Down the Rabbit Hole

by J. D. Robb

  He gave her a long, steady . . . Martin-like stare. His golden-green eyes found what he was looking for inside her and gently let go. She understood what he was telling her.

  “And that no heart nonsense?” he said, his tone more upbeat. “That came from a discussion Scarecrow and I had on the merits of brain versus heart—he having no more of either than I did . . . physically. I told him that if having one or the other made the difference between being smart and being able to love, that a heart would be my choice, because being smart doesn’t make you happy, and happiness is what makes life worth living.” He smiled. “He was young at the time and his straw was still fresh. He hadn’t had the time to learn, which is why he thought he was dim-witted and brainless, and yet in the end it turned out he was the wisest man in all of Oz all along.”

  Elise glanced at a football balanced prominently on a rack with other sporting equipment . . . and the Charlie Brown inside her pined wistfully.

  She looked away. “And the lion was actually brave, right? He just didn’t realize that courage is acting in spite of his fears. And he did that a lot.” She sighed, easily empathizing with the lion’s lack of self-confidence. “So, none of you knew that you already were what you wanted to be?”

  “We didn’t believe in ourselves.”

  “And Dorothy needed all three of you—heart, wisdom and courage—to find her way home; to find happiness.”

  He nodded, pleased with her acumen. “To find herself.”

  He directed her to the gap between two more rows of costumes. Cowboy hats and chaps; fringed shirts, Indian leathers and brightly colored prairie skirts began to fade away to gray . . .

  A fog drifted apart to reveal a diorama of the afternoon she and Molly crossed paths with Liz Gurney at the mall.

  Knowing now the ramifications of her original reaction to the scene, Elise was inclined to take a more objective view of it—taking the time to notice that great effort had been taken to ensure that the CD cover and the charity poster looked appealing and professional, that Liz was dressed in a serious businesslike skirt and jacket, that her expression was both friendly and hopeful . . . and that her own expression was, at best, snotty and condescending.

  And yes, though completely oblivious to him the first time, she now saw a dark-haired boy sitting across the way—head down, shoulders hunched and clearly in pain of the worse kind.

  “Oh no,” Elise said, miserable in a way Charlie Brown couldn’t imagine. There was a sickening tightness in her chest. “That poor kid. And look at my face—could I look more soured or hateful? Why do I do things like that? I mean, I do things and hear myself say things and I don’t even know why . . . not specifically. I’m kind and generous and loving—most of the time. I am. And I never would have hurt that little boy like that. Ever. I’m just so—”

  “Lacking in self-awareness?”

  “You said that before, as Zorro. You said I was pretty astute for someone with so little self-awareness. But I am aware. I know when I do or say things that aren’t very nice. And afterward, I’m almost always sorry. I can even see that it took more time and thought and energy to be harsh and insulting than it would have if I’d simply been polite and respectful and moved on—I don’t know why I bothered. I don’t enjoy it. It’s like an unsatisfying habit.” She tipped her head to the diorama. “I didn’t even try to understand what Liz was doing that afternoon.”

  He smiled at her kindly. “Acknowledging your inferior behavior is a beginning, but for true insight you must also know why you behave as you do. Remember, the way you treat people affects them, but it isn’t necessarily about them. It is, however, always about you.”

  He looked into the stationary setting, and she followed his gaze. There was a quick blip in the scene, and she and Molly started walking backward into Macy’s. Liz took back the CD she’d handed to Molly, took back the wave she’d used to get her friend’s attention and went back to staring at the boy across the way who seemed suddenly very restless on the bench. Rapidly, she and Molly reversed their lazy mosey through the store—perfume was sucked back into bottles, Molly put down and picked up dress shirts for Roger, and Elise closed and opened at least fifty purses before Molly sped past her and vanished through the street entrance. Momentarily, Elise backed out the door as well, unwound her way up two flights of stairs to Parking Level Green. Without so much as a glance out the rear window she pulled out of her parking space . . . but then continued to drive backward all the way to her building; she zigzagged the halls to her office, where she lowered her head onto her arms, which were folded in front of her on the desk. She jumped up suddenly and backed her way into the conference room, where several other collection officers sat. They were looking directly at her, while Cooper Winston did the same with a scowl. The rerun slowed down . . . slower and slower, then started forward again.

  “Haven’t we been over this before, Elise?” Cooper Winston wasn’t shouting at her, but the tone of his voice made it seem so. “We have regulations. We have rules for everyone to follow—not everyone except you! Your job is to collect the taxes people owe. If they didn’t owe the taxes you wouldn’t be here. All you need to do—all you are authorized to do—is get the money owed to the IRS by any means possible: liens, levies, wage garnishments, property seizure. That’s it.”

  “I know what my job is.” And she knew she was mortified at being berated in front of her coworkers. She also knew she was being dressed down for an act of kindness; for being understanding and compassionate . . . and stupid, because she’d known she’d get caught eventually. “But you can’t get blood from a rock. The Sheldons have no money, Cooper.”

  “It’s not your job to audit these people—just get the money.”

  “It’s my job to get it in a fair and reasonable manner. Fair and reasonable, Cooper, that’s what it says in the manual. Fair and reasonable.”

  “According to whose standards? Yours? Are you making them up as you go along or what? Because you’re the only person I know who takes it upon herself to unilaterally decide to ignore the standard rules and regulations to—”

  “They have two sick kids with some odd genetic disorder . . . that I verified as real, by the way . . . and the hospital bills are sucking them dry. He works a good job, but it’s not enough. They called and explained the situation; they told me they were trying to sell their house to pay off their bills—the IRS included—but needed the lien on it lifted to do that. They also asked for a waiver on the penalty and interest charges on their installment agreement for six months . . . or less, if they sell their house. Being fair and reasonable, I agreed.”

  “And you got that authority how?”

  She sighed, defeated. “They’re good people, Cooper. They’re trying. They’re doing the best they can. I cut them a break.”

  “Rules and regulations, Elise. Rules and regulations.” He tipped his thumb at the computerized display of the Sheldons’ financial information on the wall behind him. “That’s twice you’ve stepped over the line. Just do your job.”

  She pushed her chair back and started to stand when he asked, “Why didn’t you come to me first?”

  Elise didn’t normally go out of her way to live her life dangerously, but she was already in for a penny. “I knew you’d say no.”

  The piercing glare she turned and walked away from added a frightened, insecure feeling to the embarrassment and anger that was presently overpowering her inclination to be sympathetic ever again. No good deed went unpunished, right? Who were the Sheldons to her? Would they send her a Christmas card? If she lost her job for helping them she wouldn’t be able to pay her own taxes—and who’d take mercy on her? Cooper Winston? People suck.

  Elise and the Tin Woodman watched the events of that afternoon take on a faster pace.

  “And see there?” she said, pointing. “Every purse I looked at while I waited for Molly was as ugly as my mood. Not to mentio
n the disrespect I felt when she couldn’t even manage to get there on time.” She hesitated and looked up at her companion. “Normally, it doesn’t matter. She’s a late person. I’m an early person. Most people are one or the other, which is why it’s such a surprise when someone shows up at the exact right time. Who does that?”

  A tin finger directed her attention back to the show of that wretched afternoon. She and Molly were just approaching the exit.

  “Stop. Please. Can we stop it there? Look at my face. My expression is rotten and foul before we even see Liz. She could have been Mother Teresa and I wouldn’t have had a single good thought in my head for her. Liz didn’t stand a chance . . . no matter what she was trying to sell.”

  The fog closed in around the picture and it vanished. It was a long minute before she could look into the Tin Woodman’s . . . well, Martin’s golden-green hazel eyes.

  “I get it. It’s not them, it’s me.”

  “Only sometimes,” he said kindly. “Cooper Winston should be flying monkey bait for calling you out in public. And the regulations are soulless. Still, no matter how much you couldn’t regret it, in the end you knew you’d broken a rule.”

  “And none of it had anything to do with Molly or Liz or that poor little boy.”

  “No. But it still doesn’t mean you have no brain and no heart.” He grinned at her. “The trick is to be more aware of what you’re doing, as well as why you’re doing it. Emotions can create problems that don’t need to exist. Express them to the right person at the right time and then let go of them. That’s my advice,” he said, with a judicious nod.

  They looked at each other, and then the muffled rumbling returned—a distant racket, but getting closer; echoing, vibrating like a train on a track heading their way . . .

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Don’t tell me. That’s the sound of the train I missed to a life less ordinary.” Elise frowned at the flat affect of her voice. “Not that I’d know what to do once I got there.”

  She looked down at the grass-green jacket and black skirt she was wearing . . . then at the sticklike legs in gaping black boots. She shook her head as she stood up straight again.

  She was Daria Morgendorffer. Instantly she felt the cynical, pessimistic and sardonic connection and, despite her recent revelations, she had to admit it was the most comfortable costume yet. She used both hands to feel and examine the large round glasses set nerdishly on her face, then turned around slowly.

  As a rule, this persona never smiled unless she had a good reason—a really good reason. Elise had a really good reason.

  “Hank Hill,” she droned in Daria’s happy-as-she-ever-got monotone. “My brother from another mother.” Hank stared at her as if she’d just asked what propane was. “Same father, different mothers? Mike Judge and MTV?” She pointed to herself, referring to her character creator and television network, then at him and his. “Mike Judge and Fox.”

  “Oh. I see what you mean. I thought you were telling me we were relatives.” He looked relieved. “It wouldn’t be impossible. My extended family is already stretched as broad as daylight—nothing about it surprises me anymore.”

  “My family, on the other hand, is as ordinary as white paper,” said Elise. “Father. Mother. Sister. Strangers who clearly carried the wrong baby home from the hospital.”

  “Aha.”

  “In my dream life I’m the only child of stationary characters, like high-end mannequins, who accept that I’m plain, unfashionable and aloof; arrogant, cynical and cranky. They also travel a lot.”

  “You forgot smart, sensitive and logical.”

  “Also realistic, honest and doomed to live a lonely life.”

  Hank tipped his head to one side, and after a moment she saw the twinkle of Martin’s humor in his green-hazel eyes. “Big fan?”

  “Huge. I love Daria. I am Daria . . . Well, before I looked like her. The real me is like her.”

  “Yep. I can see that,” he said, in a short, clipped, Hank-like manner. “You both avoid people because they make you feel vulnerable. Those you can’t avoid you push away because it’s hard for you to trust. You’re defensive in a way that makes people dislike you—so you’re not surprised or confused when they do. You mock the world so it’s less likely to disappoint you. The only difference is that she’s a child learning to cope with her life; you’re an adult who should have managed to find more mature methods by now.”

  “What?” Elise hadn’t expected the awkward, introverted Hank to be so direct—she’d forgotten about Martin.

  “Shutting down and running is no way to deal with your life, Elise.”

  “I don’t shut down and run.”

  “The hell you don’t.”

  “I don’t.”

  Hank stepped back to reveal a different point of view.

  Costumes on both sides of the aisle lost their color and their shapes melted away . . . and suddenly there was Jeremy, sitting at their dining room table, his laptop open in front of him.

  Elise remembered the occasion.

  He didn’t look up when she entered the room, but she was relieved to see him shuffling though their unpaid bills—her credit card had been declined at the Piggly Wiggly that morning.

  “I’m brewing tea, want some?” she asked.

  “No.” He startled her when his fist hit the table and he shouted, “Where the hell is all the money going?”

  “What?”

  “The money, Elise, the money! Where’s it going?”

  “I don’t know,” she shouted back, automatically feeling guilty for keeping them perpetually on the precipice of financial ruin—though she didn’t know why. “My paychecks go straight into our account. You know I’m not having anything withheld.”

  “This.” He waved a statement at her. “Bobby’s Hobbies?”

  “I bought a couple new tubes of paint and three brushes a few weeks ago.”

  “Budget. We have a budget.”

  “And they’re miscellaneous entertainment—hardly enough to break us.”

  “What’s this . . . Nordstrom?”

  “Shoes, but—”

  “But I thought we agreed you’d cut back on buying shoes for a while. I remember us laughing about it when you promised to cut back to shoe emergencies only.” He looked at her askance.

  “They’re a gift.”

  “A gift? For who?”

  “For you, if you must know. The Ferragamo oxfords that you liked, I bought them for your birthday. I haven’t bought a new pair for myself in months.”

  He had to take in a deep calming breath before he could speak to her again. “The money has to be going somewhere, Elise.”

  “Maybe if I take a look . . . I deal with numbers all day, maybe it’s something simple that—”

  “What, you’re the only one here who can add and subtract? Look, if you think I’m doing a shit job with our finances you can do them. Here!” Instantly angry again, he shoved a pile of papers across the table to her. “You do them.”

  She slowly pushed them back, saying, “I don’t think you’re doing a shit job. I was just offering to help, to take a second look. I’m sure it must be something simple . . . a stray decimal point.”

  Mostly mollified, he sighed. “I’ve checked and rechecked.” He shook his head in deep regret. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to dip into your inheritance again.”

  “Really?” Her half of the money her grandmother left was not a great fortune, but it was a sizable sum held in a trust that her mother controlled until she turned twenty-five in two years. Her mother, however, was an extremely generous and lax guardian who barely blinked twice whenever Elise asked to draw on the funds. “Again? It’s that bad?”

  His expression read: I wouldn’t have brought it up if it wasn’t.

  She sighed. “I’ll call Mom later; ask her to transfer
more money into our savings account. It should only take a day or two, so I’ll call the bank first thing Monday—”

  “I’ll call the bank on Monday. You need to march yourself into Winston’s office on Monday and tell him you deserve that promotion. Be firm, sweetheart. You’re better qualified, you have more experience, you’ve been there longer . . . Tell him you deserve it.” He flipped his hands palms up. “There’s no reason for you not to get it, Elise. And the way money disappears around here, we’re going to need the raise.”

  He closed the laptop and gathered up the rest of their accounting materials and left her sitting there.

  Elise turned to Hank Hill and pushed her big black Daria glasses up against the bridge of her nose. “I didn’t know how to tell him I’d already lost the promotion—that took me another week.” She lowered her gaze to the floor . . . where her pride was. “Took a lot longer for me to figure out where the money was going.”

  He was sympathetic. “The bastard. I wouldn’t mind kicking his ass for you.”

  She shook her head. “I was stupid. I know it’s a sick, sad world out there. I should have known. I should have seen it. That’s what makes me mad. I trusted him.” She hesitated, then her eyes closed and her shoulders drooped. “Maybe I did know. I think I suspected. Maybe. I just . . . I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe in him. Is that so bad? I loved him. He loved me. It was through thick and thin, good and bad, all that stuff. I never imagined he’d leave me—much less actively position himself to leave me penniless.”

  “Dagnabit! Having a heart as big as Texas is never a bad thing. And trusting the people you love should be as easy and safe as using propane for all your residential and commercial needs. And just as natural, too, come to think of it. You’ve got good instincts, Elise. You just need to listen to them and then not overthink what you’re hearing.”