by N. C. Lewis
"Ah, Doctor Stratford," he said, a fearful expression etched into his face. "Perhaps you'd like to step into my office for a moment."
Not particularly, I thought, as my stomach rumbled, and a throbbing pain grew behind my eyes. But I didn't say anything.
Bryant swiveled his mango shaped head towards the professor eyeing him like a bird of prey deciding whether to claw or peck its victim to death. His eyes, colorless discs, flashed.
"Fire that bag lady, do it now!" The words, screeched with venom, rebounded and resonated off the office walls like an echo in an Alpine Valley.
Professor Bingham hesitated. He looked vaguely confused, as though he were, with difficulty, remembering where he was, but he did not speak.
"Let me remind you," Bryant's voice now icy cold, and his vapid eyes holding the professor in a hypnotic stare, "that I am on the Board of Directors, and an important benefactor of this college. Professor Bingham I command you to fire that woman!"
Professor Bingham removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes as though aware that an unsolvable problem affronted him. Then he took another gulp from the glass draining its contents, and appeared to experience a rising confidence. "Mr. Reynolds and Doctor Stratford, please join me in my office. Folks, I'm sure we can resolve this issue to our mutual satisfaction." He slurred the word satisfaction.
Bryant's face, now a deep crimson, scrunched into a ball of fury as he hopped from foot to foot, his cowboy boots clattering like Danish clogs on the office floor. He was shouting, his colorless eyes tinged with yellow. "This is an utter and total dereliction of duty. I will not stand for such insubordination."
Professor Bingham replaced his glasses carefully and stood dejected, the empty glass in his hand with a fixed gaze, and as still as a Russian ice sculpture, but with a miserable expression frozen on his face.
Bryant was screaming now. "Professor Bingham, this is not the end of the matter. I will be as ruthless with you as I will be with that witch! Your pleas for mercy will go unheard." He threw the words over his shoulder as he stormed out.
For a moment, Professor Bingham stood rigid, fear flickering in his face, then in a half mutter said, "I fell off the wagon today." He held up the empty glass. "Guess I'll book back into the clinic this evening. Doctor Stratford, I'll be on medical leave for the next few weeks."
He shuffled back into his office and closed the door.
John always said look for the silver lining. As I sat on the couch trying to make sense of what had happened, the silver lining appeared hidden. As I focused on Bryant, a visible pattern, the component parts of which were still indecipherable fragments, began taking shape in my mind. Bryant's behavior was like that of a madman…or a desperate man. A garbled form of Hamlet's words entered my mind and tumbled out under my breath, "methinks Bryant doth protest too much."
But there was something missing, a piece of the puzzle still out of place. I shrugged. "Well," I said aloud," at least I still have a job." Then it struck me, that was the silver lining.
Chapter 28
If past experience was anything to go by, professor Bingham wasn't coming out of his office anytime soon. Even if I wanted to wait, my head hurt too much and the growling in my stomach needed to be quelled. Time to go home.
I pulled the truck into the driveway at Ealing Homestead and stepped out. A heavy breeze, carrying the smell of cedar and fresh grasses lifted my spirit. Inhaling a deep breath, I tried to empty my mind. Another deep breath, this time holding it for several seconds. Life, I thought as I breathed out, is not so bad.
At the mailbox I scooped up a handful of flyers and envelopes, opened the little iron gate and hurried along the dirt path to the front door.
The friendly bark of Bodie welcomed me as I entered inside. He pranced and danced at my feet and we played for a short while. After I filled his bowls with water and food, I let him outside. Off he bounded towards the outbuildings.
In the kitchen I prepared a light meal. Grilled salmon with steamed asparagus. As I munched on the food I rifled through the mail, mainly flyers from local stores, and exclusive offers from national retail chains. A white envelope with the Havis County Engineering Company logo in the top left corner caught my eye. I guessed it was the letter terminating the agreement to open the well. I guessed wrong.
Inside, a single sheet, an invoice for the amount of five thousand four hundred and forty-three dollars and fifty-two cents. The full cost, it said in tiny print at the bottom, for the abandoned attempt to open the oil well.
I fumed.
"There's no way I'm going to pay. That nasty little man, Bryant Reynolds, is behind this."
It only took a moment to dial the number at the bottom of the invoice.
" Havis County Engineering Company, how can I help you?"
The voice was familiar, who? It struck me in a flash, Paula Mitchell, the receptionist.
"Why hello, Paula, it's Doctor Ollie Stratford."
The line went dead.
I redialed. The phone rang for several minutes. As I was about to hang up an irritated voice answered.
"Yes!"
It was Paula Mitchell.
"Hi Paula, we got cut off, can you put me through to Bryant Reynolds."
"No. Is there something else I can help you with?"
"Yes," I said with annoyance, "put me through to Bryant Reynolds. It's a matter of some urgency."
"Sorry, Doctor Stratford, I made that mistake last time, almost lost my job. If you want to communicate with Mr. Reynolds, you'll have to do so in writing."
Well done, Ollie, my inner critic said, your ability to turn friendly people into vehement enemies is a rare talent.
Ignoring the inner critic, I tried to be as professional, and positive as possible. "Oh, I see, that's not a problem… not a problem at all. Well, I've received an invoice from your company."
"In that case," Paula said, the voice bristling with hostility, "you need to speak to accounts."
Click.
"David Bubble, accounts. How can I help you?"
I explained the situation.
"Not a problem," said David his voice light and cheerful, "let me look you up in the system. Hang on the line and I'll be back momentarily."
Music played through the headset, a tinny hollow sound that only resembled in passing the real thing. After three minutes the melodies repeated.
"Ah yes, I can see your record now…oh, you're the lady with the bones in the yard." He let out a nervous giggle. "It looks like we canceled the work on your project."
"I know," I said. "I guess the invoice is an administrative mistake, not to worry it happens all the time." I was smiling now, more from relief and joy.
"Oh no ma’am, the invoice is correct. According to the signed contract, you are responsible for the first ten thousand dollars of cost associated with the operation, whether or not the well is productive. It is normally deducted from the royalties, but in the case of an abandoned or unproductive well it is billed to the property owner. It's right there in the small print, at the bottom of page seventy-two."
"Oh crap!" I shouted down the phone line.
"You got lucky, lady, five thousand four hundred and forty-three dollars and fifty-two cents is a steal, our first day of operations usually run over ten thousand dollars. Payment is due within 90 days."
I slumped back into my chair, dizzy, my heart pounding as if I had just run a hundred meters sprint. The dizziness remained as I wandered into the office.
On the computer I pulled up my financial spreadsheets. The Event Center business wasn't making any money and the property repairs were mounting. The oil well, rather than earning royalties looked like a dead loss. The only stable source of income was my teaching position, and I wondered how stable that might be now. I worried I'd end up homeless, and carrying around my possessions in plastic shopping bags.
The ring of the cell phone interrupted my bleak thoughts. A cheery voice greeted me. "Hi, Ollie, it's Carol Bronson. We met on an event ce
nter training course several months ago. Do you remember?"
I did, the course was taught by Mr. Maxwell, a longtime local event center operator. Carol was one of the star students. Her positive attitude and amazing plans to develop a world-class event center left me in awe. Out of all the people that I knew in the event center business, Carol was by far the best, and by a long way.
"Of course, I remember you Carol. You were the star of the course. We had a wonderful time together making plans, didn't we?" I broke out into a smile. The call was lifting my spirit.
"Oh yes," she said. "I marveled at your plans for Ealing Homestead. I have to say, Ollie, they were very impressive. I believe even Mr. Maxwell was moved by your ingenuity."
My face brightened, and I beamed with delight. Carol was like one of those inspirational speakers. On the course we called her Mrs. Motivator because she could be relied upon to cheer up and encourage, even in the most trying of circumstances.
To have a friend that upbeat was truly astonishing. In a quiet moment I asked for the secret to her incredible attitude. Something to do with positive thinking and Norman Vincent Peale. A copy of his book arrived a few days later, but I didn't get around to reading it.
Now, I was almost weeping with excitement to hear about her great successes, and pick up a few tips.
"Carol," I said, barely able to contain the enthusiastic thrill in my voice. "How are things going with you?"
"Terrible!"
"Eh?"
"Things are desperate, business has collapsed, to tell you the truth it never really picked up. Yesterday, I started as a waitress at a local café. The tips keep the electric on. Ollie, I'm hanging on by a shoestring." The cheerfulness in her voice was gone, replaced by a chilling sob that carried more than bitterness, it held the kind of forlorn wail that comes after a person has given up all hope.
Carol sucked in a long breath. "Ollie, I feel like packing my things into a plastic bag and walking away. A life free from care, wandering the streets by day and sleeping in homeless hostels by night, must be better than this."
I gasped in horror at the ghastly transformation of Carol's persona. Her thin empty voice wailed in such a desolate way it was almost impossible to listen. After only a handful of month's in the event center business, gregarious, optimistic 'Mrs. Motivator' had become 'Debbie downer', her business hanging by a thread that was about to snap.
A single question filled my mind, the answer to which I dared not consider—How long would it take for me to make the same transformation?
I felt moved to make a sympathetic gesture. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
Carol's voice brightened a touch. "Yes, can you send some of your event center business my way."
The throbbing pain behind my eyes returned. Then I recalled my last conversation with Mr. Maxwell. He had sold his event center bemoaning the hours and lack of financial opportunity. My heart pounded faster than the beat of a Batá drum. I was now certain I was going to run out of money, lose my home, and end up destitute and alone, save for some plastic shopping bags stuffed with whatever I can carry.
I hurried to the kitchen where I tossed down a quick shot of cheap sipping whiskey. Then, pouring out another, I went on outside to the porch to sit in the rocking chair to lull my pounding heart calm again.
Chapter 29
I fiddled with my cell phone and pulled up a Tony Robbins audio track. I sank back as his rich malty words of inspiration, motivation, and action, resonated around the porch. The throbbing behind my eyes eased and I experienced a sense of rising optimism.
I took a shower. The hot water splashed over my body easing the aches as the steam cleared my mind. The discovery of Garrick Markovich, sudden death of Joseph Shine, fury of Bryant Reynolds, and the precariousness of my financial situation, had created a huge stress ball of fear. Fear, which if I did not counter, would leave me paralyzed. When John was alive, he always said,' Ollie, do the thing you fear, and the death of fear is certain.'
I now knew what I had to do.
I toweled down and changed into some fresh clothes. Then in the office, with a Zig Ziglar audio running low in the background, I began to plan.
First, I put a name to my fears with each on its own line. Then I sought solutions. The Ideas came easily, the pen moving swiftly across the page as my unconscious and conscious mind communicated. For several hours I shaped and reshaped my ideas, at each iteration the resolution and form becoming more visible. The sun was low in the sky when I put down the pen, satisfied.
At the front door I called Bodie. The dog bounded, tail wagging, tongue hanging half out of his mouth, eager for his evening meal. It was only then that I remembered the tin with its faded yellow label. I'd left it in the truck.
I hurried outside. As I rummaged around the passenger side, my cell phone buzzed, a text message from Roger.
Will explain all later. Meet at the artificial intelligence hut at six p.m. Millie will join us. Drinks on me if success.
The message, somewhat cryptic, captured my curiosity. I laughed inwardly. Why are my friends so dramatic? I shrugged. "Makes life interesting," I mumbled as I continued to look for the tin.
It had somehow lodged itself under the passenger side seat. I kneeled and tugged at it with my left hand. After several attempts it jerked free, sliding out of the open-door clattering like a drummer's symbol onto the dirt ground.
Back in the office I emptied the contents of the tin onto the desk. A dank, musty odor filled the room from the haphazard collection of yellowed envelopes, curled faded photographs, and receipts for purchases made long ago.
As I surveyed the aged documents, spread out across my desk like butter on bread, I couldn't help but feel saddened that this random collection of yellowing papers is all that remains of the life of Teddy Markovich, a man barely remembered by Martha, whose first name she couldn't recall.
I picked up the nearest envelope. Inside, on paper brittle with age, a handwritten cursive script. The faded blue ink made the sentences difficult to read. But as I picked out the words a picture of Teddy Markovich as a charitable man began to emerge. The letter ended by thanking Teddy for his generosity and inquired whether he might consider giving a little more next time. It was signed 'W'.
At first, I thought the writer worked for a charitable organization. But, as I read more letters, personal details about the writer appeared. From the Midwest, the individual grew up in an unhappy household, and moved around a lot. There was no return address on any of the letters, and they were all signed 'W'.
Laid out along my desk in date order, they were four to five months apart. As I finish reading the last letter I scratched my chin and wondered what to do next. There was no great insight, no flash of inspiration, and Garrick's name didn't appear in any of the correspondence.
The clock high on the mantel chimed the top of the hour, six p.m. I got up and stretched. As I did my last downward facing dog, I realized I was late for the meeting with Roger. I dropped two of the letters into my handbag, grabbed my keys and dashed out the door. I wanted answers, and I hoped Roger Romantic would deliver.
Chapter 30
Roger was pacing outside of the artificial intelligence hut when I arrived. In the evening twilight his stooped posture and bandy legs took on a menacing form. There was no sign of Millie.
As I grew closer I realized there was something amiss. His crumpled clothes left the impression he just rolled out of bed and pulled on yesterday's trousers and yesterday shirt. There was stubble on his chin too, and his eyes protruded with a fixed stare down towards the ground.
He shuffled backwards and forwards muttering to himself.
"No doubt about it, I'm a killer, yes, that's what I am, a cold-blooded killer."
I froze. Roger continued to mutter but didn't see me.
A little step backwards, followed by another, as I tried to ease myself back toward the fluorescent lights of the restaurant. Roger repeated his chant of death, this time waving his fists furi
ously in the air.
"Don't need no helpers, can do it all on my own. I've done it before and I can do it again. Gonna kill, kill, kill, yeah!"
Something caught my foot, I stumbled and fell to the ground. Roger whirled around, and his penetrating eyes gaped at me with surprise. Without warning, he sprang forward like a prairie lion with his stubby arms outstretched and his bony fingers bent like claws.
"Ollie," he said reaching down and pulling me to my feet, "what are you doing?"
He dusted the dirt off my legs.
"Oh," I said, then changed the subject. "What are you doing pacing up and down and muttering?"
Roger looked uncomfortable and reddened.
"Millie's invited the owner of the newspaper to join us tonight for a demonstration of the artificial intelligence newswriting machine. Unfortunately, I've had problems. Didn't get a wink of sleep last night, been here all day. Now, it's getting late, I just hope when the owner of the newspaper shows up I can kill it, you know, deliver success. I've gotta get my certificate."
As I opened my mouth to ask Roger about the garden hoe Millie appeared. She strode towards us on the tips of her toes, with a broad teeth filled smile across the face, and her eyes dancing with delight.
"Tonight's the night, Roger, show me the money!" Millie paused to take a breath. "Oh, a little bit of unwelcome news, the owner of the newspaper won't be here."
Roger let out an audible sigh, and his body relaxed. Millie didn't notice because she was busy salsa dancing towards the closed hut door. "Everyone, I'm so excited, I can't wait to see the results of Roger's hard work."
She danced another salsa shuffle. "Ollie and Roger, I promise to acknowledge you when I win the Hill Country Newspaper Journalist of the Year award. The gravy train has just pulled into Millie Watkin's station!"
Out of breath, she paused. "Oh, Ollie, before we begin, please tell me what's happening with you?"