The door leading from the stairwell to the main corridor jammed on some duct tape that patched a three-corner tear in the carpeting, so I had to yank it open. I turned right and traversed the narrow aisle until I came to the half-empty double pod outside Bellanfonte’s office.
Dismayingly, nothing had changed. Once again, Charlene sat at her computer, typing busily. My space, which struck me as an odd term for quarters so small, was still cramped, dusty and surrounded by cartons of files. The cheap veneer on the desk was held in place with tape in several spots. The computer station looked relatively new, but the transcription machine had a headset that would have done the Marquis de Sade proud.
“So how’s it going?” asked Charlene in an attempt to make conversation as I stood there numbly.
How on earth do you stand this? I wanted to shriek, but Charlene appeared to be perfectly composed. “It’s an adjustment,” was what finally came out of my mouth, and one I have no intention of making, I finished silently. I sank into the antique secretarial chair and held my leather shoulder bag in my lap like a shield.
“Yes, I remember,” Charlene offered sympathetically. “Listen, I really have to visit the women’s room, and there’s nobody else around to answer the phones. Hey, why don’t you give it a try? These three are Donatello’s lines, and these two are Victor’s. The top two on your console are your lines. The others belong to me, the land analyst in the office next to Donatello’s, and the paralegals behind that partition over there. Just punch this button here whenever you see it blink more than twice, and whoever’s line it is will roll over into your console. I’ll be right back.”
“Wait a minute,” I protested. “Answer all these phones? I mean, aren’t there people here who do that?”
Already halfway down the aisle, Charlene looked over her shoulder at me and chuckled, eyes merry. “Why, yes, and now you’re one of them! By the way, call me Strutter. Everyone else does.” She winked and sashayed down the aisle on impossibly curvy legs, leaving no doubt about the derivation of her nickname. Two telephone lines began ringing simultaneously.
By Thursday my pipedreams of simplicity, reflected glory, and the esteem of a gracious superior had evaporated. Bellanfonte was back in town and popped out of his office continually to bark cryptic orders. He seemed convinced that because it took him ten seconds to outline a task, it should take me no longer to accomplish it. The phones rang incessantly and had to be answered swiftly and professionally. No electronic menus at BGB, no sir. When you paid up to four hundred and fifty dollars an hour for a BGB lawyer’s service, you got a real person on the phone every time.
Then there were the demands of the legal proceedings themselves, which were extraordinary. Add distraught clients, delicate and competing professional egos, and the unrelenting demand for perfection in the face of each day’s thousand-and-one opportunities to screw up, and you have the antithesis of simplicity. You have a tiptoe through the minefields.
As for the reflected glory of working for a top gun, I soon realized that in a law firm, there is no head honcho in whose aura to bask. The managing partnership is up for grabs every couple of years and moves from partner to partner. Attorneys are tolerated by their colleagues in direct proportion to their billable hours, and the number one question on their lips is, how much new business have you brought in lately?
Esteem? The cramped, ugly workspaces were only my first clue to the low esteem in which the support staff was held at BGB. Every day in every way, it was made clear to me that law firm personnel fall into two categories: Lawyers and Others. Anyone not in possession of a J.D. and a lucrative client roster was an Other, from the HR manager to the office messengers, and of the Others, secretaries were the nameless, faceless krill at the end of the food chain.
What keeps these women here? I continually asked myself. Charlene and many of the others seemed to be bright, educated and exceptionally able. From what I could see, they kept the firm running smoothly in spite of the interference of the self-important blowhards to whom they reported. Surely, they could do better elsewhere.
Ah, well, I thought resignedly, returning my notepad to my bag. It’s only for a while, and the money is good. I hadn’t realized that it was hazardous duty pay when I accepted the offer, but now that I knew the score, I just had to stick it out long enough to find another job. I dropped my empty cup into a trash barrel and headed back up Trumbull, walking slowly in the midday sauna. I thought fondly of my air conditioned condo and the juicy porterhouse in my refrigerator that awaited grilling. I drifted into a daydream that featured a long, cool bubble bath and a large steak sizzling over hot coals.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only fat that would be in the fire in the very near future.
Two
Friday finally arrived, and I spent the evening wondering how to tell my friends and family that I had made a big mistake. Well, no harm done. I would just have to eat some crow and admit that they had been right. I would call the HR manager first thing Monday morning and explain that I was simply not cut out to be a secretary, even temporarily. Since I had been at the firm for only one week, she would get over it. Besides, she had to be used to hiring new secretaries for Bellanfonte, since Strutter had confided that he burned out an assistant every year or two, no matter how much the firm paid her.
Armando and I met for dinner at Costa del Sol, one of our favorite restaurants in Hartford’s South End. I was happy to clear thoughts of BGB from my head with talk of his week at TeleCom. The company had recently won an important contract with the supplier of services to A&E Television’s Live on Request series. A week hence, TeleCom’s advance team would fly to Bogota to begin work on an upcoming concert featuring South American musicians. It was a major coup, and news of it might well turn TeleCom’s fortunes around.
“It is too bad that you are not there to make the press announcements, mija,” Armando reflected.
I may have made a mistake about the secretary thing, but I was still confident about my decision to leave TeleCom. “Life is too short to spend doing work you detest,” I said firmly, intending to launch into an explanation of my intention to run, not walk, to BGB’s nearest exit.
“Yes, yes,” he interrupted, having heard this philosophy from me before. “I just miss having lunch together or stopping by your office to steal a kiss,” he grinned, capturing my hand in his.
“Mmm, well, I miss that, too,” I agreed, “but perhaps absence really does make the heart grow fonder. It seems to be working so far.” Those were words I would live to regret, but at the time, I was distracted by the growing heat between us that prompted a mutual decision to skip dessert. Tomorrow morning would be soon enough to tell him I was leaving BGB, I decided.
On Saturday I awoke well after nine o’clock, feeling both languid and refreshed. I enjoyed Armando’s scent clinging to my sheets. Armando himself, however, was nowhere in sight, nor was the shower running. This was surprising, since Friday was the one night of the week he stayed at my place so that we could enjoy a leisurely breakfast together. So where was he?
Propping myself up on my elbows, I spotted Jasmine and Oliver, who should have been screaming for their breakfast, napping rump to rump at the foot of the bed. Armando’s clothes, shucked hastily last night with my help, should have been heaped on the wing chair, and his watch and cell phone should have been on the bedside table. They weren’t. Where his head should have been on the pillow next to mine was a sheet of paper, torn hastily from the notepad he always carried in an inside pocket.
Mija – I must have done something very well last night to make you sleep so soundly. I have been called to an emergency meeting about the South American contract and will call you later. I fed the felines. XO
Typically self-congratulatory Latin male, but I couldn’t deny the truth of what he said. Well, that explained why the cats weren’t bugging me. I scritched their hairy heads thoughtfully. Never exactly pals, the two strays had finally discovered something on which they agreed: It
was warmer when they slept together. Without opening her eyes, Jas turned her head upside down so I could rub under her chin. Ollie sighed and put his nose under one white foot. Their bellies were full. The morning sunshine warmed their backs. Life was good.
Okay, so I wasn’t having a bodacious breakfast with my squeeze. At least I didn’t have to struggle into pantyhose and drag myself downtown for another day of drudgery, I comforted myself. On that happy note, I padded into the kitchen to make coffee. As the appetizing aroma filled my nostrils, I wondered about the reason for TeleCom’s hastily called meeting and what it could possibly have to do with Armando. The corporate comptroller wasn’t usually included in site work confabs. Maybe they want him to go down there and serve as an interpreter for the installers, I thought, then laughed at my own far-fetchedness. I drank my coffee and then tackled the laundry, vacuuming and other domestic tasks that had accumulated during the week.
The phone rang as I was returning the vacuum cleaner to the hall closet.
“Leon wants me to go to Bogota and es-serve as an interpreter for the installation team,” said Armando, his use of the Spanish “es” betraying his excitement.
I gripped the telephone tightly and frowned. Leon Kowalski was the head of TeleCom’s installation operation. “Since when do corporate officers fly to South America to do translation work? Can’t Leon just hire a local?” I asked somewhat testily.
“He could, of course,” Armando replied, puzzled by my lack of enthusiasm. “Leon thought I might enjoy it, combine business with pleasure, as you say. I would have an opportunity to visit my aunt and my cousins. I have seen none of them in more than twenty years.”
Immediately, I regretted my churlish response. “Of course you could. I forgot that your cousins still live in Colombia. It was good of Leon to think of you.”
“It was kind, was it not?” Armando’s good cheer was restored. “I am sorry you cannot accompany me, mija, but we will be working most of the time, and I am sure you do not want to ask for time off from your new job so soon.”
The words were right, but something about his tone struck me all wrong. He didn’t sound sorry at all. In fact, he sounded downright pleased. My heart chilled in my chest as I considered the wisdom of telling him that my new job was about to become history. Perhaps he had more than cousins that he looked forward to visiting. When it came right down to it, what did I know about his life in the years before he had come to the United States other than the little he had chosen to tell me? I stalled for time. “Will you be leaving with the team at the end of the week, then?”
“That was the reason for the meeting. We have to leave right now, tonight. The broadcast date has been moved up, and there is no time to waste. I am packing as we speak.”
I pictured him rummaging through the clean laundry he kept piled on his bed, throwing shirts and shorts into his Roll-aboard. Not the silkies, I hoped.
“I know this is a surprise, and I will miss you, you know that, but remember, it is only temporary. I will call you when we land tomorrow morning.”
The phone went dead. I replaced it in its charger and sat down at the kitchen table, staring sightlessly at my half-completed grocery list. I recalled that I hadn’t even asked him how long he would be gone and reached for the phone. Then I thought better of it. No, let him go. Wasn’t that what I had always told Emma when she had been in the throes of a break-up with one of the endless succession of boyfriends that had populated her adolescence? I punched her number into the phone instead.
“Do absolutely nothing. Smile, wish him well, and let him go. If he loves you, he will come back to you,” recited my now very grown-up daughter, panting slightly from the Stairmaster workout I had interrupted. “It’s good advice, ‘Cita. Want to go to a movie or something? Scotty has to work tonight,” referring to the nice young man she had been seeing for nearly two years now.
“Thanks, Dearie, but I think I’ll just stay home and feel sorry for myself. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” I really like my daughter, I thought, not for the first time. She’s bright and strong and funny, not to mention gorgeous. Joey, my gypsy trucker son, has all of the same characteristics. They’re good people, and I’m proud of them both.
Feeling somewhat better, I tucked my grocery list into my purse and headed for the garage, which was attached to my house next to the kitchen. Before getting into the car, I walked down to my mailbox to collect the accumulated junk mail and bills. Mail isn’t interesting enough anymore to merit a daily trip to the end of the driveway. I sifted through the pile, ignoring anything that didn’t have First Class postage on it. An envelope bearing the return address of The Birches’ property management company caught my eye, and I tore it open. The single sheet of paper inside read:
Dear Ms. Lawrence:
On Tuesday last it was brought to our attention that two bathroom mats were seen hanging over the railing of the deck at the rear of your unit. As you know, this is a violation of The Birches’ Rules and Regulations adopted 3/1/98 at the association’s annual meeting.
Rule 4 clearly states, “No clothes, sheets, blankets, laundry of any kind or other articles shall be hung out of a Unit or exposed on any part of the common elements,” which includes unit decks.
Please consider this an official warning under the covenants of The Birches Association. Two warnings for the same offense will require action by the board of Directors. Your cooperation will be appreciated.
Craig J. Saunders, Property Manager
Suddenly, I was furious. Before moving into The Birches, I had experienced misgivings. An alarming number of rules and regulations governed everything from the color and brand of paint residents could use on their front doors to the sizes and types of plants they could grow in their gardens, but since I had lost my zeal for exterior maintenance and yard work years ago, I figured I wouldn’t be much affected. The regs permitted two cats, and two cats were what I had, so the condo police, which was Mary’s term for Edna Philpott, the middle-aged Nazi who clumped around the complex daily hoping to spot an infraction, had no reason to send me a nastygram, another of Mary’s expressions, until today.
Bath mats on my deck railing, huh? Since my deck faced thick woods and was visible to no one but the red fox and brook otters who lived there, somebody had to go to a lot of trouble to observe my shocking transgression, but who? That was the trouble with anonymous complaints. Not knowing whom to suspect, one suspected everyone. I held the letter up high so that anyone peeking gleefully at my discomfiture from behind discreetly drawn shades could see me tear it into a dozen pieces, toss them into the trash can inside my garage, and gun the Chrysler down the street well over the fifteen-miles-per-hour speed limit.
But apparently, I had not yet met my irritation quota for the day. After half an hour of wandering up and down aisles in the soothing chill of the supermarket, I returned to the blazing parking lot and threw my purchases into the rear seat. Thinking only of getting the air conditioning going as quickly as possible, I turned the ignition key. Nothing but a weak cranking sound greeted this effort. I tried again with even less success. The third time, there was only a click. Sweat trickled between my breasts as I wondered what I had done to deserve this day, this week.
I wrenched myself back out of the car, reloaded my melting groceries into a shopping cart, and returned to the blessed coolness of the store. I called AAA on my cell phone, gave them the car’s location, and told them the key was in the ignition. Who could steal a car with a dead battery? I was beyond caring. Let them take it.
Reluctantly, but with no other option available, I called Mary for a ride home. At nearly eighty years of age, Mary’s driving skills had seriously deteriorated, not to mention her vision; but she still drove her beat-up blue Chevrolet to and from the supermarket, the post office, and wherever else she took it into her head to go. Local residents knew her car well and took care to stay out of its path, a task made easier by Mary’s penchant for blasting music from the state-of-the-art CD player s
he’d had installed in the Chevy.
As I waited for Mary, I wondered if I should tell her about my nastygram from the condo association in view of her ongoing vendetta with the association. For the most part, she employed guerilla tactics against Philpott, who lived two doors down from me. Mary delighted in zooming down the main access road at well above the posted speed limit, flipping the bird to Philpott whenever she passed her on her daily rounds.
Not ten minutes after my call, Mary squealed to a stop at the supermarket entrance and greeted me cheerfully. “What’s cookin’, Snookums?”
I tossed my groceries into the back seat of the unlovely sedan and climbed in, then buckled my seatbelt and braced both feet flat on the floor. Mary executed an illegal U-turn and came breathtakingly close to scraping the paint on an Altima. Hanging grimly onto the armrest, I told her about my letter from the property management company as she careened through the streets of Wethersfield back to The Birches.
“Sonsabitches!” she exclaimed from time to time, pounding the steering wheel vigorously. “They’re all sonsabitches!”
When The Birches came into view, I breathed more easily, but my respite was short lived. As we turned into the complex, Mary spotted Edna Philpott getting her mail out of the box at the end of her driveway.
“Philpott sighting!” Mary chortled. She was ready. In a well-rehearsed sequence, she punched a button on the CD player and advanced the machine to a song she had obviously pre-selected. She twirled the volume knob to its maximum and lowered the driver’s side window. The Latin rhythms of Stevie Wonder’s “For You,” heavy on the congas, poured forth.
Mary slowed down uncharacteristically. “For you there might be another song,” she warbled happily along with Stevie at the top of her lungs, strictly observing the speed limit as we crept past Philpott, “but all my heart can hear is your melody.” Drums thundered through the open window. Philpott flinched, then craned her scrawny neck to glare at Mary. I slunk slower in my seat and shaded my eyes with one hand.
Waiting for Armando (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) Page 2