The Eavesdropper

by Edward Trimnell

  I wondered, naturally, if Ryan was there now, but I didn't ask. My past experience told me that if Ryan was around, I would find out soon enough.

  “I guess you’d like to talk to Olivia,” Claire said. At least she wasn't going to make me beg.

  Our daughter was now four years old, and she had long since passed that somewhat amorphous stage of infancy and toddlerhood, where all children are more or less alike (at least from my troglodyte perspective). Olivia was now acquiring her own distinctive personality. And every conversation with her—every meeting with her—was a sheer joy that I looked forward to well in advance.

  As we were talking on the phone, the sour thoughts invaded: If Claire and I were still married, there would be no custody agreement that gave me limited access to my daughter. I could see Olivia was much as I wanted.

  I pushed those thoughts away. Olivia was telling me about her day in the Montessori program, her explanations punctuated with giggles here and there.

  I was talking to my daughter when I heard a new sound in the background: the television. It was loud enough so that I could discern the program, more or less: definitely a sporting event. Given that it was January, my guess would have been college basketball.

  I knew that my ex-wife avoided spectator sports of any kind. Therefore, Ryan was in her condo now, watching TV.

  In the same room with my ex-wife, and my daughter.

  The volume of the television was so loud that I now struggled to communicate with Olivia. When I had to repeat myself twice to make Olivia understand me, I finally said: “Hey, sweetie, can you put your mommy back on the phone, please?”

  Olivia handed the phone back to Claire.

  “What is it?”

  “What’s that TV in the background? I never knew that you were a college basketball fan.”

  A sigh. “Ryan stopped by tonight. He’s watching the game.”

  “Yeah, well, Ryan is damn inconsiderate. He also seems to have a hearing problem, based on how loud he has the volume turned up.”

  “Okay, Frank, I didn't know you were going to be so difficult about this.”

  “‘Difficult’ about which part? Having that nitwit around our daughter, or his being inconsiderate and hard of hearing?”

  “Stop it. Listen: I’ll just take Olivia into the bedroom, and you can talk to her in there.”

  Her mention of the bedroom brought unwanted images of another kind, images of her and Ryan.

  “No, let me talk to Ryan,” I said.

  “What?”

  “See? You can’t hear either, as loud as he has that television turned up. I said I want to talk to Ryan.”

  During the time that she had been with Ryan, Claire had taken some pains to make sure that our paths never intersected. I had seen photos of him on Facebook, but I had never met the guy, never spoken to him before.

  I had apparently caught her off-guard. What was she going to do? Ryan was right there and I was asking—demanding, really—to talk to him.

  “What?” I heard a male voice—Ryan—say from the other side of the room. I surmised that Claire must have looked in his direction.

  “Frank says that he wants to talk to you.”

  After a pause, Ryan said, with an edge in his voice: “Okay, let me talk to him, then.”

  “Hold on,” Claire said, exasperated. There was the muted bump of the phone being handed over.

  “Hello?” Ryan’s voice.

  “Hey, Ryan, buddy? This is Frank.” I knew that my words were laced with sarcasm, of course. But at that moment I didn't particularly care. I was annoyed at Ryan’s inconsiderateness, and dismayed by the larger significance of his presence.

  On top of all that, I couldn't rid my mind of what I had overheard at work earlier that day. I had to decide what to do—or Ellen Watson’s death might well be on my hands. I was juggling too many balls; I was tense from too many conflicting emotions.

  “I know who you are,” Ryan said. There was no mistaking the slight contained in that simple sentence of understatement.

  “Well, then, perhaps you wouldn't mind turning the television down. I appreciate that you enjoy your sports and all, but I was trying to talk to Olivia. My daughter.”

  “First of all,” Ryan said, “The television isn't that loud. Secondly, I heard Claire offer to take Olivia into the bedroom, where you wouldn't be able to hear the TV at all. That seemed to me like a perfectly reasonable solution, but you turned it down flat, upsetting Claire, Olivia, and me in the process. I sense that there’s something else wrong, here, Frank.”

  In that instant I may have literally seen red. How dare that interloper invoke the name of my daughter.

  As calmly as I could, I said, “How about you just turn the TV down to a reasonable volume, so that isn't necessary, Ryan? Better yet, you could go watch the game at your own place.”

  I was being transparently petty now, but I didn't care.

  Ryan sighed. “All right. I’ll turn the television down while you finish your phone call. Way down, in fact. But I’m not happy about you going out of your way to disturb my girlfriend—”

  “Listen, you—” I began, but Ryan had already handed the phone back to Claire.

  “Ryan is turning the television down now, Frank. Way down, just like he said. Are you happy now? Here, I’ll let you finish your conversation with Olivia.”

  Claire put Olivia back on the call, and I did my best to get through the rest of the call in an appropriately cheerful manner. I was ever mindful that Olivia had not asked to be born to two parents who would divorce within a few years after she was born. Nor did she have any fault in the matter. I wondered how much she perceived of the tension between the three adults who were now in her life—for better or worse—and if her childhood years were going to be a war zone because Claire and I had never worked out our issues.

  Afterward, I returned to the solitude of my bachelor apartment. In some corner of my mind, I had been thinking that a display of jealousy would show Claire that I still cared for her. That had obviously backfired: I had come across as insecure—and Ryan had won the confrontation.

  I should probably take a moment to tell you what happened to our marriage. It won’t take any longer than a moment, because I’m not really sure myself.

  Claire and I met at at a local bar at a happy hour when we were both in our early twenties and right out of college. We both fell for each other, but I think it’s fair to say that I fell harder.

  The first time I proposed, she told me that she wanted to wait to get married, that there were still things she wanted to do before she settled down: She wanted to live for a time away from Ohio—maybe in California. She was thinking about going to graduate school. Or maybe she would teach English in Japan.

  I interpreted her vague wish list as a simple lack of maturity, a failure to acknowledge that her childhood had ended. So I gently prevailed on her about getting married—and I finally wore her down.

  That was the way we got married. Then Olivia came along, somewhat unexpectedly. Claire loved our daughter, but she wasn't ready to be a mother. Nothing ties you down like a child—in ways that are wonderful, as well as not so wonderful.

  To be fair, Claire never aimed any of her resentment at Olivia; she directed it at me. Suddenly it seemed that I couldn't do anything right in her eyes. Feeling under fire in my own home, I suppose that I sometimes responded in kind. Like Claire, I was still in my twenties and I had a lot of growing up to do.

  To make a long story short, Claire filed for divorce when Olivia was not yet three. We’re both entrenched in Ohio now, for better or worse. Neither of us is going to California, or Japan, or to graduate school anytime soon.

  Reflecting on the way our marriage ended, I often wondered: Should I have simply let her go, when she told me that she wasn't ready to get married? You could certainly make the case that early capitulation would have been the better choice, for everyone involved.

  Before today, my failed marriage had presented m
y life’s most difficult questions. Now I faced a new question, on an entirely different scale of difficulty: What was I going to do about the imminent “elimination” of Ellen Watson?

  Chapter 12

  It occurred to me that I had overlooked the obvious: In large companies like Thomas-Smithfield Electronics, difficult personnel issues were handled by human resources departments. And if a conspiracy between my boss and two of my coworkers to kill our group admin didn't count as a difficult personnel issue, what did?

  So the very next morning I sent an intentionally vague email message to Anne Hull. Anne was a mid-level manager within the human resources department. She was high enough on the ladder to make things happen, but she wasn't so high up the corporate food chain that she would pass me off to an underling.

  Within less than an hour, there was an email from Anne in my Lotus Notes inbox:

  “Why don’t you stop by at 10:00 a.m. My office is on the first floor, in the HR area.”

  All of the human resources offices and cubicles were on the first floor. HR reps could be seen throughout the building at various times, but they did all their serious work down there.

  I had a theory—never verified—that human resources was on the first floor because the first floor was where the main entrance was. At the conclusion of a termination meeting (not a rare event at Thomas-Smithfield) the fired or downsized party could be ushered immediately out the door. Also, the company’s corporate security offices were located on the first floor, so backup was close at hand in the event that it was needed.

  Anne Hull was tall and blonde. She was in her late forties, and still a very attractive woman. I didn't know her well, but I had talked with her once or twice since joining the company. She was one of those high-energy, alpha types who somehow find time to go to the gym or attend aerobics class four nights a week, despite a full-time corporate job and a packed family life.

  Her office was smallish and well kept. The walls were adorned with a variety of corporate and educational certificates. On the shelf behind her desk was a photo of Anne, a middle-aged man with near movie-star good looks, and two teenage girls who would have excited my imagination to no end a mere ten years ago.

  “Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice,” I said.

  “You’re welcome,” Anne said cooly. “So, what is it that brings you here today? Your email didn't reveal very much.”

  Anne gave me one of those neutral workplace smiles that could be interpreted in a variety of ways. I recalled reading a cautionary blog post on one of those “career advancement” websites: The gist of the piece was that employees should be realistic about the human resources department of any company. Although every HR professional knows how to play the warm and fuzzy act when required, a company HR rep is not your father, mother, coach, favorite uncle, or personal counselor. Human resources ultimately exists to advance and serve the interests of the company’s senior management.

  And I was about to assert that a member of the company’s management team was involved in a murder conspiracy. My assertion would be based on a conversation that I had partially overheard, using means that most people would regard as unethical.

  “It’s kind of hard to explain,” I began.

  She gave me an expression of gentle exasperation. Could I blame her, really? This was my meeting, after all.

  “Has someone been—creating a hostile work environment for you?” she suggested.

  “Hostile work environment” was, in corporate-speak, a catch-all phrase for any sort of on-the-job intimidation. What Donnie had done in the men’s room the previous day would qualify as “hostile work environment” behavior; but that was small potatoes now.

  “I don’t think that’s it, exactly,” I said.

  “Has someone been—sexually harassing you?” she asked.

  Despite the gravity of the situation, I had to suppress a smirk. Technically, a man has a right to make a sexual harassment claim, just as a woman does. Remember the Michael Crichton novel, Disclosure, the one that was made into a movie starring Demi Moore and Michael Douglas? Like I said, it’s theoretically possible. So are flying cows.

  “No,” I said. “No one is sexually harassing me.”

  “Well, then, I have to ask why you called this meeting. Would you mind being more specific?”

  “What if I had advance knowledge of something bad happening? I mean—of someone doing something wrong?”

  “You were a witness to something unethical, then?”

  “Not exactly. Nothing has happened yet.”

  “Then someone confided in you—their plans to do something unethical?”

  I knew that I was squirming in my chair.

  “I—I think I overheard something,” I said.

  “You think you overheard something.”

  When Anne said it that way, I got a full sense of how absurd and insubstantial this might seem to a person who hadn't been in the space between the walls behind that meeting room, when Sid, Donnie, and Bethany coolly talked about “eliminating” Ellen Watson.

  To make Anne fully grasp the situation, I would have to go out on a limb. I would have to not only admit that I had eavesdropped on a meeting that didn't concern me, I would also have to accuse my boss of conspiracy to commit a murder.

  Sid would deny the entire thing, of course, as would Donnie and Bethany.

  My word against theirs. Three against one.

  My intentions might be in the right place, but from an HR perspective—from a legal perspective—I had no legs to stand on. I had no proof whatsoever.

  Maybe corporate HR wasn't the answer, after all.

  “Perhaps I was only hearing things,” I said.

  Anne raised her eyebrows. And again, how could I blame her? From her perspective, I must have looked pretty flighty.

  “No—no, what I mean is, maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. Thanks for letting me talk through this with you.”

  Anne shrugged. “We really didn't discuss anything. But you’re welcome.”

  “And—may I assume this discussion will be confidential?”

  “Like I said, we really didn't talk about anything specific. There is nothing to reveal to anyone. But if it will set your mind at ease—yes, I’ll keep this between us.”

  “Thank you so much for your time, Anne. I’m awfully sorry I disturbed you over nothing.”

  She was visibly annoyed with me at this point, though she was still maintaining the outward demeanor of the understanding HR professional. I made my exit from Anne’s office as quickly and as gracefully as I could.

  I wondered how well Anne knew Sid, my boss, and if she might casually say something to him about her odd conversation with his subordinate.

  Whatever she had promised, I didn't necessarily believe that Anne would adhere to imaginary rules of confidentiality. There was no law, no regulation, that would prevent her from blabbing to Sid, and if that happened I would be in real trouble.

  I was almost certain that Sid had no idea of my eavesdropping. But if Anne mentioned this conversation to him, he would be smart enough to put two and two together.

  Then I might end up on the “elimination” list, too.

  Chapter 13

  After my meeting with Anne, I wanted nothing so much as to return to my desk on the third floor. But then, I didn't really want to go back there, as it would mean facing Donnie and Bethany.

  I walked toward the elevators on the first floor, reflecting on the new element of danger that I had added to the mix. Managers talked among themselves. Within any large company, they belonged to a universal brotherhood—and sisterhood. I could imagine Anne pulling Sid aside one day, and saying, “I’m concerned about a conversation I had with an employee of yours. Very strange. Can you make anything of it?”

  Totally absorbed in these thoughts, I boarded the elevator. The Brown-Eyed Girl was inside the elevator compartment.

  I had noticed that I always seemed to run into her in one of the elevators. Whateve
r her job was within the company, it apparently involved a lot of walking around, talking to different people in various departments.

  Making eye contact with her, I gave her the best smile I could manage under the circumstances. She had ridden the elevator down to the first floor, so she was obviously disembarking here.

  “Hi,” I said. A real wordsmith, I was.

  “Hello,” she said. I was disappointed to note that she didn't return my smile. Then I took a closer look at her face: The Brown-Eyed Girl’s expression suggested that she had had an even worse morning than I had had. Her eyes were swollen and red. Had she been—crying?

  A day at Thomas-Smithfield could be stressful and dispiriting for the company’s employees, even if your day didn't include the discovery of a likely murder conspiracy. It was rare, though, to see an employee moved to tears.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?” I asked.

  “It’s—nothing. Never mind.”

  The Brown-Eyed Girl brushed past me. At that moment, I desperately wanted to run after her. But I held myself back.

  I didn't know the Brown-Eyed Girl, after all. But I did know that in a corporate environment, an expression of simple concern—if misinterpreted—could easily be construed as unwanted sexual attention or worse.

  Plus, I had to be honest with myself: I wasn't expressing simple humanitarian concern here, was I? I was fascinated with the Brown-Eyed Girl. But right now I had enough problems—both at work and in my personal life—without adding more.

  Chapter 14

  I returned to my desk, wondering if Anne had already sent a text message or an email to Sid about our meeting. Managers were like that, I knew: They would do anything to curry favor, to build clout, with other managers. They never knew when a favor might be needed, or when today’s colleague might become tomorrow’s boss or subordinate. There had been multiple reorganizations at Thomas-Smithfield in recent years, and I figured that managers like Anne were always thinking about things like that.