“Good morning, Mrs. Diotallevi,” she chimed as she passed. “Welcome back.”
“Thank you!” said Lily. She heaved a sigh of relief. Maybe she had worried for nothing. Lily picked up the first envelope from the stack of unopened mail on her desk and sliced through the top with a letter opener.
“Mrs. Diotallevi,” Mrs. Windham-Childs called from inside her office. “May I see you for a moment, please?”
Shit. Lily’s eyes stung. Stop that. Just stop. Pull yourself together and just get your story straight. But whatever you do, don’t cry!
“Yes?” Lily said, poking her head in the door.
“Please,” said Mrs. Windham-Childs. “Come in and close the door.”
Lily complied, but her heart sank. This was not a good sign.
Mrs. Windham-Childs was wearing her glasses, reading a letter. Without looking up, she motioned to Lily to sit down and asked, “How are you feeling this morning?”
“Better,” said Lily, taking her seat. “Much better, thanks.”
“You must have been quite ill to miss an entire week of work.” Mrs. Windham-Childs removed her glasses and sat back in her chair, placing her folded hands in her lap. It was the closest thing to a dare allowed by a woman of such stature.
Lily had been completely prepared to reassert her claim that she’d had the flu. She had gone over the story again and again in her mind, complete with tales of being up all night, and of sleeping in a feverish stupor all day, which would explain the late night phone messages. Of course, as ill as she was, she hadn’t been able to get to the doctor’s office, and so she didn’t have a written excuse to provide. The story made perfect sense. It wasn’t a fantastic tale, and there was no way that Mrs. Windham-Childs could prove that she was lying. Yet the story suddenly seemed thin and vain; the unformed words tasted sour in Lily’s mouth. Half truths and excuses had been the tools of the life she’d left behind. Or was trying to, at least.
She looked at Mrs. Windham-Childs and saw a woman, herself a mother, an educator, a champion of the underprivileged. Could it be possible that she, too, would help if she only knew what Lily was really going through? Lily certainly could use an ally and a mentor right about now.
“Yes, well, about that -” Lily began. She shed her story about the flu, savoring the sweet taste of truth on her lips as she explained to Mrs. Windham-Childs what had been going on in her life. Without going into great detail, but being careful to touch on the key points, she told her about the trouble she’d been having with the boys, about how Joe took them from her, and how her dance of despair had taken her so close to the edge. She told her about Auntie Rosa’s death, and her reconciliation with Iris. She spoke for a full five minutes; it felt so good to be who she truly was, to be honest about her life in all its gruesome glory. It felt good not to cry about it, but to accept it for what it was: one hell of a bad week - one hell of a bad decade, in fact. And the best thing about getting to the bottom was that there was nowhere to go but back up again.
When Lily finally stopped speaking, she and Mrs. Windham-Childs sat and looked at each other for a moment. Mrs. Windham-Childs did not move, except to raise her eyebrows.
“So that’s where I was last week,” said Lily. “And things are still kind of a mess, really, but I think I’m going to be OK. I’m ready to try, you know? I’m going to do my best.” Lily’s throat burned as she fought back tears of pride and determination.
Mrs. Windham-Childs sat up in her chair, shifting her weight forward, placing her folded hands on the desk.
“I must say,” she began, “That is quite a lot to take in.”
“Tell me about it,” Lily said with a giggle.
Mrs. Windham-Childs cleared her throat. “Mrs. Diotallevi, if you should find yourself in a similar position in the future, one in which you find it impossible to come into work and perform your duties, I would suggest that you attribute such an absence to a head cold, or, in the case of extended periods, perhaps the flu. That might be most comfortable for all concerned. At the end of the day,” she continued, “honesty and decorum don’t always complement each other.” Mrs. Windham-Childs’ red lips formed themselves into an icy inverted arc. “I’m quite sure you’ll find a sufficient amount of work at your desk. Perhaps it will serve you to distract yourself, taking you beyond thoughts of your recent tribulations.”
“OK.” Lily was confused, and a sense of shame and embarrassment began to creep over her, like the shadows of a fast approaching rain cloud. She had bared her soul, had opened up in the spirit of trust and honesty and now Mrs. Windham-Childs was acting as though Lily had just vomited on her desk.
“Thank you, Mrs. Diotallevi. That will be all for now.” Mrs. Windham-Childs placed her glasses back atop her nose and resumed her reading.
Mechanically, Lily returned to her desk. She finished opening the mail, but the quiet zip-zip of the opener slicing through paper was no match for the crescendo of humiliation that rose within her. Lily saw herself sitting in the chair in Mrs. Windham-Childs’ office, going on and on about Joe and the boys and how awful it all was, about her despair, about Auntie Rosa’s death, all the while thinking that she was garnering empathy and support, mistaking Mrs. Windham-Childs’ non-responsive countenance for respectful listening. It was clear now that her reticence was actually an attempt at restraining her repulsion first at the details of Lily’s disclosure and then at her vulgar display of intimacy.
Mortified, Lily tried to lose herself in the tasks at hand as Mrs. Windham-Childs had suggested, but the more she tried to suppress her thoughts about the conversation, the more insistent they became.
Lily imagined Iris shaking her finger and saying, “You are a beautiful wildflower - and don’t you ever let anyone tell you differently.” Lily remembered the way the wildflowers at home had smelled. Maybe that’s the price they paid for freedom, and maybe that’s why florists didn’t sell them. Still, better to be a stinky wildflower than a plastic rose. That’s what Mrs. Windham-Childs was like - a plastic rose. Flawless and invulnerable. Beautiful to look at it, but not real.
“If I ever catch you with plastic flowers in your house, I will personally come here and pound you!” Lily smiled as she recalled her sister’s attempt at being threatening - the one thing that Iris just couldn’t quite pull off.
Gradually, Lily’s feelings of shame and self-recrimination retreated, their hold on her loosening as she became emboldened by advancing forces of anger and indignation. Who says that honesty and decorum are not always complementary? That only applies if you think that maintaining appearances is more important than being real. Wasn’t that the system of thought that had perpetuated Lily’s suffering all these years? She had invested so much time and energy trying to uphold the appearance of things, trying to protect herself and her children from the ugly realities of their life, trying to spray perfume on a plastic rose. All that did was delay the pain, divert the suffering for another day.
Lily set the letter opener down on the desk and looked over at Mrs. Windham-Childs’ closed door. She - not Lily - was the one who was acting inappropriately. She - not Lily - lacked a sense of what was good and right. Truth always trumps appearances. At least it should. At least it would in Lily’s life - from now on. Starting with today.
Lily stood and tugged on the hem of her jacket with both hands. She would knock on Mrs. Windham-Childs’ door and ask for a few minutes of her time. She would tell her exactly what she thought about the conversation they’d had. She would tell her that she couldn’t understand how a human being with blood running through her veins could listen to Lily’s story and not be moved to compassion, that a person who presumes to educate children should be ashamed at her own lack of empathy, and at her preference for deception as a defense from getting spattered with life.
As Lily took her first steps toward Mrs. Windham-Childs’ office, her bravado wavered.
If she carried out her plan, Mrs. Windham-Childs could just fire her, right then and there. She
thought of Sophie and her box of index cards; she could get another job. Maybe she could even get a real job, and not one whose only qualification was desperation. Besides, even if she didn’t, what could happen? She wouldn’t be able to pay the rent, for starters. Well then, she would just call Curtis’ lawyer and tell him that it didn’t work out - that part wouldn’t be a lie, for sure. She had taken the house for its three bedrooms and its beach and its sledding hill; it was a house for children to live in, and hers were only visitors there.
Speaking of which, what about the kids? Lily chuckled to herself. Well, unemployment was one way to get out of paying child support. The women at support group used to complain about that all the time. They would get a child support decision in their favor, and then their ex-husbands would mysteriously get fired from their jobs and move in with a family member. If Lily found herself without a paycheck, the boys certainly wouldn’t suffer. Samantha would have to do with fewer manicures. Lily could live with that.
Trembling, she took another step toward the door. Her heart pounded. What would Sophie say when she found out? What would Mom say? What would Iris say?
At that moment, Mrs. Windham-Childs opened her door, and nearly collided with Lily, who was now standing just on the other side.
“Mrs. Diotallevi - you startled me!”
What would Lily say?
“Is there something I can do for you?” Mrs. Windham-Childs asked.
No, Lily thought. There’s nothing you can do for me. And there’s nothing you can do to me, either. Nothing I don’t allow, anyway.
“I quit,” blurted Lily.
“I beg your pardon?” said Mrs. Windham-Childs, with a humpf.
“Yes,” said Lily, feeling as surprised as Mrs. Windham-Childs looked.
“I. Quit.” Lily was exhilarated. She felt as if she were floating two feet off the ground. “I don’t want to work for you anymore.” She opened the broom closet and retrieved her purse.
“I would hardly call this mature behavior,” said Mrs. Windham-Childs.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” said Lily. “All the letters there on the desk are opened. Have a good day.” Lily placed her hand on the front door.
“Mrs. Diotallevi, need I remind you that it is customary to provide two weeks’ notice before vacating a position, and that failing to do so will result in a loss of a positive reference from me?”
“Well the way I see it, Gloria, I don’t actually have anything left to lose, and I definitely don’t have two weeks to waste.” Lily turned to walk out the door. She stopped, turned around one last time and said, “And by the way, it’s Capotosti. My name is Lily Capotosti.”
Lily hadn’t been to the park since the day she met Curtis. She drove directly to Hava Java’s coffee shop in Charlotte where she bought herself a large coffee with cream and sugar, and one copy of each of the four different newspapers stacked by the register. The table she chose was littered with sugar granules and stained with dried coffee, but it sat in a sunny window with a view of the lake. She took a pen from her purse, spread the papers out on the table, and began her search for a new job. Every listing presented a challenge - either it was too far from home, didn’t offer a high enough wage, or required more experience than she could offer. Two refills and three trips to the ladies’ room later, Lily began to wonder whether she had acted too rashly. Maybe quitting on the spot like that hadn’t been such a good idea. If she had played her cards right (a favorite saying of her mother’s), she would have found a new job first, before walking out as she had. But Lily never did things the same way as everyone else. Why start now? Besides, walking out like that was fun. It was a beautiful summer day and she still had two paychecks coming, so there was time. She folded up the newspapers. The only thing left to do that made any sense was to go home and plant the lavender.
Lily drove up through Charlotte, across the Stutson Street bridge and past the industrial park. Mounted on the sculpture of the bike that sat in front of the Kendall Company, there was a sign that read, “We’re on the move! Applications now being accepted!”
“Why the hell not?” Lily asked herself. It seemed to be the day for trying new things. A factory job would be boring, but it would at least be something to tide her over. She didn’t have any other prospects, and she was already dressed in what she lovingly referred to as her “big girl clothes,” suitable for Sunday Mass, job interviews, and, apparently, speaking one’s mind. She flipped her directional on and turned into the parking lot.
“Good morning!” said a young blond woman at the front desk. “I’m Wendy. How may I help you?”
“Hi,” said Lily. “Are you taking applications?”
“Yes - we sure are! Have you ever applied here before?”
“No, no, I haven’t ever applied here before,” replied Lily.
The walls were covered with photographs of an assortment of people - men, women, old, young - posing with their bicycles. Many of the photos were accompanied by letters from customers raving about their new bikes and thanking the Kendall Company.
“I love your pin,” said Wendy. “My Grammie used to have one that like. She died last month and she wore that pin every single day of her life. But hers was a rose - which I always thought was funny because her name was Lillian.”
Lily touched her fingers to the pin. “Would you believe it if I told you that this had been my aunt’s – who died just last week - and that her name was Rosa?”
“Get out!” said Wendy, slapping the desktop with a laugh.
“Really,” said Lily. “Not only that, but my name is Lily!”
“Well, if that doesn’t take the cake! I bet that my Grammie Lil and your Aunt Rose are up in heaven right now having a good laugh.”
“That’s a nice thought,” said Lily. “I hope you’re right.”
“Here’s the application, and there are pens right there on the table,” said Wendy.
Everything about this place was gentle and sweet. The receptionist, the smiling faces of happy customers, and pens that were not chained to the desk.
“You can just have a seat and take your time,” said Wendy. “And let me know if I can get you anything.”
“An interview would be nice,” quipped Lily.
“You fill that out, and I’ll see what I can do!”
They both laughed.
Not much of a resume, thought Lily as she reviewed what she had written. High school education. One minimum wage job a hundred years ago, and three months at a job under which “reason for leaving” Lily had penned, “temporary.” Still, how much experience do you need to work on an assembly line? She was breathing and she could show up every day. It was a relief to not face greater requirements than that.
“Here you go,” said Lily, handing the application back to Wendy. She turned to walk out.
“Wait a minute!” said Wendy. “I thought you wanted an interview.”
“You were serious?” Lily asked.
“I said I would try, didn’t I? Just wait right there, give me a minute or two.” Wendy winked and then disappeared through the door behind her desk.
“Thanks,” Lily said, tilting her face to the ceiling. “I needed that.”
Wendy’s face appeared in the doorway. “Lily!” she said softly, gesturing for Lily to come close. “Can you wait about fifteen minutes?”
“Yes, sure,” said Lily.
“Great. Our Human Resources manager is going to speak with you.”
After twenty minutes, a silver-haired man wearing a shiny gold watch stepped through the door.
“Ms. Capotosti?” he said.
Lily walked over and extended her hand. His handshake was warm and firm. He looked into Lily’s eyes and smiled.
“Wow,” she said, “You pronounced my last name perfectly - that hardly ever happens!”
“I’m Vincent Papandreas, Director of Human Resources.”
“That would explain it,” said Lily.
“If you have a few minutes, we can go into
my office and chat.”
“Sure - that’d be great.” She had all day. In fact, she had a lot of all days.
Lily took a seat across from Mr. Papandreas directly opposite a print of Hawaii that hung on the wall. White sands, palm trees, blue water, and a line of hula dancers wearing bright pink leis. Lily smiled. Vincent smiled back.
“So tell me, Ms. Capotosti, what made you come in and fill out an application with us today?”
“Please, call me Lily. To answer your question, I’ll have to say that I was passing by on my way home and I saw the sign out in front of the building that you were accepting applications, and here I am.”
“So you live in the area?”
“Yes, I do,” said Lily. “I live in Summerville.”
“No kidding?” said Mr. Papandreas. “I grew up in Summerville.” He scribbled something on the application. “So tell me what you know about the Kendall Company.”
“To be honest, sir, not much. I know that you make bicycles and that you have an entire wall of photos from customers who really like your bikes, and I know that Wendy is a doll. But that’s about it.”
Wrong answer for a job interview, she knew that much. You can’t just go in and order a job like it was an envelope of French fries. You have to know the company you’re applying to, do your research. That was the first bit of advice Sophie had given her, and in her haste, she hadn’t followed it.
“Then let me tell you a bit about us,” said Mr. Papandreas. “Our company mission is to promote cycling as an eco-friendly, family-friendly activity. We see cycling as a healthy way to bring communities and families together. To that end, we make a high-quality low-cost bicycle that we call the ‘YouBike’. One of the ways we keep our costs down is by standardizing most parts and then shipping them partially assembled. This reduces our labor investment and also enables our cyclists to customize their bikes - they can order the frame they want, the seat they want, the handlebars they want - the way competitive cyclists do - which makes each bike unique, as you may have noticed on our ‘Wall of Frame’ out in the waiting area.”
The Complete Series Page 135