable dinner that promised to be flavorless, and she popped open a can of Fancy Feast and shoveled it into Giblet’s bowl. She dispatched it like she’d never seen food before.

While her food was being nuked, Ororo wandered to her picture window and stared out at the waves, listening to the wind stir the beach grass. She still had that strange feeling of foreboding that she had two nights ago.

Something, or someone, was out there.





You must login () to review.