Claire grabbed her purse and got up from her desk; but Faith held out a halting hand and said, “Cancel that order.”
“You sure, Mrs. Breedlove? It’s no problem, really.”
“No. I’m suddenly not very hungry.”
2
Tension gripped Michelle as she rang the doorbell and waited. Inside the Gore’s tan and gray bungalow—paint flaking, windows cracked, porch sagging—Sparky, Laura’s beloved Yorkshire Terrier, yapped as arguing whispers bled through the door.
“What am I doing here?” Michelle muttered.
Laura hadn’t returned any of her calls or text messages since the incident outside Lombardi’s. Michelle knew it was her own damn fault, and she had to apologize, to make things right, but to what end?
She rang the doorbell again. Sparky started to growl. Michelle smiled at the image of the little brave dog and said, in the kindest voice manageable, “I know you’re in there, Laura. Come save me before that fearless mutt of yours rips my face off.”
The door cracked open, Marlene Gore regarding Michelle with sad eyes. “She don’t wanna talk to you, Shelly. Don’t know what you went and done, but it pissed her off something fierce.”
Michelle always marveled at Marlene’s beauty. A genuine Lone Star Rose, Laura’s mom had been born and raised in the swamplands of east Texas, and, though hardly bright by most standards, she had a body and face that put every Oak Lawn High cheerleader to shame. More importantly, she was a kind woman, direct and reasonable. She’d been through a lot of shit. Michelle liked her a lot.
“I just want to talk,” Michelle said.
Marlene wasn’t having any of it. “Sorry, Shelly,” she said, “maybe another time, but—”
“Come on,” Michelle said, making her eyes big and sad. She knew that was her winning feature, her best chance to stir sympathy in Marlene Gore. That, of course, and her ability to be direct. “You know I’m a bitch, Marlene.”
“Well, shoot, I never said that, Shelly, so don’t go putting words in my mouth.”
“But we know it’s true.” Michelle nodded, and Marlene’s expression softened. “So it shouldn’t come as a surprise that I’d say or do the wrong things, right?”
“Shelly, you’re just a baby. You brats say and do the wrong things as a downright matter of routine, but—”
“I’m just here to apologize.”
The door opened wider, Laura standing behind her mother. She wasn’t right. She had a black eye and a cut next to her mouth. “You’re not the one who needs to apologize,” Laura said.
Marlene lowered her head and stepped away.
And Michelle, for the rarest of moments, was speechless.
3
Miles Winslow sat behind Faith’s desk. “Good morning, Faith!” he bellowed.
Joe Lampe stood to the right of Winslow, shaking the Magic 8-Ball that normally rested on Faith’s credenza. A pursed grin played his lips like a backwoods banjo as he studied the object’s answer. “No?” he remarked in a whisper.
Faith’s mind reeled at the possible question. “Good morning, gentlemen,” she said.
Lampe went back to shaking the novelty. Winslow motioned Faith to sit.
“Door open or shut?” she asked.
“Keep it open,” Joe Lampe said. “We’ve got nothing to hide around here. Do we, Win?”
Winslow shook his head, smile widening. Faith sat across from him.
Tom Sanders and Jim Thompson occupied the chairs on the other side of the room. Sanders gazed absently at the ceiling tiles as he rubbed his chin. Thompson pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and crossed one leg over the other. Both looked liked they’d rather be on a golf course. But Lampe and Winslow’s expressions spoke louder.
They were enjoying this cat and mouse game. That, however, wasn’t the strangest thing about them. It had been more than a year since she’d met with the Board, yet each member looked like they’d aged a decade. It wasn’t something she recognized immediately—the only light in the room, gray slashes through Venetian blinds. When she opened her mouth to speak, words choked in her throat.
“Is something wrong, Mrs. Breedlove?” Tom Sanders asked. He was the sole member of the Board who never addressed her by her first name. She didn’t know if it was a sign of respect or just another trait of his eerie, detached nature. Right now it felt more like the latter.
“No,” she lied. “Can I get you gentlemen any coffee or—”
“No need for formalities,” Winslow said. “Besides, we’re all sufficiently alert. Aren’t we, boys?”
In unison, the Board nodded agreement.
“Then,” she said, shifting uncomfortably, “to what do I owe this visit?”
“Don’t play stupid!” Jim Thompson boomed.
Faith jumped in her seat, head swiveling toward her aggressor. Biting her lower lip, she pushed back tears.
“Now, now,” said Winslow. “Settle down there, Jimmy. We’re not here to leap down Faith’s throat.”
Her attention snapped back to Winslow. “Then what are you here for, Win? It isn’t about my performance, I can tell you that much.”
He turned her computer monitor so she could see the screen, which showed a picturesque landscape of rich autumn colors and mountains. At the top of the image, Passage, West Virginia stood out in stark text.
“We’re ready to move,” he said.
She wasn’t shocked. The Board had long since shared their plans with her. And she wasn’t married to Missouri. “Okay,” she said, “so we move.”
“Not that simple,” Lampe said.
“We’re not leaving without the prize,” said Winslow.
“I don’t understand,” Faith said.
“Now she really is playing stupid,” moaned Thompson. “Someone shut the door and let me hit the bitch across the mouth.”
Faith gasped. Winslow snapped his fingers. The door slammed shut, and Faith closed her eyes as Jim Thompson rose from his seat.
“Sit down, Jimmy,” Winslow commanded. “She deserves a degree of mercy, don’t you think?”
Mercy? I deserve a hell of a lot more than mercy!
“Open your eyes,” Winslow said.
She met Winslow’s stare without willing it, his irises glowing bright orange. “I give and I give,” he said, “and look where it gets me. Old and gray. This town is more prosperous than ever, thanks to me. Now it’s time for return on investment.”
“The town will die,” Faith said. Bright colors danced across the edges of her vision, and the room lost shape, telescoping in and out. Nauseous, she heaved, coffee-rich bile burning down her chin. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t wipe her face—those horrific, impossible eyes locking her in place. Wonky images of Wyoming and Rory Ellison steamrolled her mind, her heart pounding like it wanted escape from her chest. Michelle had been right all along.
Joe Lampe nodded. “Time for it to die…”
“…so that we may live,” said Winslow. Then he added, “Thank you for your service, Mrs. Breedlove.”
He snapped his fingers again.
Her heart stopped, and everything went dark.
4
Laura stepped onto the porch, icy tendrils of fear spreading through her. Reflected in Michelle’s eyes: the same fear, but with another, darker companion. Anger. That intensified Laura’s dread. She’d never grasped anger. Guilt was her companion.
“Are you going to tell me what happened?”
“No, Michelle, I’m not.”
“Why?”
“Because it doesn’t have anything to do with you, and I’m afraid of what you might do if I tell you.”
Michelle stepped off the porch. Laura followed. “I am sorry,” Laura said. “Sorry about everything, about not being a better listener when you needed me to—”
“Jesus, Laura,” Michelle said. She crossed her arms and…
***
…looked away. Into the distance. Children rode bicycles through the neighborhood. At the end of La
ura’s street, where it intersected Grand Avenue, a flurry of cars sped in both directions. This wasn’t the Oak Lawn she knew. Not the place it was supposed to be.
“Maybe you can tell me why you aren’t going to college in the fall,” Laura said, breaking the silence. “I mean, it’s not like you’re stepping up to the confessional here.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Michelle said. “But…but I do understand those marks on your face. Nothing complex about them.”
Laura sat in a ratty lawn chair and shook her head. “Michelle, a person’s shit is always most complex in their own mind. You know that. Hell, you probably were the one who said those words to me at some point. I’m just not ready to talk about what happened. Not yet.”
“Your dad?” Michelle asked.
“No. I haven’t seen him in over a year, and he never hit me. That wasn’t his brand of abuse.”
“Not your mom. Tell me it wasn’t your—”
“Hell no, Shell. Of course it wasn’t. How can you even ask that?”
Michelle’s phone suddenly chirped. Strange. The only person who called her was sitting right in front of her.
“Aren’t you going to get it?” Laura asked.
Michelle snatched the phone from her pocket and looked at the display screen: Faith Work.
“It’s just my mom.”
“Might be important, something about your grandfather.”
That was probably it, Michelle thought. And she was terrified to answer the call. Once Pa was gone, not that he’d really been there for a long time, she would be alone. Laura would go off to college, meet a nice boy, get married. Wouldn’t be long before she started spitting out kids. Not much room in her life for a brooding lesbian when the real world took over, got its claws into her, and taught her how to think like a “respectable” citizen.
“Get it already!” Laura squawked.
Michelle pressed TALK, raised the phone to her face, and said, “Hello.”
Frantic disharmony on the other end of the line—desperate voices, things slamming—then: “Michelle! This…this is Claire, your mom’s personal assistant.”
“What’s wrong, Claire?”
“There’s been an accident here. Your mom’s been rushed to Saint Vincent.”
“I’ll be right there,” Michelle said.
The connection went dead.
“What is it?” Laura asked.
“I think my mom just died.”
“My God!”
Laura threw her arms around Michelle. But Michelle didn’t return the gesture. She looked up into a maple tree in a neighbor’s yard and found Reggie Ellison, sitting on the highest branch, a frown on his face. He spread his arms wide, pointing in two directions. Michelle shot glances both ways, reality slipping from focus.
Bicycles ride skeletons of children. Grand is dead. Houses are burned out shells. Eternal winter covers the town.
Laura’s sobs jerked Michelle back to the present. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “So sorry.”
Eyes locked on Reggie, Michelle droned, “Don’t worry about it, Laura. It’s been nice knowing you.”
Laura let go and took a step back. “What are you saying?”
“I never had a chance,” Michelle said. “But you do. Get out of here. Not just to Kansas City. Go to New York or Los Angeles. Hell, get out of the country. Go to London or Paris—”
“Come with me.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not? We’re too young to know any better. Perfect excuse when we fall flat on our faces, right?” Laura forced a smile. “And if you no longer have any connection to this place—”
“That’s just it, dear. I’m more connected to this place than you could ever understand.”
—Chapter Four—
1
As she waited for Van Masters, the Human Resources Director, Michelle thought about her mother. Her funeral had been well-attended but hardly a solemn occasion. Pa, of course, didn’t know where he was the entire time, Michelle holding one of his hands while Reba, who’d come back to help after Faith died, held the other.
Most attendees were Anon employees, many of them raucous, almost jubilant. Her mother, stiff and cold, was no longer a person to be feared or vilified. She’d paid the ultimate price for her sins. They had danced on her grave for it.
Toxic wisdom, Michelle thought. That which we learn too late.
The event following the ceremony, paid for by Anon, had been too much like a wedding reception, with drinking and dancing. Michelle thought she’d read about certain cultures where that sort of thing was accepted, even encouraged, but it felt aberrant. Not a celebration of life; more of a slap in the face.
Michelle had left early, but not before meeting the man who was supposed to interview her today.
“We’re always looking for fresh blood,” he’d said, sounding like a goofy, Saturday morning ghost-host. He’d even leered as he licked his lips in a none-too-subtle manner.
Michelle had fought the urge to bite her tongue as she’d said, “When should I come by?”
“Anytime, darling.”
Here she was, in the den of her sworn enemy, a line from The Godfather Part II—“Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer”—echoing through her head. She knew the line was originally from Machiavelli, but it carried Pacino’s cadence in her brain.
The door opened, and Van snaked across the carpet in a form-fitting suit, looking better, more sober, than he had at the party. But his eyes still held the same cruel intent as he opened his notebook and uncapped a pen.
“Hello, uh…” He flipped a page, studied it, looked up. “Michelle Breedlove—any relation to Faith?”
“We met at my mother’s funeral,” Michelle said.
“Ah, well, forgive me, please. We were all very…distraught about your mother’s unexpected passing. My deepest condolences.”
Michelle gave a subtle nod and waited for Van to continue. He took his time, just sitting there, staring at her. A palpable pressure consumed her, as if the walls were closing in, crushing her.
Finally, he cracked a frat-boy smirk and looked down at her breasts, a Superman-curl falling across his forehead. “Now I remember you.”
Doing her best to internalize tremors, she shrugged.
“You didn’t stay for long, did you?” he asked.
“Had to get my grandfather home. He suffers from late-stage Alzheimer’s.”
“I see,” Van said, making a note. “So…if you were to work all day, who would take care of your grandfather?”
“He’s had the same personal aide for the last year.”
“So you don’t see his condition as a...a hindrance to your ability to be at work on time?”
“If he dies, I’ll attend his funeral.”
“Well, of course—”
“And I won’t throw a party afterward.”
Van laughed insincerely. “So the answer is no then.”
“If my family needs me, Mr. Masters—”
“Please, call me Van.”
“Like I was saying, Mr. Masters, if my family needs me, I’ll put them high above Anon on my priority list. Sadly, thanks to this company, I don’t have much family to get in the way.”
Van put down his notebook and stood, walked across the room. He stopped at a painting of a man who Michelle recognized from her online research. “Do you know who this is?” he asked, pointing at the rendering.
“Conrad Landon,” she said.
“That’s right.”
“What’s your point?”
“Our founder valued loyalty to one’s job above all other things.”
“Your founder didn’t have a family, plus he committed suicide after the Board of Directors dropped a unanimous vote of no-confidence on his ass. I also think you may be oversimplifying Mr. Landon’s core value system.”
Van sat on a window ledge and grinned. “You’ve done your homework, Michelle.”
“Please, call me Ms. Breedlove.”
“Bullshit?”
“I was going to say exaggerated.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Because you beat me to the punch with ‘Bullshit.’”
“You’re a pompous, glib man, drawing out your words like you draw out this uncomfortable exchange. For the record, you beat me to the punch with bullshit first. And, come on, you know as well as I do this is all a formality. That I don’t really want to be here, right?”
He nodded.
“So why play nice. Just tell me where to show up and I’ll be there. I’m sure your orders are quite simply to hire me. So do your job, Mr. Masters.”
“Mich—”
“Ms. Breedlove.”
“You’re a lot like your mother, you know. The way your brow furrows when you strike. I think you’ll be a fine asset.”
“Time and place, please.”
“Very well.” He wrote the details on the back of a business card and handed it to her.
As she was leaving, he said, “Wait a second.”
“What?”
“It’s really not that bad here, Miz Breedlove. I think you have the wrong idea about us, and about me.”
She smiled, tensions easing now that she would soon be out of the building. “How can you be sure?”
“Come again?”
“The worst lies are those we tell ourselves.”
“That logic, I’m afraid, works both ways.”
“You’re right about one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re afraid.”
2
Not one of his good moments, Michelle thought, looking into Pa’s unfocused gaze. But she tried to explain things to him anyway, as much for her benefit as his.
She talked and talked, but he wouldn’t come around. She was ready to give up…
…when his eyes suddenly focused.
“Are you there, Pa?” She touched his face, electrical pulses dancing along her fingers, and gasped. A sensation she hadn’t felt in a long time—hairs on the back of her neck standing on end, a surge of energy bolting up her spine.
Beyond Anon Page 5