by Cathy Lamb
In retaliation Justine had a private investigator follow Ping-Pong Balls and Destiny. “It’s their destiny,” she told me as we cackled over their fate while clinking our margarita glasses together in a Mexican bar in Portland.
Justine cackled over all the photos the private investigator took and, late one night, taped them to the door of the staff refrigerator, in the conference rooms, the foyer, and Destiny and Ping-Pong Balls’s offices.
The next morning everyone was transfixed by the photos, especially the one where Destiny was straddling Ping-Pong Balls in the front seat of his car, naked as a newborn hyena, head back. Ping-Pong Balls’s face was screwed up tight with desire. It did not appear that they were discussing the tax code.
The photo behind the building at night was especially popular! Everyone knew where they were because you could see the alley behind the coffee shop right behind them. My goodness, it was impressive how limber Destiny was with her leg up so high and all that!
And the photo of Destiny and Ping-Pong Balls having sex in the conference room, at night, was also intriguing. The table should be wiped down and disinfected, certainly. Good to know it was made out of strong wood, though, and could hold the weight of two. They’d paid a fortune for that table! (Justine took that photo herself. She was proud of how the composition and the shadows worked so well together.)
Justine threw an impressive fit when she saw the photographs, saying, loudly, “Destiny, have him. He’s all yours. How do you like his Ping-Pong balls?” Torvin grew red at that. I mean, it was what it was. He knew his balls were Ping-Pong ball size.
Destiny could hardly argue, either. By the expression on her face, she confirmed that Torvin had Ping-Pong balls.
It was widely assumed that Destiny’s husband took the photos and somehow stole her key card to the office to make the photo display. He was, after all, a famous photographer, with a long history of taking photos in war zones.
Destiny quit, Torvin quit. Justine stayed on for a few months, then quit, everyone assuming she was simply too humiliated to go on.
At the same time, one of the married partners at my firm was hitting on me. His name was Leonard Speight. I called him Mr. Fat Gut and started recording what he said to me, how he asked me out and made sickening comments about my body; how he said he could be an asset to my career and he liked sex; how he asked if I watched porn, if I was lonely, if I needed company after work, etc. He was a rich, old, entitled, and disgusting man who for some bizarre reason thought that I would be attracted to him.
I had told Mr. Fat Gut, with his fleshy face, pregnant stomach, and sweaty hands, to stop. I said to him, “Your comments disgust me. I don’t want to go out with you. I’m just staggered at your arrogance. You are old enough to be my grandfather.” He laughed. It never occurred to him I was telling the truth. He thought I was playing “hard to get.” He winked. He relished his power over me, his dominance.
I managed to record a number of our conversations with my cell phone between my boobs.
I figured I would go out with fireworks.
As one of the account managers, I had been asked to make a brief presentation to the executive board about how to maintain and attain new clients. Essentially: How to keep everyone happy.
My presentation involved a PowerPoint presentation with special pictures and the recordings of Mr. Fat Gut coming on to me. The firm’s top dogs were at the meeting, including Mr. Fat Gut.
I had taken a photo of Mr. Fat Gut in front of our firm. He had smiled at me, tried to be sexy. He thought I wanted it so I could gaze at him as I wished. Late one night I snuck into his office and took photos of framed pictures on his desk where he was with his wife, kids, and grandkids. I also took pictures of him shaking the hands of “important people.” The picture in his office I liked best, though, was one of him as a deacon in his church, a Bible in his hand, standing sanctimoniously next to a minister.
In my presentation, these photos were all juxtaposed against him saying things to me like, “Natalie, you have a tight ass. . . . I can be a help to you in your career, if you and I can agree on a few things. If not, if we don’t have an understanding, don’t be expecting much in terms of a promotion or advancement.... Natalie, you should wear your shirts unbuttoned more.... Lean over me, right over the desk, would you? Why don’t you smile at me more? I have never seen an accountant who looks like you. Delicious. Mmmm mmmm! Every morning I walk in and see you and think, ‘Yum.’ Do you think that when you see me? I think you and I could make each other happy. Turn around. Let’s see that ass again. You make me want to groan, honey. Baby . . . Sweetheart . . . I’m getting impatient with you, Natalie. I need to see you be friendly to me. I can help you, but don’t make me mad. Don’t alienate me. I know everyone in this town, and I can make sure you never work again.”
When the presentation was finished, with a final photo of Mr. Speight in a Speedo suit, which he had sent me via his cell phone of him on the beach, his gut hanging out, apparently thinking I would lose my cookies over him, and a picture of his private pistol, there was silence. Yes, a shocked silence surrounded that private pistol up on the big screen.
Mr. Fat Gut, who had tried to intervene several times during my presentation but was sharply told to “Sit down, Speight,” by the owner, Bob Giovanni, said, weakly, “That’s not mine,” in reference to his private pistol.
“Yes, it is,” I said.
Bob Giovanni glared at Mr. Fat Gut in the stunned silence, turned to me, and said, “Natalie, I am sorry. You should have told me, because I would have taken Speight out.”
I told Bob exactly why I didn’t tell him.
Why didn’t I tell? Because I was trying to do my job. I was twenty-six. I was building a career. I was worried about what Mr. Fat Gut would say about me to people in this firm and to people in other firms if I left. I was afraid he would lie about me. I didn’t know if anyone would believe me if I told the truth. I was afraid of the firestorm and the attorneys who would be hired, by him, if I told the truth. He would have denied it. He would have threatened to sue me for defamation. I would have been ground through the court system. I would lose my job or it would be so uncomfortable here I would have to leave. So I recorded him for proof.
Mr. Speight was fired by unanimous vote that minute, his face red, sweaty. He stalked out, Security met him, and he was on the sidewalk in less than ten minutes.
I took the settlement money, and Justine and I opened up a firm in downtown Portland called Knight and Fox, as we’d agreed to during the poker game. We were going to name it Maverick Accounting, but since Chick wasn’t in on it, we thought it might make her feel left out.
We had a loft downtown for our offices in what used to be a warehouse two blocks from our studios. It was modern and cool. There was a steel knight at the front door to greet people, and next to it a five-foot-tall fox that my dad made out of metal. Knight and Fox.
We hustled for business. Many of our clients from our previous firms came with us. We went after companies to do their taxes, and we went after individuals. We gave talks at retirement homes, too. Many of the seniors had high net worths. Who knew that Mrs. Candace, who brought her cat in in a cat stroller, was worth almost four million dollars? Who knew that Mr. DeShawn had all those apartment buildings? He had holes in his shoes.
We were in business. Individual and business accounting, that was our jive. Our groove. Our music. We never took clients with shady backgrounds. Our goal has always, always been honest and fair service.
We now have four employees, all women, and a male receptionist. He is very kind. He adopted a brother and sister out of foster care, so we gave him parental leave.
If my brain didn’t start to work, I would never be able to provide honest accounting services, in my life, again.
I love numbers.
I want to work with numbers again.
The question is: Can I?
* * *
Chick stayed over at Justine’s on Friday night, and th
e next morning Chick, Justine, and I left for our annual hike in the woods. It was Justine’s daughter’s birthday. We parked where we always do, at the trailhead, quiet and peaceful. Winter was definitely swooping in; it was cool, windy, the skies heavy and gray.
Chick and I always take Justine’s lead. If she wants to talk, we do. If she wants to be quiet, we are. Today she didn’t want to talk much. We hiked through the woods, along the tumbling river, passing one thundering waterfall after another, as we watched squirrels climb and birds swoop in and out of the branches. We would not do the full hike today because of me. I am not up to it. I am slow, so we would do part of it.
We sat down on a rock together, a waterfall crashing twenty feet away into a pool.
“Natalie Chick is seventeen today,” she said.
“Yes, she is.”
“I hope she’s happy,” Justine said.
“I’m sure she is,” I said.
“She’s probably thinking about college,” Chick said.
“Yes. I wonder what she’ll study. I wonder if she likes math. Maybe she hates it. Maybe it’s frustrating. I could help her with it. I hope she has friends. I hope she likes high school. What if she’s lonely? I worry about that a lot. What if my daughter is lonely or bullied or left out?”
That was a repeated worry for Justine. She had grown up with seven brothers and sisters, a mother, and a father. She had Chick and me and Jed. She was close to my father and Chick’s mother. It was a small town. Everyone knew her. Justine never got lonely as a kid, only frustrated that Jed didn’t love her as she loved him. But after she gave up Natalie Chick, she was deeply lonely for her daughter. It never went away. She didn’t want loneliness for her daughter.
Justine pulled her knees up and put her head on them. We wrapped our arms around her as the waterfall continued to thunder, the river rumbled nearby, and our best friend quietly mourned for the daughter she had never stopped missing.
* * *
“You really should sell your necklaces again,” Justine said.
Chick, Justine, and I studied the necklaces I had made using my dad’s metal art while we ate peppermint ice cream with a pickle on the side. The combination isn’t tasty, but traditions like this one don’t die.
Both of them had already been to my apartment and had been as classy and kind as I knew them to be. Classy and kind as in, they didn’t look at me with pity, which would have been infuriating and condescending.
We have been through too much together already. I knew they were upset I’d lost my home. That’s a no-brainer. But why make it worse by getting all mushy about it, by pointing out the obvious, that Zack and I had tumbled down and out?
“I agree,” Chick said. She took a bite of the peppermint ice cream. On the plate beneath the bowl of ice cream was the pickle. “Chicks like us will love these. Cool chicks. Hot chicks. You have talent, Natalie.” She peered down at her chest, then pointed at her necklace. “Yep. I’m wearing the one you made me in the rehab center right now.”
She was. I had wrapped a piece of turquoise in wire, then added a silver chain. Along the silver chain were silver beads, interspersed with four silver stars. It was simple, but the turquoise was a unique piece. Justine had on one of the necklaces I’d made her, too. Leather rope, a large faux pearl in the center, other faux pearls on either side, three strands.
“These are for men, right?” Justine picked up a few of the “men pieces.”
“Yes. These necklaces are for studs. Motorcycle riders. Surfers. Adventurers. Mountain climbers. Sexy men. And men who want to be studly, sexy motorcycle riders, surfers, adventurers, and mountain climbers.”
“If Braxton wore one of these I’d want to take his clothes off in the morning, and morning is not my time for sex. I like to get my body up and moving first, my teeth brushed, and I want to be fresh as a daisy down there. But geez. I’d rethink it if he wore these.”
“Men will wear jewelry if it makes them feel more manly,” Justine said. “Not floppy, if you know what I mean.” She wiggled the pickle. “They’re sensitive about floppiness.”
“Look at these things my dad made for men: A replica of a shark’s tooth. A cross. A knife. A little violent, but okay. A snake. A hatchet. Men will like this stuff. They don’t want to wear hearts and flowers.”
Chick picked up the necklace with the faux silver shark tooth. “Oh yeah. Bitey. Very bitey.”
“These are manly man pieces. I mean it, Natalie,” Justine said. “This jewelry, and I don’t even think I’d call it jewelry, this man-wear, these necklaces are for studs. I like the chains you chose for the men, and I like the leather. Plus, they’re simple. No froufrou.”
I could make jewelry all day and be happy. It was so entertaining. The designs, the beading, the colors . . .
“Come back to pickle land, Natalie,” Justine said. She hit me on the shoulder with her pickle.
“Pickles shouldn’t be weapons,” I told her.
“I’m selling these at the hardware store,” Chick said. “Pack up a bunch of them. I’m taking them with me and we are going to rock this, Maverick Girl.”
“Really? You think they would sell?” I picked up a necklace with three silver chains. On each chain I’d put a different bird. A bluebird, a blue heron, and an owl. All made by my dad with hammered silver.
“Uh, yeah. Duh.”
I grinned. Okay! “Thanks, Chick.”
* * *
“I want to go back to work.”
Zack’s silence was noisy. “Your silence is noisy, Zack.”
He turned toward me on the couch and I studied those light green eyes, shadowed now. Light green sea eyes, intense. When Zack looks at you, you know he truly sees you. He hears you.
“I don’t think you’re ready yet, Natalie. You took a hit. You still sleep a lot, you take naps, your head hurts sometimes, you’re working on walking.”
“I know I’m not ready. The numbers are still swimming for me sometimes. I can work for only a short period of time. But I need to go back. Justine and I already talked. Remember, a calculator is my friend. That’s what’s almost attached to my hand at my desk. Like another appendage. A third hand.” He didn’t think my joke was funny.
He pulled me onto his lap. “I think you need to rest. I think you need to sleep in, take walks. Make your jewelry. Your jewelry is incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s original.”
“Thank you. But making jewelry is a hobby.”
“Does it have to stay a hobby? Why don’t you make and sell jewelry as your full-time job?”
I entertained the thought. I’d done it before as a teen and in college. It would be fun. I would love it. No commute, no clients . . . I let my mind drift on that thought, then reality slammed on in. I wouldn’t make enough money if I sold my jewelry. Nowhere near what I made now.
Plus, I’m an accountant. I went to school to become an accountant. I worked hard to build our firm. Justine and I are Knight and Fox, and I am the Fox. I’m supposed to give that up without a fight? And what about Justine?
I felt precarious financially. My dad worked so hard as a roofer. He saved as much as he could but spent most of it when he took care of my grandma in the care home. And one accident, one fall off a roof, and our security went out the window. I will never forget the notice I saw from the bank telling us we could lose our little home on the hill because he’d refinanced it to pay for my grandma’s care. And look what happened to Zack’s home construction business. A problem with the bank, overextending, and our house was gone, gone, gone. My anxiety level was high. I was triggering back to my childhood.
“I’ve been resting, and I’m bored. I feel out of sorts. I’ve worked forever, Zack. It’s hard for me not to work.”
“I don’t want you to work, Natalie.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t. I want you to recover. It makes me feel sick to think of you going downtown, working, getting stressed, getting tired, working all the hours you used to work. I have a house that�
�s almost done, and we’ll sell it soon. We’ll combine that money with our savings and get a house when you’re up to looking for one, until we have the time and land and money to build our dream home.”
The One Day house. “I have to go back to my firm. It’s for me, Zack. My brain. I can’t become someone I don’t want to be. I have to fight this. I can’t let that man destroy my life. He put me in a coma. He put me in rehab. He put me in therapy. I’ve had to fight my way back, and I’m still fighting.” I felt myself getting choked up as I talked. “I can’t let him take me. Take my job. My profession, my business, who I am. I can’t let my fear of him take me, either.”
“I understand, Natalie, hon, I do. You’ve had to work so hard. I’ve watched you working on your speech, your balance, doing all the work with your therapists, doing work here at home. I’ve seen your courage and your determination and your humor. You are the strongest person I know, baby. But the most important thing is for you to get better, to heal all the way. We’re a team. You can help me with designs for the houses, choosing materials, but please stay here and rest.”
“Zack, helping you with designs is only sporadic and you know it. It’s hard to be home all day. It’s lonely. I’m isolated. I’m stuck with my thoughts and my fears. I’ll get better if I’m not home all the time worrying about my brain or worrying that this sicko will shoot another bullet through our window.”
His eyes were worried. He finally sighed. Then groaned. “I wish you wouldn’t. But I know I can’t stop you. Why don’t you go in for a few hours? That’s it. Then come home?”
“I think I’ll do that.” I smiled at him. That had been my plan. I just let him say it. I let him think of it. I knew he would.
He nodded.
I smiled and straddled him. “Want to get naked?”
He did.
* * *
After a hot romp in bed, Zack sleeping while I hugged him, I studied his face. Hard and chiseled. Not a soft spot on it. Except for that mouth. That mouth was soft and sweet and lusty and daring, that it was.