A Bird Without Wings

by Roberta Pearce

  “Because I graduated at eighteen.” Duh. She took another bite.

  Chewing thoughtfully, he eyed her. Finally, disbelievingly, “You started university at fourteen?”

  “Fifteen. I did my degree in three years.”

  “An honours degree in three years.”

  “Sure. Extra course here, summer session there. Easy.”

  “Oh, piece of cake. And your degree is a BCom.” At her nod, for her mouth was full, “Specialisation?”

  When able: “Mm, strategic management.”

  “Why did you choose business?”

  “Efficiency. It was the best degree to get ahead. Get a job. Earn a living. Though I had some concern at the glut of people out there with business degrees, it still made the best sense, as employers still are only eying the glut not the exceptions to it. Maybe I should have done a BBA instead of the BCom, though. I’m not that interested in upper management.”

  For several moments, the ceiling seemed to have earned some exasperated attention. And then:

  “Did you consider another discipline?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t understand the question.”

  The corners of his mouth twitched again. “Was there another discipline that interested you? Sciences. Maths. History. Art. Design. Engineering. Humanities. Anything.”

  “Sure, everything’s interesting, isn’t it? I loved those sorts of courses as my electives—I mean, a psych course here and a Russian lit there. But no. I received a full scholarship and wanted to go into business, and wanted to do it in three years. The degree requirements—well, the maths were a cakewalk. Calculus is fun, right?”

  “Oh, sure. Good times.”

  “So I got through those easily. And my professors were helpful and . . . end of story.”

  “What did you excel at in high school?”

  She shrugged a little. “Well, I really didn’t struggle with any subject. Well, I like music, but I’m not very musical. But that never was a subject I had to take. Otherwise, I was . . . a generalist.”

  “Oh, sure. A generalist.” That sounded sarcastic. “Your graduating high school. You’re from there? Winnipeg?”

  “Not originally.”

  “Where were you born?”

  “Coquitlam.” What was all this? With a sigh, she conceded slightly. “We moved a lot. I mean, a lot. I’ve lived in every province. Even in Yukon for a while. Been in most of the Border States, too. But I left ‘home,’” she had the sense to stop short of actually making air quotes, but maybe a smear of irony escaped, “when I was fifteen, and came to Toronto for university. I’ve been here since.”

  “Did you move around because of your parents’ work? Military brat or something?”

  She spluttered. “I wish! No, my parents were the original gypsies. I’d been in six different schools by the time I was ten. Until university, I had only spent one full year in a single school.”

  “But how—?” He frowned sharply and said nothing for a couple of minutes, taking another bite. Finally: “It must’ve been hard keeping up under those conditions. Yet you finished early.”

  “Some schools I went to—well, there was that assumption that I would be behind. I was assessed more times than I can count. Somewhere along the way, I got bumped a grade or so—which is kind of unusual. Usually they just move such kids into gifted programs, but I was bored in gifted at my age level at any rate. Just bureaucratic error, I suppose, getting bumped grades, but it put me ahead of schedule.”

  “Bureaucratic error.” He chuckled, a little harshly.

  Finishing his last bite, he swiped a paper napkin across his mouth and crumpled it in a fist. Again the ceiling had provoked an amused and frustrated glare from him, and another stretch of uneasy silence followed.

  He took a swig of water. “So at eighteen you decided to get a job instead of doing post-grad.”

  “Why would I bother with another degree?” she asked, astounded. “I have goals, you know.”

  He relaxed into the sofa, crossing an ankle over the opposing knee. “What goals, doll?” he asked softly.

  “Just to make enough money to get a bit ahead and buy a home. Nothing fancy,” she added hastily. “Just my own little box in the sky. I lived in trailer parks most of my life.”

  If it were possible to will one’s own death, she would have wished it the moment that confession was uttered. It had just slipped out; she hated people knowing her background.

  Silence descended again, and the desire to spontaneously combust was traded for squirming restlessly under Lucius’ steady gaze, which was making her hot and edgy.

  “Your family, Cal. Those your parents listed there as next-of-kin?”

  “Yes. I can’t guarantee that’s a current address. I try to keep it updated, but . . .” Well, who knew where they were at any given time? She hated bothering HR with constantly tweaked information. She should really list Leon as next-of-kin. Least he didn’t move around much.

  Her cell rang and she quickly apologised as she powered it down, silently cursing as she glimpsed Leon’s name. Speak of the devil.

  “Who keeps calling you that you don’t want to talk to?” he asked in a dangerous sort of voice. “Is someone bothering you?”

  “Yes. No. Not really. It’s just my brother. Leon.”

  “You don’t get along?”

  “That depends.” She glanced at the time. “Was there anything else?”

  “Yes. Many things. What does getting along with Leon depend on?”

  She sighed. “That’s none of your business, Lucius. What’s this all about? Did you think I had lied on my résumé?”

  Humour splashed across his features as he seemed to debate how to answer that. “I’ll tell you what. You tell me what Leon wants from you, and I’ll reward you.”

  Reward her how? There had been many fond fantasies of being on a Luscious Ransome Rewards Program, and her practical, monetarily inspired self was slightly trammelled by the other self who hadn’t had sex in a very long time. “How could it possibly matter to you?”

  He simply smiled; maybe she melted a little over how persuasive that smile was with so little obvious effort—his charm was a natural embodiment of him, rather than a practised layering of skill. Or maybe it was just so practised it seemed that way. Regardless, she answered his question.

  “Leon wants what he always wants. Money for some crazy investment scheme that will bomb, and I’ll never see my money again.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It isn’t the first time,” she retorted dryly. “Nor will it be the last. This just happens to be the most he’s ever asked for. It wouldn’t wipe me out, but it would set me back. Again. That’s why I’m here, you know. That’s why I’m in that apartment. Two separate big-money hits from Leon. I gave up my apartment in Greektown . . .” She looked away, gazing out the windows. It took a minute before she could count on her voice not trembling.

  And then, very coolly: “I liked the apartment. A full kitchen and a little deck out back. Closets. Man, but I loved those closets. But I had been foolish. Careless. I had spent money needlessly, excited about having a good job and doing pretty well with my savings so young, so soon out of school. When Leon needed money that time . . . it wasn’t much, but it was all I had. And reassessing in the aftermath, I knew that having nicer clothes and a great stereo system and a decent TV weren’t important right then. ‘Pretty good savings’ were not sufficient. I had to do excellently. So I sold most everything I had, except for a few favourite books and CDs . . .”

  She cleared her throat. “Though it was stupid to keep the CDs with no stereo. The tech is becoming obsolete at any rate. I look at them on the shelf, all sentiment for them gone, but keep them. Even though I’ve ripped them and the music is all on my laptop. To remind myself how careless I had been. How sentiment is a worthless occupation. How easy it is to spend money on frivolity. How much more I would have saved, how much further I’d ha
ve been ahead, had it not been for the expensive apartment, the stereo, and Leon. And those bloody CDs.”

  Her thumbnail edged under the water bottle label.

  “I gave up the apartment. Found the place in Leslieville that was so much cheaper. It’s not so bad. I’ve lived in worse. And I stopped spending money on anything other than necessities. And then Leon happened again. Just over a year ago. I had a great job with a great future—I loved that job. But Leon’s last scam meant I needed a higher paying job to recoup some of my losses, and so I came to FalTech. FalTech employees are well paid.”

  She risked a glance at his still face, the star-sapphire eyes glued to her with rapt attention.

  She shifted in her seat, seeking to break the sombre mood. “I can’t complain about FalTech—it’s an easier job for more money. And you gave me the HRF, which is very . . . entertaining. No offence, but my job is really boring. I mean, not very challenging.”

  He appeared more amused than offended. “How much is he asking?”

  “Lucius—”

  “How much?”

  “Fifteen grand. There. Now you know everything there is to know about me.”

  “Mm,” he murmured absently. He straightened his posture, suddenly all business. “FalTech pays well to net the best possible staff. We encourage innovation and prefer to promote from within, and reward exemplary work. In light of that, you’re promoted to my project advisor trainee—a made-up title until I can decide what to do with you. You’ll take the office next to Rachel’s—it’s small, but at least it has a window. Dana’s setting up everything you need. I want you in there by day-end. There will be a list of things you need to look at, and I’ll want full reports on each by Friday noon.”

  She was on her feet, too excited to speak.

  “It will mean longer hours, doll,” he warned. “And you still have the HRF. But we’ll toss in a raise, hm? And maybe you’ll be less bored.”

  “Thank you. Oh, thank you, Lucius.” Realising that he was still seated, looking up at her with a most curious expression, she demanded: “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  He shook his head and stood. “Congratulations.”

  Grasping his offered hand in both of hers, she wrung it hard. “Thank you. But I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it.”

  Extracting his abused hand before he forgot the decent-guy scenario he was playing and stretched her out beneath him on the sofa, he chuckled. “I know. That’s what makes it so great. Now, get out of here and get your things moved.”

  As the door closed behind her, he went to the window, reviewing yet another Callie Dahl Day, leaning a palm against the glass as he looked down at the gridlocked traffic far below.

  With transient parents and, he imagined, a great deal of poverty, she must have been raised under nearly intolerable conditions. Who and what would she be had she been given any advantage? To her, she had moved ahead solely due to a mistake in an educator’s assessment.

  “Bureaucratic error,” he muttered.

  He couldn’t even hazard a guess at what her IQ must be.

  Palming his face, he turned back to the room, and his gaze fell on the ravens. The fortunate happenstance of giving her the HRF had already paid for itself, panning out with the time and money she had saved FalTech today alone, assessing a major problem in five minutes.

  The smile that lit up her face when she learned of her promotion had been so happy, so pure, without a hint of bitterness. That was what her smiles usually were; bittersweet expressions of humour grounded in lifelong disappointments.

  She deserved some real breaks in her life. And he intended on giving her every one he could.

  Even if she stole his lunch again.

  With a grin, he sat down to work.

  Chapter Eight

  The pin-neat office squished between Rachel and Ken’s bore zero evidence of its newest occupant—she had not imprinted a single detail of her complicated personality on it, and now, even her satchel and laptop were gone. Considering that the last days had seen her at her desk from very early to very late, eating brought-from-home brown-bag meals at her desk . . .

  Lucius walked back up the corridor to Dana’s station. “You see Cal?”

  “She dropped off those reports for you and said she had a meeting with . . .” she consulted a notation, “Harrison Auction &Appraisers. And then she’s going out for lunch.” At his mockingly shocked look, she grinned. “That was my reaction. Her parents are visiting, apparently, and she asked for a restaurant recommendation. I made reservations for her at Rossetti’s.”

  He checked the time. “For when?”

  “One. You have a meeting in fifteen,” she reminded.

  “Reschedule it. Keep the afternoon clear, will you?”

  ***

  The meeting at Harrison had been informative and helpful, eliminating at least one theory on the HRF, and Callie was almost cheerful as the hostess at Rossetti’s informed her that her party was already seated. A quick lunch with them and they’d be on their way. It would be at least another couple of years before she’d have to see them again.

  Following the hostess through the crowded dining room, her steps slowed. What the—?

  Deep in conversation with her parents was Lucius.

  So horrific was this scenario that even her powerful blush couldn’t surface on her blanching face. Her stomach lurched queasily.

  He stood as she approached, giving her a quick smile devoid of guilt. “Here’s our girl,” he said smoothly, kissing her cheek.

  There was no time to evaluate what he might be playing at, for by then her parents were up, giving her warm hugs and kisses, lavishing praise on her, chattering about how they were so pleased she was doing so well, and how good she looked. It was the same as it always was with them—a surfeit of words and paucity of substance. They looked the same; still young and exuberant; still a bit bohemian but a little less tatty than normal.

  Thank god for small favours.

  At last, she sank into the chair Lucius held for her, staring blankly as a waiter poured her wine.

  “Have you been in touch with Leon? We couldn’t reach him,” Mrs. Dahl said.

  Imagine that! “We speak occasionally.”

  “How is he?”

  “The same,” she replied ironically, and took a gulp of wine, hoping to settle the tremors the mix of Lucius and her parents engendered. Much worse than the usual mere parent tremors. Setting the glass gingerly in its place, she nibbled on her thumbnail. “I haven’t seen him, though.”

  Lucius pulled her hand from her mouth and held it in his on the linen tablecloth. “I’m afraid I keep Callie very busy. Don’t I, doll?”

  As her parents exchanged significant looks, Callie narrowly managed to keep a neutral expression. Why was he implying there was something going on between them other than work? Not that they hadn’t been toying with the idea and body parts, but he was acting like it was a done deal. And it was no concern of her parents’ at any rate. Perhaps the fact that he sometimes referred to her as simply ‘Dahl’ would lessen the impression.

  “Callie’s always been a workhorse,” her father gave humiliating portrayal. “Always worried about unimportant things. I think she was eleven when she got her first job,” he informed Lucius confidentially. “Eager to get out into the world.”

  “So driven,” her mother tsked. “Perhaps you’ll get her to slow down. Stop and enjoy life a little. It’s not good to be so . . .” Mrs. Dahl shrugged.

  “Avaricious,” Mr. Dahl supplied. “Money was always important to her.”

  “Do you remember her piggybank?” Mrs. Dahl asked her husband.

  “I’ll bet she still feeds it.”

  “Such a loving girl, though,” Mrs. Dahl said. “That’s what she gets from us. Always lots of love in our lives.”

  “We live on it.”

  “Rich in the only way that matters.”

  “Who cares about possessions when you can own the whole wor
ld? Travelling.”

  “Seeing the country.”

  “Not tied down. Living simply.”

  “Free.”

  Lucius squeezed her hand, and she realised she had been crushing his. Easing her grip with an effort, she flicked a glance at him to find him smiling dispassionately at her parents.

  “Shall we order?” he finally suggested, and she snatched up her menu in relief, hoping the conversation would switch to something other than her unaccountable greed.

  It did.

  “I’m sure you’ve noticed how fussy Callie is about her food,” Mrs. Dahl said to Lucius. “I could never get her to eat much of anything. So thin I almost worried about her.”

  Almost being the operative word.

  “She’s a neat freak, too,” Mr. Dahl warned. “Hates clutter. Always cleaning.”

  Mrs. Dahl dug into her bag. “I have this photo—”

  “Please, no,” Callie whispered.

  “—taken at a carnival . . . oh, where was that, honey?”

  Mr. Dahl squinted at the photo. “That was here, actually. Well, out in Scarborough. One of those plaza midways. ’Ninety-seven, maybe?”

  “Maybe before. I think we were in PEI in ’ninety-seven. Anyway, she was ten?”

  “Eight,” Mr. Dahl suggested, wrinkling his nose in concentration. “At least she looks happy in that picture. Laughing. Most times she just looked scared.”

  I was nine! It was the summer of ’ninety-four, in The Soo, and I’m wearing a dress with holes in it and I’m all hair and eyes. And I wasn’t just thin; I was bordering on starvation.

  The photo was handed to Lucius, and she studied the table cloth.

  His thumb stroked her palm. “Such beautiful eyes, even then,” he murmured, and handed the photo back to her mother.

  She sliced another confused glance at him, but he was studying her parents with enthralled attention . . . rather like an entomologist with a new and bizarre insect species.

  He manipulated the conversation easily (once he got off his verbal ass and tried!), asking the Dahls how they had met, and was rewarded with a dizzying story of how they had once been next-door neighbours and classmates in dreary suburbia in Don Mills and ran away together on graduation night. He asked about their parents—well, yes, they were all still alive, as far as the Dahls were aware, probably still next-door neighbours, but they hadn’t seen them since Callie was just a wee thing, but of course, Callie wouldn’t remember that as she was only six-months or two years or was it six years old, but the Dahls had left her with the then still-neighbouring grandparents for a week, or a month, or was it six?