The End of Men

by Karen Rinaldi

  “I just had a strange meeting with Larry. He asked if I would want to take over the Prada account starting now.” Ruth was practically in tears.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him that it was your biggest account and that I doubted you would want to give it up. I said I’d be happy to manage it while you were out on maternity leave. Then he said something that made no sense whatsoever . . . something about how that was a long way away and anything could change by then. What’s going on?”

  Isabel’s mind raced with paranoia. The whole thing made her feel sick. “He’s trying to push me out. Ruth, don’t worry, take care of yourself. If he wants you to take over the account, do it. I’ll figure it out. Thank you for coming to me. It means a lot.”

  Behind closed doors of her office, Isabel called Sam.

  “The Turtle just handed over Prada to Ruth,” she said as soon as he picked up the phone.

  “That slimy bastard.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Don’t do anything, Is. We’ll let him hang himself. What’s the worst-case scenario? You don’t work for that douchebag anymore? Just make a note of your conversation with Ruth and put it someplace safe. And if you haven’t already, make a note of what he said to you months ago about hiring pregnant women. Try to re-create the moment and trace the date. It might be useful. Don’t sweat it, sweetheart. He needs you more than you need him.”

  Whenever Isabel sought Sam’s counsel, she felt well protected. His ego never stood in the way of giving dependable advice and she admired his ability to keep the situation focused on what it actually was, rather than what it meant to him. She never felt that Sam had an alternate agenda. Hanging up the phone, she thought about the man she had left in bed that morning. Christopher’s agenda was unpredictable even in the best of circumstances. In moments like these, Isabel felt certain of the downright stupidity of sleeping with Christopher. The affair wasn’t worth the risk of hurting Sam, but somehow she couldn’t put Sam and Christopher into the same equation.

  Isabel tried not to let the news of the Prada account affect her, but she was so furious and tense she began to feel tightness around her belly. Determined not to let the Turtle influence one moment of her son’s prenatal life, she breathed deeply in, out, in, out, until she loosened up and finally relaxed. Even as she sought to calm it, the pressure she’d felt excited her: it was the first sign of what labor might be like, the force of her abdominal muscles against the baby and the wave of power she had inside her.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Beth

  THE SECOND NOTE arrived on Halloween.

  This one had arrived by mail, postmarked in a plain white oversized envelope, among dozens of pieces of more benign communications. Sacha hurried into Beth’s office to hand it over to her boss. It featured positions from the Kama Sutra with an image of Dr. Crane vulgarly insinuated into the illustrations. The RHM model’s image had been torn from sample pages of magazine ads, photocopied to reduce it to size, and glued sloppily into place. Dr. Crane’s lovely face had been obliterated with the same fluorescent orange ink. The sender had written “Karma Suture” across the bottom of the page. Philistine or maniac? Likely both. Most disturbing, the ads with Dr. Crane had not yet been printed or released to the public. Somehow, the sender either had access to the RHM offices or knew someone who was supplying them. Either way, the note convinced Beth that RHM had a stalker whose intentions—while not clear—certainly meant harm. This was no black humor.

  Over the course of the following ten days, Beth received two more missives. Addressed to Beth in the same orange pen used to violate the images, each note incorporated a cultural reference, though not thematically consistent, except for the degradation of RHM. Not that Beth was looking for someone with a thesis—she just wished there were clues besides the orange pen.

  The third was from an 1850 illustration of Lady Macbeth with Beth’s head superimposed on the image and “Lady BethMack” written below it. It would have been funny, except that it wasn’t. The image was repeated, but in this version Lady BethMack’s head had been removed from her body and pasted next to it. Beth wasn’t easily intimidated, but the stalker had her attention.

  Beth called him the Orange Pen Stalker or Special OPS for short. Not wanting to take any chances that the sender wasn’t going to take these arcane threats any further, Beth hired a private detective.

  The letters from Special OPS marked the end of a relatively eventless fall.

  AFTER THE TRIP to Italy, Paul’s health maintained a slow but steady decline. He hadn’t been rehospitalized, but a persistent cough now plagued him and extreme fatigue forced him to slow down at work. The thought of Paul spending a few days a week in bed simply to rest told Beth more about the state of his constitution than anything else. She and Jessie saw him for dinner at least once a week now. Although the signs weren’t dramatic, Beth sensed the asymptotic nature of Paul’s future days. The question of how closely she’d allow Jessie to witness her father’s death remained. One thing was for certain: she wanted Jessie to have as much time as possible with her father before she couldn’t anymore.

  Beth tried not to conflate the double threats of Paul’s steady decline and the latest dispatches from Special OPS, but she felt besieged by the weight of each. In an effort to release some of the tension she felt, Beth booked an after-work massage at a spa near the office. She’d often promise herself the gift of regular appointments, but they always got canceled in service to something else demanding her attention. Desperate for some relief, she pulled herself away from work and walked the ten blocks to the discreet and simple day spa.

  Beth felt her body begin to unwind the moment she stepped off the city street and into the calm of the spa space. Barely audible Indian sitar music played in the background, and incense filled the air with the scent of jasmine. The attendant handed Beth a robe and slippers and showed her to a massage room. After consulting with the masseuse about what kind of work she wanted done, Beth slipped under the sheet covers and tried to relax into the moment.

  As the masseuse kneaded Beth’s body, she felt tears rise from her core and a sob emerged as a hiccup as she tried to stifle it. The therapist intercepted Beth’s resistance, saying, “Let it go, Beth. Just let it go.” This simple directive released a torrent of tears and, with it, the tide of sorrow that had been waiting to breach the levee around Beth’s heart.

  The deeper the therapist worked, the more freely Beth’s tears fell. Crying never came easily to her, but these tears, spurred by sadness and anxiety, also came with a kind of joy. Beth remembered a card she’d received from Isabel soon after she’d shared the news of Paul’s HIV status with her. In it, Isabel had written: “Remember, my beloved friend, there is no love without sorrow, no grace without pain.”

  Beth smiled through her tears now as she recalled the beautiful wisdom of her friend.

  Amen, sister.

  THE FOURTH LETTER from Special OPS arrived unceremoniously in the mail less than a week after the last. This one featured lines from a poem by Louise Labé (properly credited, it would turn out) written inside a comic speech balloon pointing to the mouth of a woman crudely drawn with Special OPS’s signature pen. She was being kissed by one man and screwed by another. Xs crossed out her eyes. There was no reference at all to RHM in this one, except that it was addressed generally to “The Ladies of RHM.”

  Conflicted about whether she should warn the staff at RHM, Beth vacillated between full disclosure and total silence. On the one hand, Beth thought it might be best that they knew to keep their eyes and ears open for any potential threat. On the other, telling them just might freak them out unnecessarily if this was all just an extended, perverse joke. She decided to keep quiet for now, or at least until she had more information about the latest French missive. Beth couldn’t read French, so she called Maggie.

  “Do you have Georgette’s phone number?” Beth asked, fully aware that she could have called Isabel, who could
have translated the poem, if not know its source. But calling Georgette would be more interesting. Something had shifted during the roundtable discussion. Maggie walked in hating Georgette but left singing her praises. Beth suspected something was up between the two wives of John Harting. Never one to miss an opportunity, Beth opted for a conversation with Georgette.

  Maggie caught Beth off guard when she responded instantly with Georgette’s number off the top of her head, then added, “But she’s back in Paris until next week. You can try her at the hotel she stays in when she’s there. Wait, I’ll get you the number . . . Why do you want to speak with Georgette?” Maggie didn’t have the usual contempt in her voice when she spoke of anything having to do with Georgette Fontaine. Beth was intrigued.

  “She’s a French scholar, right? Special OPS sent another note. This one includes a French poem. I want more than a translation. I’m hoping Georgette can give me some context or help me interpret the message this prick is trying to send.”

  Maggie gave her the hotel’s number. Beth dialed it and reached Georgette in her room on the first try. “Hi, Georgette, Beth Mack. Maggie gave me your number. I hope you don’t mind me bothering you.” Beth didn’t really care one way or another if she was bothering Georgette.

  “Not at all. What can I do for you?” Georgette was formal but friendly.

  “RHM has been receiving notes from some guy who seems to have a bone to pick. No, actually, he seems demented . . .”

  “Yes, Maggie has told me. It all sounds horrid . . .”

  So Maggie and Georgette chat? This gets better and better, thought Beth.

  “This last one is in French and I thought you might be able to translate it for me or, better yet, find some clue about what this fucker is after. It’s short—can I read it to you?”

  “Of course.”

  Beth stumbled through the first few lines of the poem:

  Baise m’encor, rebaise-moi et baise;

  Donne m’en un de tes plus savoureux,

  Donne m’en un de tes plus amoureux . . .

  “Ah! That’s a famous sixteenth-century poem,” Georgette said without hesitation. “It’s by Louise Labé.”

  “What does it mean? I know baiser means ‘to kiss,’ right?” Beth ventured.

  “Alors, oui et non. Baiser used to mean ‘kiss’ but now means, colloquially, ‘fuck’ or, worse, ‘rape,’” Georgette explained. “When the poem was written, the meaning could go either way and the author was being provocative by making a play on the word. Given the era it was written in, and the fact that the author was a woman, well, you can imagine the negative attention it brought. I can’t believe this guy—whoever he is—would understand this nuance. But who knows? Maybe your stalker is a scholar.”

  “So basically this guy is saying he doesn’t know if he wants to kiss us, fuck us, or kill us?”

  “I don’t know what he means by it, but he definitely has interesting taste in poetry.”

  RHM WAS GEARING up for a busy Christmas season. Beth’s phone never stopped ringing. The store enjoyed record-breaking daily sales and the final quarter promised to end way ahead of the year before. The strong business kept Beth distracted from thoughts about Special OPS. After the Louise Labé poem, he had gone quiet and Beth was hoping she’d seen the last of the madman’s hate notes. The private detective she’d hired had little to go on, but she kept him on retainer for extra security. By the time Thanksgiving rolled around, she started to see the whole thing as just another whack job getting off on trying to scare the shit out of some women.

  Beth worked late a few nights a week during the hectic holiday season. Not wanting to miss dinner with Jessie, Hanna brought her to the neighborhood so they could all duck out for a quick meal together before Beth returned to the office for a few hours.

  On Black Friday, RHM enjoyed the biggest sales day in its history. The offices upstairs were closed for the holiday weekend, and Beth took advantage of the empty space to work with no interruption. As was their custom, Hanna, Beth, and Jessie got a bite to eat in the neighborhood. As they said good-bye in front of the store, Beth felt a sudden unease. The man Maggie had pointed out to her over the summer—“Blue Eyes”—walked past them, a bit too close for comfort. Beth pulled Jessie close to her as he walked by to prevent him from colliding with her daughter. His action felt erratic, even though he seemed to move with intention. He looked steadily at Beth with his cool blues as he passed them.

  Shaken, Beth wouldn’t let Jessie and Hanna leave until he was a block away. She put them in a taxi and went back upstairs. In the dark and quiet office, the only light streamed from her office.

  When she walked through her door, Beth was startled to see a potted poinsettia plant sitting in the middle of her desk that hadn’t been there when she’d left for dinner. Skewered on a metal stake thrust into the dirt was a small note that read “Happy Black Friday,” written in angry black crayon on RHM letterhead. Beth felt afraid for the first time; this epistle-writing fuckwad was getting way too close for comfort. Heart pounding in her ears, she left the office immediately and headed home, angry with herself for being frightened away by a maniacal bully.

  Beth met with the private detective on Saturday at the offices. She wanted him to examine the scene. Since no crime had been committed (yet), the police weren’t interested. It was small comfort that the private detective and building security team were on point. Beth was beginning to feel that she and her staff were vulnerable to this crazy man infatuated with his own sick joke.

  On Monday morning, Beth called a staff meeting. The poinsettia incident shocked her with the harasser’s new boldness. Beth wanted everyone to be aware of the lunatic in their midst.

  RHM staff members took the news lightly, seasoned by the violent reactions from the protestors over the summer. Some of them spoke up about individual reprimands they’d received from people once their connection with RHM became apparent. One employee from the design department told how she’d been spat upon by an elderly woman as she was leaving the offices. Another in the marketing department said she’d received glares on the subway when she carried an RHM canvas tote.

  After their meeting, Beth could feel a buzzy energy of solidarity among the employees. The following day, her publicity manager created buttons that read: RED HOT MAMA. FUCKING DEAL WITH IT. Everyone wore them proudly. They would not be deterred.

  SHARING THE BURDEN lightened Beth’s mood. The week wore on, and sales grew each day as Christmas shoppers flooded the store. No more gifts or letters showed up, and Beth again hoped that they’d seen the last of the bogeyman.

  Late in the day on Friday, exactly one week after the poinsettia plant had been left on her desk, Beth was sitting in her office when she looked up and saw a man she didn’t recognize walk past her office. There was something odd in his cadence, in the way he walked without moving his arms.

  Beth got up to see who it was, but by the time she crossed the threshold to her office door, she didn’t see him in either direction. Beth shook off her growing paranoia and returned to her desk. He could easily be a visitor of one of the employees or a freelancer, she told herself. The company had grown to the point where she couldn’t know every single person coming into and out of the office. Still, her radar for signs of the stalker was on high alert. She tried to concentrate on the spreadsheet in front of her but found herself distracted by the man with stiff arms.

  Beth sat back in her chair and took a few deep breaths. The man wouldn’t leave her mind, so she rose to walk around the offices just to see what was what. Before she could cross the room, she saw the man again through the glass wall of her office, now standing by Sacha’s desk. She called out, “Excuse me, can I help you with something?”

  His back to her, she saw the man stop for a moment before dropping something onto Sacha’s desk. He turned around to face her and Beth felt a jolt of nausea as she recognized the man Maggie called Blue Eyes. Her eyes fell to the orange pen in his shirt pocket. Beth inhaled sharpl
y as she walked backward to her desk and picked up the phone to dial security. Her eyes locked with Special Ops’s bright blues and she immediately wished the man dead even as her defiant stare dared him to come closer.

  Then he smiled and winked at her, which threw her off her guard. The man was at once unnerving and compelling—just as Maggie had described him. When security picked up, she described the man to them as calmly as she could, making no effort to keep her voice low. Beth was angry now and had to stop herself from confronting him—to do what? She had no way of knowing whether his plans involved more than just harassment of the sordid letter sort. She could just see the next day’s Post headline: “MacBeth Mack Attack.” The thought made her laugh aloud, which inadvertently startled Special OPS who hadn’t yet moved. He turned and fled toward the stairwell.

  Special OPS was nabbed just as he opened the door to the lobby. The detective had already identified the signature in orange pen on the sign-in list and was standing by when Beth called down to security. The stalker was calm and expressionless; he offered no explanation. Police sirens wailed as they approached RHM.

  AS IT TURNED out, Special OPS had a past record of harassment. A printing house deliveryman, he had been assigned to deliver packages to and from Beth’s company over the summer. No one in the building had thought to question his continued presence into the fall. This solved the mystery of how he had had access to Dr. Crane’s image before it was published and explained the hand deliveries. His unwelcome attentions constituted his third offense. The only common thread to his misdemeanors was the use of colored pens and that his targets were always women. The man, clearly deranged, could be held only for one day. He was slapped with a restraining order to keep him away from RHM, but until something truly gruesome happened, he was free to carry on with his serial harassment. He’d find another job, another set of circumstances. Eventually someone or something would capture his attention and he would figure out another way to satisfy his jones for his peculiar power trip. What would it take to stop a person like him? Beth wondered.