Numbers. Stare at them long enough, and they made your eyes ache. Ororo was developing spreadsheet psychosis.
She sat back in her chair and kneaded her neck. Removing her reading glasses relieved the soreness across the bridge of her nose.
Her phone picked that moment to whine at her; she punched the hands-free button and muttered, “Underwriting, this is Tory?”
“Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed today.”
“Both sides are the wrong side. I didn’t wanna get up, period.”
“Grouch,” Stevie accused. Her sigh was heavy. Ororo heard the sounds of children in the background. It sounded like she was calling her from her Mommy and Me playgroup. The buzz of Ororo’s headache intensified, but she urged a smile into her voice. “Won’t get much sympathy from me.”
“Since when have I ever come knocking on your door for that?”
“Might be nice if you came knocking on my door more often. Wanted to see if you were still coming to my shindig.”
“Pampered Chef?”
“Yup. Whole point is to come enjoy the food and the other women who show up. Monica already confirmed. I’m waiting for Misty to RSVP, too.” Ororo perked up. She took a gulp of her coffee to wet her palate, savoring it even though it was only warmer than room temperature. Lunch was a half an hour away.
“Who else?”
“Monet was a no. She had some alumni thing to go to that Saturday. She said she started sending out wedding invitations, though, and that you should have gotten yours in the mail by now.”
“I’ll have to go back through my bill pile and make sure I didn’t chuck it in there.”
“Invitation’s cute. Girly.”
“Of course it is,” Ororo said. She shook her head. Never in a million years. Not this sista.
“She invited me to go dress shopping for the bridesmaid outfits. Ask her if you can go, too.”
“I hate those shops. Too stuffy. I get so bored…”
“Speak now or forever hold your peace if she picks out something godawful, Ororo. Put in your two cents.”
Ororo already knew this song and dance. The Bride had the Ring. Literally and Tolkien-ically speaking. Evil in the form of overpriced accessories and dyable shoes was afoot.
“And you didn’t hear it from me,” Stevie added slyly, lowering her voice, “but she might end up having the dress let out a little on that last fitting.”
“Hold up…”
“Yup.”
“Good night,” Ororo muttered. “Say it isn’t so.”
“She told me she nearly had a heart attack.”
“So we get to plan her a baby shower right after the bridal shower.”
“Are you kidding? I can’t wait. Never mind the wedding, the baby’s the fun part.” Then Stevie scaled it back a notch. “But we’ll get back to that. I’m getting ahead of myself.” The women shared a silent moment, digesting their own thoughts.
Ororo finally said, “I’m excited. That’ll be one beautiful baby.”
“You’ve got that right. Everett’s gotta be grinning like a fool.” Ororo chuckled.
“Let’s see how she hides that booty now in that white dress once she starts to show. Bless her heart. All the preparations, blood, sweat and tears she’s putting into this, and it’s gonna end up being a shotgun wedding.”
“That don’t mean a thang,” Stevie twanged. Ororo could visualize the neck roll she no doubt gave her on the other end of the phone. “Twice as much to be happy about. It doesn’t matter how you start your family, as long as it’s blessed with two people who love each other.”
“Still,” Ororo prodded.
“Still,” Stevie agreed,” that chile’s a mess. Got morning sickness already.”
“I don’t miss that.” Ororo’s voice sounded faraway. Stevie bit back a hint of pity. Ororo didn’t want it; she wouldn’t throw it out there.
“Baby, you okay?”
“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”
“We’ll talk. Come to my party anyway, but seriously, girl, you and me. We’ll do something else soon. I’ll leave the kids with my momma and we’ll do coffee. I promise.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“I always worry about you.”
“Uh-uh. You’ve already got my godchildren to give you gray hairs. Don’t waste ‘em on yours truly.”
“I love you, girl.”
“I love you, too.” Ororo fiddled with the phone cord.
Ororo was interrupted from saying anything else by a shriek so shrill it could cut glass in the background. “Jesus,” Stevie grunted before crying out “You’d better GIDDOWN from there! Uh-uh, don’t make me come over there and snatch ya baldheaded!” Despite Stevie’s addiction to parenting books and suburban-style family activities, she took an old school approach to dealing with her kids when they acted up. A timeout was one thing, but she didn’t waste time counting to three or even asking the question “what are you doing?” when she could just sneak up and catch them in the act. She was Ororo’s hero.
“Are the heathens running amok?”
“They’re running the asylum.”
“I’m sitting here in my nice, warm, quiet office. Everything’s all nice and neat…”
“Aw, hush up, girl.”
Then Ororo heard a din of children’s music over the phone, changing the noise in the background to low cheers and claps of approval.
Even after she gave up professional dancing, Stevie still ran a very successful dance school in the studio she’d had built behind her spacious home. It kept her fit and content, the kids loved her, and it gave her a connection to her own neighborhood that she couldn’t live without.
Ororo pushed aside the melancholy veil that threatened to smother her. “It’s good to hear your voice, Stevie. M’gonna go.”
“Bet you’re busy.”
“I know you are.”
“Come to my party, please. Please.”
“That’s fine. I’ll be there. Let the girls know, okay?”
“Definitely.”
“And hug my sweeties for me.”
“I will. They can’t wait for the real thing. They’ve been asking about Auntie Tory all week.”
“Are they excited to be flower girls?”
“Yep.”
“All right. Sounds good. I’ll let you go.”
“Come hungry.”
“I always do.”
“Bye, girl.” Ororo cradled the handset and leaned back with a sigh. She tapped her pencil against her blotter and scanned her office for a distraction. It was too hard to focus on her work now.
Her work had other ideas.
Boop. Boop. Boop… Her phone was at it again. “Underwriting, how can I help you?”
“I need you to come to the meeting, ASAP. Log on.” Selene sounded clipped.
“What meeting?”
“Check your email. I just sent it out ten minutes ago. I was waiting for you to accept it.” Ororo was already diving into her email and found the most recent red flag.
URGENT: AMT Follow-Up Meeting at 11:30AM; Please Respond.
“Why are we holding it?”
“More changes. Shake ‘n’ Take just added another eligibility group and a flex plan.”
“Shit.”
“Wrong attitude, Tory. We’ve gotta roll with this. This is excellent. I’m sending you the sales figures now, you’ll get the attachment in a second.”
“What figures?” Ororo yelped. Sure enough, the tiny Outlook envelope flickered across her screen before her horrified eyes. “I didn’t okay any figures!!!”
“We quoted them the same rates for this as we did for the core plan.”
“And this is the first I’ve been told about it.” Her voice sounded hollow to her own ears.
“Don’t worry. Log on. We’ll be filled in soon enough. And Tory, don’t sound panicked. Go in with a smile, they’ll hear it in your voice.” Selene waited for her response.
“Right. That’s fine. Thank you.” She fought the urge to bang the handset on her desk to make her manager’s ears ring. Once she was off that call, she dialed into the teleconference, turned on the speaker, and set it to mute.
She waited for the first three of four voices to announce themselves, naming each one in her head. She recognized Scott easily enough, right off the bat. The deeper, older voice was slightly nasal but also familiar; she guessed it was Donald Pierce.
Selene was next. “Okay, good morning!”
“It’s practically lunch,” Scott countered. He sounded sunny, as usual. Ororo sighed. She’d need more coffee or something stiffer to deal with this…
“Have we got everybody?” Selene asked, ignoring him. Ororo shook her head.
“Donald here,” the older voice confirmed. Ororo nodded, saluting the voice with her mug.
“Hello? This is Nate?” Ororo was unfamiliar with this one. Less nasal, slightly British accent, but equally deep. For some reason, his voice gave her chills. “I’m working on the census for this account. I manage Eligibility.”
Ahhhh…the ringmaster of this little circus. Nice.
“I didn’t see your name on the email,” Selene explained.
“Essex. Nathaniel.”
“Oh. Got it.”
“I deal in lives, what can I say? I’m managing another three hundred for the renewal.” He sounded smug. “The more, the merrier.” Ororo rolled her eyes.
“Where’s Tory?” Selene said, sounding irritated. So much for hearing a smile in her voice…
“Here,” Ororo piped up. “Listen, could you give me a quick moment?” She placed her own phone on mute and hurried from her desk before anyone could protest.
“Tory? Tory? Are you there?”
No. She wasn’t there. She was anywhere but here…
Ororo hurried to the small kitchenette in the next suite and cursed at the last fifth of a pot of coffee. It smelled burnt; nevertheless, she emptied the carafe into her cup and grabbed a red stirrer, two whiteners and two sugars. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.
The first sip back at her desk made her wish she hadn’t. “Bleah!”
“Tory?” Selene called again. “Are you there?”
“Here.” She wanted to scrape the taste off her tongue but settled for dumping in the condiments. It blanketed some of the bitterness. Lunch felt like it was eons away.
“Great! Let’s get settled. Hi, Tory!” Chipper Scott. Bless his heart.
“Hi. Good to see you.” What was she saying? It was a conference call.
“I know this is abrupt, but we added the new plan out on the database. Attachments can be found there. Let me know if you didn’t get them on the meeting announcement along with the agenda.”
“Jeanne-Marie sent them. She has them,” Selene told him. Selene’s personal assistant was the most overworked woman in the building. At her desk, she was under Selene’s thumb. In the break room by the water cooler, though, her dominant personality came out in fine form. Jeanne-Marie delivered rants and one-liners like she was playing the weekend show at Caesar’s.
“Which product did we sell again?”
“An Option Plus. In and out of network, high deductible with one hundred percent wellness.”
“Their employees are going to hate that plan,” Ororo muttered under her breath. She took the mute button off her phone and spoke aloud. “Sounds cost effective.”
“They didn’t want a *gatekeeper plan. It’s nice to have flexibility.”
“Same eligibility date on the policy?”
“Yes. Retroactive effective to January 1st for new hires. No preexisting condition exclusion, and they can add late for qualifying events.”
“Nice and clean,” Ororo remarked. Good. At least that part was uncomplicated.
“Clean as a whistle.” Scott’s voice was suddenly cut off by another click on the line. “Hello?”
“I’m here,” rasped a voice Ororo didn’t want to hear. Hot prickles washed over her as she remembered her recent indiscretion.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
His emails had become the bane of her existence. Too many of them had important action dates, so she couldn’t delete them…yet. Ororo fantasized about printing them and lighting the whole heap up in a bonfire so she could toast marshmallows.
She took small, ugly satisfaction in the fact that he showed up later to the conference than she did. Take THAT.
“Better late than never,” Nate remarked. Ororo wanted to clap.
“My laptop died. I’m at a guest desk right now.”
“Where are you, James?” Selene wanted to know.
“Cambridge. But I’m due out your way pretty soon for that training seminar.”
“Wonderful!” His announcement hit Ororo like icy water. She choked on her coffee, sputtering.
“Um…who’s that coughing up a lung?”
“Ack,” Ororo gasped, whacking her chest with her fist as she caught her breath.
“Tory?” Selene said cautiously. Her tone was plain: Don’t embarrass me.
“Sorry…hoo. Wow. My coffee had bones in it,” she joked, using her mother’s favorite phrase.
“Next time, might wanna go to Starbucks, eh?” She heard the smirk in his voice and wanted to smack him. “Or just get your caffeine in an IV so you won’t have to worry about feeding yourself.”
“Works for you,” Scott tossed back. Shared snickers in the background among the other participants rubbed Ororo the wrong way. But it made her continue to like Scott.
“Won’t that be something. Training. I’d forgotten about that,” Selene mused. Ororo could hear her silently planning to take Jeanne-Marie to task for not drawing her attention to it sooner. Ororo was kicking herself as it was; the announcements for the training coming up in two weeks were laddered neatly in her in-box, but she hadn’t opened any of them to notice the name “Howlett, James” in the “Cc” field. Shit.
“Can’t wait,” Logan offered politely, even though Ororo knew he wasn’t any more enthused than she was. Project management training sucked. Thank goodness it wasn’t any more often than once a year. Selene was a Six Sigma black belt.
The rest of the meeting was relatively painless until they got ready to wrap up.
“So Tory, are you gonna send out an updated rate sheet?”
“Already done,” Ororo informed him. She’d spent the rest of the call on mute and typed her fingers off, fixing the newest copy of the spreadsheet and hitting send. “There you go.”
“Got it! Way to multitask, Munroe!” Scott cheered. Ororo snickered.
“Who did you send it to?” Logan prodded.
“Everyone here, and the admin at Shake n’ Take as a heads-up.”
“Whoa, whoa,” he said. “Back up a sec. There are a few other folks who need it. Don’t jump the gun. Here. I’m sending you the distribution of who you need to copy on this.”
“Who else? Their admin is the one we’ve been dealing with for any hard copies! She’s also handling the distribution to the employees when we go to print.”
“Their CEO, COO, VP and legal department.”
“Legal?” she squeaked. “This is a simple addition to what we already sold! Same language, almost identical plan, just more of the same demographics!”
“They want Legal looking at it before they sign off.”
“That’s not what you told us before.”
“The customer’s always right. And the customer wants their legal team to have thirty days to review the drafts, with an extension if they have a lot of changes…”
“Are they expecting to have a lot of changes?” Selene interjected. Ororo felt a migraine brewing in her temples and jerked open her desk drawer. Two chalky extra strength Tylenol found their way down her throat, chased by more of the foul old coffee.
“This is a sensitive group,” Logan supplied. “So we’re giving them the velvet glove treatment until we go to print. So you’re gonna send out those rates to the names I sent, Tory?” Ororo almost forgot he was talking to her.
He used her nickname. The setting and situation felt wrong. He’d groaned her it in her ear so many times in the silence of his hotel room…
No. Stay focused, Munroe.
“I’ll get on that,” Ororo replied in her can-do voice. She pasted the names from his email into a new message and re-attached the sheet with new narrative. She hated resending anything, since it added to confusion.
It was only after she hit send on her corrected draft that she noticed his message to her was still open.
Try to get everybody in the distribution the first time around if you can. No sense in confusing anyone with too many drafts. Next time, ask who else needs to be copied in, eh?
Ohhhh, she wanted to kill him. Slowly.
*
Two days later, Logan bit into his BLT, leaning over his plate to catch the toast crumbs and stray tomato seeds. His apartment smelled like Clorox, his laundry was done and put away, and the voice mails on his machine read zero.
The boxes in his front hall mocked him. He still needed to go to Goodwill.
He was just settling down to read the funnies in the Boston Globe when his phone trilled from the kitchen. He chucked the sandwich aside and brushed crumbs from the corners of his mouth. He managed an ungarbled “H’lo?” once he managed to swallow the bacon and dry bread.
“Hey, Jim. It’s John.”
“Hey.” Logan leaned back against the fridge. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Did you get my messages?”
“Last one I opened was the one with the pictures.”
“I sent a few more since.”
“Guess I haven’t been online much.” That was a lie. John’s heavy sigh was proof that he didn’t believe it, either.
“Dad said he hasn’t talked to you lately, either.”
“Dad hasn’t called me. There you have it.”
“Jimmy, he’s lonely. Give him a call sometime, for cryin’ out loud! He’s getting old.”
Logan fiddled with a magnet on his fridge idly. Shame pricked at him. “Ain’t had a lot ta talk about lately. Same old, same old. I ain’t got a lot ta tell him.”
“You’ve been back from your trip.”
“Sent him that tee shirt.”
“He said it was a little too big. Dad’s lost weight.” Guilt pangs gnawed at Logan.
“Maybe I can trade it to him fer mine. Ain’t even worn it yet.”
“Good. Go see him and give it to him.” John’s voice was matter-of-fact.
“I’m in the middle of a lot of shit right now.”
“Make time.”
“When’s the last time ya saw Pop yerself?”
“Last week.” Strike one.
Change the subject. “How’re the kids?”
“Vic and Laura are fine. They keep asking when Uncle Jimmy’s coming to visit.” Strike two.
“Sold any cars this month?”
“Just two at the dealership.”
“At the dealership? Why? What other cars would ya have had ta sell?”
“I got ten thousand for the Brougham.”
The phone hit the linoleum with a thunk. Logan reeled and broke out in a cold sweat.
His brother’s voice nagged him from the floor while he got his bearings. Logan sank down onto his haunches inch by inch, letting the news sink in. Motherfucker.
He picked up the handset unsteadily. “Ya can’t be fuckin’ serious, bub. What the fuck.”
“I got ten thousand. Why can’t I be serious?”
“Ya can’t…ya can’t just…”
“I can and I did. I sold it, Jimmy. Dad said it was fine.”
“Well, it’s not fine. It’s not fucking fine. Dad was wrong.”
“Dad said he didn’t have any room in his driveway when anyone comes to see him. Give him a fucking break, Jimmy.”
“That’s no excuse. That’s not yer reason or Dad’s reason for getting rid of that car. Do ya have any idea what ya’ve done? Do ya?”
“Yeah. I did it for Dad. I did it because he asked. Because I’m his son and I care about him. I did it because it was hard for him to see that car outside on those rare days when he gets out of the house.”
“Yer such a good son,” Logan snarled. His skull felt like it would split in half. His blood throbbed in his veins and he could hear his pulse.
“That’s not why I did it.” John was at the end of his patience. The Howlett family temper was rearing its ugly head. “You selfish sonofabitch. Where do you get off? Huh?”
“If Dad needed money, I could have sent him money!”
“It wasn’t about the money! Get it through your skull. It was about Mom. It’s always gonna be about Mom.” There was a charged pause between them. Logan’s breath felt thick, he was scarcely able to force any out of his lungs.
John heard the change in his breathing. “Jimmy?”
“That all ya had ta call about?”
“I just wanted to tell you-“
“Ya told me. Fine. Bye.” He punched the End button and flicked the phone away, letting it skid across the floor. The linoleum felt cold against his ass as he leaned back against his refrigerator and let his thoughts swim through his head.
Another piece of her was gone.
“Ya had no right,” Logan whispered. “Ya had…no…right.”
All he needed was a minute. The silence of his kitchen seemed to hum and close in on him. Logan rubbed his face and combed his fingers through his hair. Once he centered himself, he was in his hallway in five brisk steps.
The boxes loomed by the door, still unpacked and untouched.
An X-Acto blade found its way into his hand. He slashed the broad strip of cracked, brown packing tape with a loud, satisfying rip, repeating the process with the other three.
Minutes later, he was spread out on the floor, surrounded by possessions and memories he didn’t want.
He set Sara’s short note aside, written in her girlish script. Thought you might want to go through some of these things again. I just wasn’t sure. I didn’t want you to miss anything. “ Sara.
PS. Leave space in your calendar to do something this summer. We’re thinking about heading to Provincetown when the kids are off for break.
The more he sifted through the crates, the more his anger at John waned.
Sure. Why would his dad want the car?
How wouldn’t it have stabbed him in the fucking heart every time he looked at it?
How wouldn’t he have felt raw and empty and ripped apart?
Numbly Logan popped open the small velvet box. Jean’s solitaire and band winked up at him. He clapped it shut again and shivered, thrusting it back in the crate as though it burned him.
There were some clothes and a few other little trinkets. Sara included a mini photo album of pictures he didn’t recognize as any he had taken of her; he was surprised that Sara didn’t keep it.
Books. Craft items, including three skeins of untouched yarn and six crochet hooks. Women’s magazines. A pair of chenille bedroom slippers. A travel case for Jean’s cosmetics. Logan unzipped it and pulled out a one-ounce bottle of Claiborne. He opened the stopper, and its strong floral brought back a flood of memories in one breath.
He was drowning…
He shoved it back into the case, threw it back into the crate. The silence around him buzzed and hummed again, tormenting him. Logan hurled himself down the hall to the bathroom.
He wretched, doubled over and leaning his head against the cold porcelain. His voice was clogged and harsh.
It was too damned soon. Too much, too soon. Why didn’t God and fate and the rest of the fucking universe understand that?
He flushed and flicked on the shower, not caring that it was his second of the day. He didn’t care that the spray that escaped the curtain wet his clothes when he left them on the floor.
Steaming water poured over him, running in long runnels from his hair while he leaned against the tile.
“Why, God?” he said. The water didn’t answer him, and it didn’t carry his troubles down the drain. He pounded the wall, hearing it echo.
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