With my eyes on the screen and my “who, me?” look locked in place, I coughed. I coughed the teeniest, tiniest little cough I could manage.
Cushing swiveled her chair to confront me. “Oh, dear, Dr. Prochanski. What have we here?” She asked her question with sickening sweetness, but I pretended not to notice and I didn’t look up, seemingly engrossed in the pages before me.
“Gemma.”
I looked around, affecting confusion. “I’m sorry, Doctor. Did you need something?” My tone was apologetic and every bit as sickeningly sweet as Shark Face’s.
Cushing raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing here, Gemma?”
I had the grace (and the foresight) to blush. “Oh, I simply take the meeting minutes, ma’am, but I stopped taking them when Dr. Bickel left. Was that a mistake?”
She smiled and flashed her pointy teeth. “Then what have you been doing the last few minutes, Gemma?”
She wasn’t buying what I was selling.
I blushed again, looked down, and stammered, “Just, um, things, ma’am. Nothing important.”
Cushing held out her hand and snapped her fingers. “Let me see.”
“Dr. P?” I appealed to him, but found only a troubled skepticism in his eyes.
“Hand her your laptop, Gemma. Now.”
With feigned reluctance, I handed it into Cushing’s grasp. She skewered me with a triumphant look and turned her eyes to my screen. Only to frown.
“What is this?” she demanded.
Dr. P glanced over her shoulder and glowered. “Answer the general, Gemma.”
I stared at my folded hands. “It’s Pinterest, ma’am.”
“What is . . . Pinterest?” she hissed.
“I, um, I—”
She doesn’t know what Pinterest is? Does she live under a rock?
“It’s, uh, like a picture-posting and sharing website. People create boards of what they’re interested in, you know, stuff they like. I-I like history and like to collect black and white photographs.” I gestured toward my laptop. “Those are, um, early images of New Mexico’s Pueblo Indians. It’s-it’s a hobby.”
I bowed my head, but I could still feel Cushing’s dead, dark shark eyes gauging me, weighing what I’d said. Assessing the threat.
I kept my expression neutral and sent my heart into survival mode. I went “there,” into that safe, distant place, instinctively. After all, I’d survived much worse than Cushing.
What is this, Gemma?
That’s my diary, Genie! It’s private! You have no right—
Your diary? Why, what do you have to write about? You’re the most boring person I know.
Give it to me! I shrieked. Aunt Lucy wasn’t home. No one could hear me. Or help me.
I grabbed at my diary—the one place my twelve-year-old heart felt safe to confide its secrets and feelings—but my sister yanked it out of my reach.
Don’t tell me what I do and don’t have a right to do, Gemma, you inferior thing, she sneered. Then her visage turned uglier. Wait. Have you been writing about me?
She began to scan through my precious book. I made another, desperate, grab for it. This time, Genie slapped my cheek. The crack of her open palm rang in my ears and I recoiled, my hand covering my stinging skin.
Was it bad luck that she turned to the worst possible page she could have found? When she finished reading what I’d written about her she smiled.
Yes, Dear Reader, I’d seen evil smiles before.
Her smile growing wider, my sister studied me. Why, I’m surprised at you, Gemma. You have more insight than I gave you credit for.
Still watching me, her eyes gleaming, she began tearing the pages from my diary. Her breath quickened and I knew why: It gave Genie pleasure to make others suffer.
I screamed and threw myself at her, but she dodged away and kicked me. I stumbled and fell face down on the floor of our room.
That’s when Genie began beating me. With the book. With her fists. Blow after blow rained down on the back of my head. I squirmed and tried to get out from under her, but she knelt on me.
As you might imagine, a little diary won’t leave discernable marks on the back of one’s head. Neither will a twelve-year-old’s fists. She used both on me until she was exhausted.
Aunt Lu, Gemma’s got a terrible headache, Genie, full of solicitous concern, reported to our aunt that afternoon. I think you should give her some ibuprofen.
Aunt Lucy looked into my tear-stained eyes and down my throat. Does your throat hurt, Honey?
No, Aunt Lucy. Just my head.
Genie peeked from behind Aunt Lucy and smiled.
Oh, yes. I’d seen evil smiles before, and I knew how to survive them.
So that day in the conference room I had zero problem “conning” the general. I played the beaten, clueless role just fine, thank you very much.
Shark Face narrowed her eyes and changed tactics. She huffed. “Really, Dr. Prochanski. I’m surprised that you allow your employees to waste precious government resources on frivolous, non-work-related pursuits like this.”
He glared at me. “I didn’t think Sandia’s IT settings allowed access to social media.”
(Actually, Sandia doesn’t allow access to unsecured sites. Typing in a single “s” after “http” overcame that small hurdle.)
“I’m very disappointed in you, Gemma.”
Well, I was more disappointed in him than he would ever be of me.
I managed a, “I-I’m sorry, Dr. Prochanski. It won’t happen again,” without breaking a sweat.
He looked at Cushing and then back at me. “You may go, Gemma.” He handed me my laptop.
“Thank you, sir.”
At the end of the day I was about to shut down my computer when Dr. P appeared at his office door and called to me. “Gemma, I need to speak with you.”
I picked up a notebook and pen. When I entered his office, he, motioned to a chair in front of his desk.
He folded his hands on his desk and said, “Gemma, I’m very sorry to tell you this, but we are letting you go.”
I was stunned. Shocked. His tone was sincere, but I didn’t recognize the look in his eye. And I couldn’t process his words.
“I’m sorry? What do you mean?” Not an original response but, dismayed as I was, it was all I could come up with.
“The contract under which you were working has lost its funding, so your position here is terminated, I’m afraid. Effective immediately.”
They say the stages of grief and loss are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I was validating the first stage of that model.
“I-I-you can’t be serious? I’m sure the contract has enough money on it for two more years!” I knew it did; my company’s management kept me apprised of the state of the contract that funded my position with Sandia.
Aaaaand then there’s bargaining. I seemed to have skipped over anger for the moment.
“Is it something I’ve done? It can’t be that I was looking at Pinterest! Please let me fix this?”
“My dear Gemma, this is not a termination for cause. Your contract position has been eliminated. Budget cuts.”
His “my dear Gemma” grated over my nerves and I didn’t believe him. Not for a moment.
I was crushed, but I crammed my “cards-close-to-the-vest” onto my face and studied Dr. Prochanski. I was certain he saw nothing more than my normal, vacant expression.
But what did I see?
His eyes had narrowed when he said, “not a termination for cause.” His lips had stiffened and he’d glanced away, very briefly, when he said, “Your contract position has been eliminated.”
He was lying.
They were getting rid of me because of what I’d overheard him and General Cushing discussing in the conference room. What I heard was important, I reasoned, still masking the hurt of my smashed ego.
It didn’t matter, though, did it? They were getting rid of me and I couldn’t do a thing about it.
He hesitated and
then added, “I’m sure this topic will be covered in your exit interview, Gemma, but the policy is serious enough to bear reiteration: Everything you have read, seen, and heard in your work here is classified and cannot be spoken of outside these walls. To anyone.”
Dr. P’s voice had the tiniest edge to it, and I was certain he’d placed emphasis on the word “heard.”
“I’ll pack my things,” I said, with no emotion.
“Very good.” He picked up his phone. “Please send security to do the exit interview and escort Ms. Keyes off base.”
I stumbled back to my desk and started emptying my drawers of personal items. I found an empty box by the photocopy machine and loaded it up.
“Gemma?”
I glanced up, still keeping my expression blank. Dr. Bickel approached the cubicle wall fronting my desk, his thinning red hair more disheveled than normal. Something in his demeanor spoke of stress, and I could feel tension oozing from him. His body language was like a guitar string wound far too tight.
“Yes?” That single word was as detached as I could make it.
“I heard what happened, Gemma. I’m very sorry.”
How? How could you have heard? Dr. P told me I was being let go only moments ago.
I allowed none of those questions—or my astonishment—to flit across my countenance.
“Thank you.” I added a photo of Aunt Lucy to the box. I was still cool. Still in control.
“If you need a recommendation, I would be pleased to write one for you.”
I lifted guarded eyes to his, surprised to see compassion there. Was it possible that he had no idea of my “other” role in this department? That I’d spied on him? Again, I merely whispered, “Thank you.”
“Here’s my card. I’ve written my personal phone number and email address on it.”
As Dr. Bickel leaned over the cubicle wall and placed the card on my desk, the officer from Sandia’s security department came through the door. I glanced in the officer’s direction and then back to Dr. Bickel.
At the last possible moment I leaned toward Dr. Bickel and mouthed, “Watch your back.”
I don’t know what prompted me to issue such a cryptic warning, but I didn’t regret it. I turned away from him and waited for the security officer’s approach.
As simply and as quickly as that, my career—my whole life!—went down in flames. I drove home and sat in my dark living room.
Thinking. Thinking. Thinking.
Chapter 4
Dear Reader,
Are you still with me? I hinted that you would find the journey worthwhile
The first person I told about losing my job was Abe, of course. I got up the following morning, still dazed, and shoved the box of stuff I’d hauled home from work into the coat closet. I couldn’t bear to sort through it.
I looked down the street and saw Abe sitting on his front porch. I grabbed a sweater, two cups of coffee, and headed out the door.
I’m not sure how old Abe is, but he’s getting up there. He’s a vet—fought in Viet Nam, I think—and he still has what he calls “a fire in my bones.” True to his military training, Abe keeps his yard trimmed, his house tidy, and (one of his quirks) his blinds closed at all times. I’ve been in his house and I can testify that it is meticulously clean and organized. Spit-spot. Not a speck of dust; not an object out of place.
What else should I say about Abe? Abe and Aunt Lu were the best of friends for as long as I could remember—not in a romantic way, though. They went to the same church and were kind to each other in simple, practical ways. Like, Lu took Abe a hot meal about once a week and Abe took care of things around our house when they broke.
I will never forget Abe, tears flowing down his black cheeks, when we buried Aunt Lu.
Abe was wonderful to Genie and me, too, especially when we first came to live with Aunt Lucy. He still looks out for me, I think, and still tries about once a month to get me to go back to church—but that’s not gonna happen.
Sure, I have “friends,” people my age I went to school with and hung out with growing up, but I’m not close to any of them. I don’t trust or confide in them.
Abe is the person in my life who stands in the gaping hole left by Aunt Lucy’s passing. He holds a precious place in my heart and is the closest thing to family I have left.
Well, there’s Genie, of course—but that’s a ball of mess I never touch on purpose.
So when I saw him sitting on his front porch, I beat a path across the cul-de-sac.
“Hey, squirt.”
Abe patted the seat on the swing next to him. He’d built that big old wooden swing himself, and I’d spent many hours swaying back and forth on it when Genie and I came to live with Aunt Lu.
Abe had sat through lots of heartaches and tears with me that first summer as I came to terms with my folks’ passing and, years later, with Lu’s passing. That kind of bond is what I’m talking about when I say he’s the closest thing to family I have left.
Abe’s glossy face has a wealth of wrinkles around the eyes and mouth that enhance what I love about him. He has the deepest, blackest eyes I’ve ever seen and a smile that lights them up. He smiled at me right then and some of the weight I was carrying slipped off.
I plopped down on the swing, handed him one of the cups, and pulled my feet up under me. Abe set the swing going and we sat together for a long time.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
“I lost my job yesterday, Abe,” I finally whispered.
“Huh. Did ya, now?”
Back and forth. Back and forth.
“Yeah.” I was not going to tell him why. And I was not going to tell him about spying on Dr. Bickel—the part I was ashamed of.
He nodded.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
“You’re young. Lots of livin’ ahead. God’ll see ya through.”
Back and forth. Back and forth.
“Not the worst thing could happen to ya, neither.”
Back and forth. Back and forth.
I took a deep, cleansing breath. Not the worst thing could happen to ya, neither.
“You’re right. Thanks, Abe.”
He patted my hand. I squeezed his hand back.
I’D BEEN UNEMPLOYED for all of three days.
“Gemma, dear, I’m so sorry. I heard you lost your job?”
Crud. I was cornered.
Like I said, I’d been off work for all of three days—and Belicia Calderón, the nosy neighbor on my left, jumped on me like a chicken on a grasshopper! I figured Mrs. Calderón had gleaned the news from Mrs. Flores, the neighbor on my right.
Abe was much too discreet to provide the Cul-de-Sac Calumny Queen with fodder for her flapping jaws. Mrs. Flores, whom I’d visited with yesterday, had likely let the news of my unemployment slip without realizing she had armed The Queen’s guns—that’s how good Mrs. Calderón was at prying out bits of information.
It wasn’t that I was hiding the fact that I was unemployed. Not at all. But Mrs. Calderón was a relentless scandalmonger who dug for dirt where no dirt existed—and who kept digging and digging and digging. If she couldn’t find dirt, she’d fabricate juicy details and add them to established facts, creating chaos, ruining reputations, and causing division between friends wherever she went.
I’d been to Walgreen’s, and all I was doing was putting my car in the garage. Had the door up. About to drive in. Mrs. Calderón took that as license to waddle around the little wall between our properties.
Did I say waddle? Let me tell you something about Mrs. Calderón: Everything about her waddles. When she talks, that flabby skin-thingy hanging under her chin waddles. When she’s excited, her sizable breasts roll side to side and jounce up and down.
I know; I’m so sorry for the image. I can’t help it.
When she bends over (Nooooo!) her auburn wig shifts precariously. I’m shooting in the dark here, but I doubt that Mrs. Calderón ever had hair the dazzling shade of red her wig is. I’m p
retty sure no one has. I tremble to imagine what might be revealed should the hairpiece ever slide off!
Besides all that waddles, there’s her tongue. It wags! Trust me on this: She is one very determined gossip. When Mrs. Calderón has you in her sights, she cannot be put off, put down, or deterred. This morning, like a British ship-of-the-line flying under full sail, she bore down upon me, a hapless dinghy bobbing in the sea without mast or motor. She rounded the wall, waddled up the drive, and stood right in front of my car as I pushed up the door.
Which meant I couldn’t drive into the garage until she waddled out of the way.
Grrr.
“But I thought you were doing so well at Sandia! Weren’t you close to that nice doctor—your scientist friend?”
Dear Reader, I have never spoken of my work at Sandia to anyone in the neighborhood except Abe, so perhaps you’ll understand why, mentally, my jaw dropped. Outwardly, though, I laughed as if I had not a care in the world.
“The contract ended, Mrs. Calderón, so my position was no longer funded.” I glanced at my watch.
Wait. I don’t wear a watch. All right, then. I glanced at my bare wrist.
“Oh, goodness! I’m so sorry. I need to run. It was very nice talking to you.”
I jumped in my Toyota and started the engine before she could say another word—No! She was talking! I was in the car with the door shut and still she talked! Unbelievable!
She didn’t budge, either. She kept talking and talking and blockading the driveway between the open garage door and me.
I looked down, pretended to fiddle with something on my dash, pretended I didn’t see her still standing in the way. I eased my foot off the brake and my car moved forward.
With my peripheral vision, I saw her huff and waddle to the side of my drive. While she was still turned away, I hit the gas and my car jumped into its little stall. I threw the gearshift into park, turned off the engine, and raced to pull down the garage door—and she was standing right there. Under the door!
Arghh!
“But jobs are so hard to come by these days, Gemma.”
News flash! Wow. I totally did not know that.
“I can’t see how you can possibly make it in this economy. Oh, dear. Do you have any savings?”
Stealthy Steps Page 6