Breaking Free

by Jennifer Slattery

  Rick studied him, the creases on his forehead returning. “Yeah, all right.”

  Trent exhaled, his coiled muscles going slack until the teller with the immaculate hair and nails called out, “I can help the next in line.”

  He looked at the other tellers, all busy with customers. Maybe he could tell Rick to go first, although that would only raise suspicions. No, he lacked options, and the time for stalling had come and gone. Squaring his shoulders in an effort to exude confidence, he strode to the open cubicle. He locked eyes with the woman and slapped his wrinkled check on the counter.

  “I’d like to . . .” He swallowed, glanced at the security guard who appeared to be watching him, then turned back to the teller.

  Don’t do this. Walk away. Just walk away.

  His hand closed around the check, turning it into a tight, wrinkled wad. “I’d like to verify a deposit.” If his last paycheck had been deposited . . .

  The lady smiled, revealing a set of perfectly straight teeth. “May I see your ID please?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He pulled out his wallet and produced his driver’s license. “Can you print a list of my recent debits and credits please?”

  The lady turned and began to type on a keyboard to her right. She hit a button, walked to a large wireless printer against the far wall. The teller to Trent’s left motioned Rick forward. Trent breathed in, resisting the urge to drum his fingers on the counter. He needed to be done and out before Rick could hound him about the money.

  Trent’s teller returned with a sheet of paper and handed it over.

  He focused on the numbers. More than he’d hoped, thanks in part to the addition of an old expense account check that had finally been approved. He flashed her an easy smile. “I’d like to make a withdrawal. For $1,500.”

  “Certainly. Mixed bills?”

  He nodded. Cash in his pocket beat money in the bank any day. His blue jeans didn’t charge overdraft fees, and the poker tables offered much better returns, if he played them right.

  He tensed, his teeth grinding together. No. No more gambling.

  Money bulging in his back pocket, he hurried for the door when Rick’s deep voice stopped him. “Hey, my man! Wait up.”

  Trent considered bolting, but Rick was one of those hyper-fit types, so the chance of outrunning him was nil. Besides, the last thing he wanted to do was call attention to himself.

  “Yeah, I gotcha.” Trent turned around, pulled out his stash, and handed Rick what he owed.

  There went more money, gone before he even left the bank.

  CHAPTER 22

  Alice followed the long, winding gravel road, past tall pine trees and through an iron gate covered with vines. A fat squirrel with bulging cheeks dashed in front of her and scurried up a nearby tree. She inhaled and regripped the steering wheel. It was just her mother, for goodness’ sakes. But then again, it was her mother.

  She eased into her parents’ slate driveway lined with spiral bushes, marigolds, and daffodils. She parked to the left of the garage and got out. Purple asters and peach daylilies filled large ceramic vases flanking two white pillars extending from the front steps to the roof. Unlike Alice’s wilting tulips, these flowers bloomed fresh and vibrant.

  Her stomach flopped as she made her way up the stairs. Would her mother help her take this next step, or would she send her away with an overly cheery, “I know you can handle this, dear”?

  Alice paused on the front porch to read the words etched in a garden stone to her right. “Love is like a tender flower, ever reaching for the sun.” Turning back to the door, she lifted the brass knocker, clanked it, then waited. Her mother appeared wearing a floral apron and clutching a dishtowel.

  “How nice to see you.” She smiled and squished Alice in a hug before ushering her inside.

  A candle burned on an accent table in the entryway, filling the house with the sweet scent of peach cobbler.

  “To what do I owe this visit?”

  Alice lowered her gaze and tucked her hair behind her ears. This wasn’t something she could blurt out—especially not to her mom. “It hasn’t been that long, has it?”

  Her mother closed the door, then led the way to the kitchen. “Much too long, considering you live only 20 minutes away.” She moved to the stove, grabbed a teakettle, and brought it to the sink. “Would you like some?”

  “That would be great.” Alice sat at the table and folded her hands on the bright yellow tablecloth. Freshly cut lavenders and daisies filled a pale blue vase in front of her. A few stray petals dotted the linen. She reached out and picked one up, rubbing it between her thumb and index finger.

  Her mom set a plate of oatmeal raisin muffins and a saucer in front of her then returned to the stove.

  She glanced over her shoulder. “So, how are the boys? How is soccer going?”

  Alice made small talk, telling her mom about the boys’ many events and activities, waiting for the right moment to bring up her failing marriage. How did one do that? Hey Mom, love the flowers. Trent’s an alcoholic who likes to watch dogs tear each other to shreds. I’m thinking about leaving.

  Alice grabbed a muffin and picked at a raisin. “I need to talk to you about something.”

  Her mother looked back at Alice, eyebrows raised. After turning the burner on high, she pulled up a chair and leaned forward. “What is it dear? Is something wrong? Are you ill?” Her eyes glimmered. “Don’t tell me you’re pregnant.”

  “I’m much too old for that, Mom.”

  “What is it, then? Did something happen?”

  “No, well, sort of. It’s . . .” She paused. “It’s Trent.”

  “He’s not sick, is he?”

  “Yes, but not how you think.”

  Her mom’s eyes widened. “What is it, dear?”

  Alice fidgeted and picked at another raisin. “He’s been drinking.”

  Her mom chuckled. “Oh, my. Is that all? I’ve heard what your pastor says about drinking—or alcohol of any kind—but you know, not every Christian interprets Scripture that way.”

  The kettle whistled as steam gushed from its spout. Her mom pushed up from the table and filled two mugs.

  She handed one to Alice. “You know, dear, you should spend more time counting your blessings and less time looking for storm clouds.” She took a sip of tea, peering at Alice through the steam. “Trent is a good, hardworking man.” She covered Alice’s hand with her own. “I imagine he’s under a great deal of stress. I really think you need to give him some grace on this one.”

  Alice swallowed and tried again. “But it’s more than that, Mom. He’s . . . he’s an alcoholic. He stays out all night, our checking account is a mess.”

  “Oh, Alice. You really need to relax. Life happens, and sometimes things get . . . challenging.” She leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Trent has shown himself to be a wonderful husband and father.”

  Why wouldn’t her mom ever listen? “He isn’t a wonderful husband. Or father. Not anymore.”

  “Do you remember what I told you that first year you were married, when you came running home crying with suitcases in your hands?”

  “Yes. But this is different—”

  Her mother held up her hand. “I doubt that. As I told you then, you can’t come running home every time you have a problem. You and Trent have to work things out in your own way. Together. That’s what marriage is all about.”

  “But Mom—”

  Raising her hand again, she shook her head.

  Sighing, Alice slumped in her chair. She shouldn’t have come.

  Her mother’s face softened into a smile. “Now, tell me . . . what else are the boys up to?”

  Alice blinked and shook her head. Why stay any longer? She wasn’t up for storytelling. Not today. Placing both hands flat on the table, she pushed to her feet. “Thanks for the muffin, Mom, but I really need to be going.”

  Always good to know I can count on you in a time of crisis.

  Trent sat in the Innovative M
edia Solutions parking garage listening to the steady hum of his car engine. He hadn’t seen Mr. Lowe since the day he bailed. Could he get his job back? Or at the very least, a severance package. Maybe if he came up with a viable excuse as to why he’d ditched. Alice was sick? Yeah, right. Like that’d really send him home.

  Maybe he could say Tim got in a car accident. That was a good one, if only he’d come up with it weeks ago. And he didn’t call because . . . ? How about: Tim rolled his car, and they had to medevac him to the Seattle hospital. While in route to see his near-dying son, Trent dropped his phone and it landed in a mud puddle. He would’ve used the hospital telephone, but they wouldn’t let him. And he would have called once he got home, but a drunk driver careened into their telephone poles, sending them crashing to the ground. The phone company had just recently repaired the lines.

  Yep, that would work. Mr. Lowe would really buy that one, right after Trent explained how a bunch of thugs stole his computer, preventing him from presenting his amazing media campaign to Peak Performance Foods. Genius, absolutely genius.

  So what would he tell him? He’d been stressed out and overwhelmed? He’d had a nervous breakdown? That had worked for Stephen, one of their new hires, but Trent was more than a new hire, and Stephen had been branded unstable ever since.

  Unstable but employed.

  Trent’s last two mortgage checks had bounced, and even though he’d covered the charges for the first one, he remained a month behind. And then came the late fees, piling up fast. It was time to get his act together. Sure’d be nice to have that $1,500 he’d withdrawn a week ago. It’d taken less than four days to lose it. A smarter man would’ve learned his lesson by now.

  Sitting in his car fretting wouldn’t pay the bills. He needed to do some bridge checking, to see which ones were repairable and which ones had burned. Hopefully, if he spun things right, Mr. Lowe would offer him grace. As unlikely as that was.

  He crossed the parking garage with long, deliberate strides before his courage faded. Inside the elevator, he worked his story in his mind, hosting a three-way conversation. His story, Mr. Lowe’s response, and that nagging thing called a conscience all feuding for dominance. In the end, Trent won. Now if only he could transfer that win to real life.

  Three floors later, he stepped out of the elevator and into Innovative Media Solutions’s cream and black striped lobby. A new receptionist sat behind the desk. Good. That meant he’d have to deal with one less person who had heard about his colossal mess-up. It also meant that Cherice, the previous secretary, had either quit or been fired.

  Maybe that could work in his favor.

  “May I help you?” The woman smiled.

  Trent started to ask to see Mr. Lowe when familiar voices drifted down the hall. Rick and Daniel, another graphic designer, were headed this way.

  “I think I’m in the wrong office.” He spun around and stepped back inside the elevator. The doors closed as Rick and Daniel turned the corner. Leaning against the cold metal wall, Trent rubbed his face. He’d come back later, maybe tomorrow. With an excuse as to why he’d bailed, hopefully one believable enough to get his job back.

  CHAPTER 23

  Alice perched on the edge of her seat, back straight, hands tightly folded in her lap, while Mr. Titon reviewed her application. This was her third interview this week, and based on his deep scowl, it wouldn’t be her last.

  She held her breath as he flipped the page over to the “skills and expertise” section on the back. As he read, his bony fingers rubbed his chin, and his lips twitched. Apparently, her “ladies tea hostess” and “luncheon coordinator” status didn’t impress him.

  Without much in the way of formal references, she had added a long list of volunteer positions hoping more than a decade of unpaid service would account for something. If anything, it showed she hadn’t been nibbling chocolate-covered strawberries all these years. But after all the empty “We’ll get back to you” responses thrown her way, she’d begun to lose hope.

  Mr. Titon scanned the front and back of Alice’s application a second time before setting it down. He leaned on his elbows and looked her in the eye. “Our shelving positions pay minimum wage and are only part time.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that.” So what if this job would barely pay enough to cover gas? She had to start somewhere—a catch-22 deal. She needed a job to get a job.

  “Are you familiar with the Dewey Decimal System?”

  “Yes. In fact, I often reshelve my books when I’m done. So I don’t clutter up the reading area.”

  Mr. Titon frowned. “We prefer patrons leave the books on the tables or bring them to the check-out area so they can be filed appropriately.”

  “Oh. Yes, sir.”

  “When shelving books, what would you say is more important: accuracy or speed?”

  Alice studied him. His crisp, button-down shirt with two pens tucked into the front pocket and the thin-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose indicated attention to detail. And yet, the frequent glances to the wall clock indicated efficiency, or perhaps, impatience. Maybe he valued both?

  “I think one can be accurate and efficient simultaneously.”

  Mr. Titon’s frown returned. Wrong answer. He pulled open a side drawer, pulled out a piece of paper, and gave it to Alice.

  “Let me know when you are done.” He stood and left the room.

  She read the sheet in front of her. An alphabetizing test, much like the ones she took in sixth grade library class. The instructions: “Number these from first to last in alphabetical order as they would be shelved.” A series of book titles followed. She flipped the page over and read the instructions on the back. “Put these in order as they would be shelved, from first to last.” Reference numbers carried out to the fourth digit filled the remainder of the page.

  She felt like she had regressed 30 years. It took less than ten minutes to finish the “test,” but thinking of Mr. Titon’s pressed shirt and wrinkled brow motivated her to give it a second look. After verifying her answers were correct, she emerged from the office with test in hand.

  Mr. Titon stood in front of a bookshelf a few feet away, talking with a girl nearly half Alice’s age. He glanced up when she approached. She handed him the paper. He scanned it, the annoying twitch returning to his thin lips.

  His face held no emotion. “I’ll get back to you.”

  Yeah, right. I’ve heard that one before.

  CHAPTER 24

  Trent turned into the Innovative Media Solutions’s parking garage for the second time this week. No more pulling a pansy. This time, he’d do whatever it took to get his job back. Hopefully, his years of faithful service, of successfully handling million dollar accounts, would carry him through on this one. If that didn’t work, he’d play the victim card. Somehow.

  His legs felt wooden as he made his way to the cold, metal elevator. He had rehearsed and rephrased what he would say to Mr. Lowe so many times; the words ran through his mind on autopilot. And yet, even now they sounded flat and unconvincing.

  Riding to the third floor, he practiced his speech out loud, focusing on pitch and delivery. “Mr. Lowe, I know there is no excuse for my behavior. I don’t know what came over me. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately . . .”

  This ended his spiel every time. Why had he been under stress? Because he owed money to half the city, that’s why. But he couldn’t tell Mr. Lowe that. Scrap the whole, “honesty is the best policy” garbage. Especially in situations like this.

  When the elevator doors opened, all ideas vanished. His hand hovered over the door close button. He needed to follow through with this. Focused on the thin carpet in front of him, he inhaled and took a giant step forward.

  The lady sitting behind the reception desk glanced up. “Good morning. May I help you?”

  He crossed the room and looked down the hall. Leaning forward, he said in a hushed tone, “I would like to speak to Mr. Lowe, please.”

  The woman flashed a too
thy smile. “Certainly, sir. Is he expecting you?”

  “Uh . . . he’s . . . not exactly.”

  “And you are?”

  “Trent Goddard.”

  She nodded and picked up the phone. “There’s a Trent Goddard here to see you.” After a slight pause, she hung up. “Three doors down and to the right.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mr. Lowe’s office door stood ajar. Trent knocked then waited for his former boss, who swiveled his chair to face him.

  “Come in.” Frowning, he leaned back and crossed his arms.

  Trent sat on the edge of his seat, hands clasped in his lap. Diving into his used-car salesman act, he inhaled and forced his shoulders slack. “Mr. Lowe, I . . .” He tossed his carefully rehearsed excuses aside as a better one emerged. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. “I stopped in to see why I haven’t received any assignments from you yet. Is there a problem?”

  The crevice between Mr. Lowe’s eyebrows deepened. “What are you talking about?”

  “Cherice told me you’d send my new assignments out some time ago, but I’ve checked my emails daily and haven’t seen anything come in.”

  “I haven’t sent you any files, nor do I plan to.”

  Trent tried to look confused. “I don’t understand. Cherice said you assigned me to work with some urban development architect. A media campaign for the city beautification project, so the city council can encourage voter support.” The words spilled out. “When I last spoke with her she said she would send details via email. Said I could work on it at home and,” he cleared his throat, “I hate to bother you with this. I know how busy you are, which is why I waited as long as I have, but I grew nervous about a potential deadline.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to get Cherice in trouble, but I tried to contact her three times, and each time my email bounced back.”

  “Cherice?” Mr. Lowe studied him, rubbing the back of his hand under his chin. “Why haven’t you returned my calls?”