Skinner Luce

  She lingers in front of the mirror, staring at the self she creates for the outside world. She takes pleasure in wearing these clothes. She looks forward to the methodical filing and copying, writing tidily on Post-its, fetching coffee from the communal kitchen. It’s a big law firm, this one. The kind that, if they like her, they’ll support her finishing up her paralegal degree, maybe help her go beyond that.

  This feeding on the leftover crumbs of all her old dreams is a bad habit. But she can’t help it, especially at times like this, on the brink of what should be all kinds of possibilities. When she accepts a job, when she travels to it and performs it, when she gets her paycheck, no matter how measly it is: these are the only times she feels like she might still have a normal life.

  At least yesterday’s Service was a breeze. She sent Bernie a few pizzas in exchange for switching her to an early shift, so she’d be able to get some rest before her first day. The call was way up in Rockport. The Nafikh were styled as tourists on a visit from Austria who wanted to see this famous attraction even if it was the dead of winter. They walked around in the freezing cold, stared at the harbor for a while, then entered a pub. The bet was it’d be empty on a weekday afternoon, and it was. Lucy and her two fellow servs scored beers and burgers, so as to make their party seem normal. The only hitch was one of the Nafikh started losing His manners over the bartender pestering them so much about Austria, wanting to know where to stay if he traveled there, which he might in summer, he didn’t know yet, but it would be cool. Lucy had to flirt him off, giggle him back to the bar, where she gave him all sorts of advice, things she’d gleaned from TripAdvisor.

  If she can just hold this balance, if Bernie stays good with her bribes, it could all work out. With less than two months left in the season, and enough servs this year to keep the rotation reasonable, Lucy’s letting herself dream a bit about saying yes, if a full-time offer comes out of this new job.

  She’s in good cheer when she steps out of the building, till the Source tugs, sending darts of hurt into her ribs. It’s the teen serv who showed up in the neighborhood about a week ago. She’s halfway down the block, fleece hat tugged low over furious green eyes.

  “You need anything?” she hisses, stepping into Lucy’s path.

  “Do I look like I do?” Lucy retorts, dodging the girl’s outstretched hand.

  “Fuck you.” The girl steps back, disappointment etched all over her gaunt little face. Lucy speeds up, impatient with the pity she feels. It’s hardly Lucy’s fault the girl got stuck dealing. She’ll earn her bunk bed and daily rations. She could very well be in some cockroach-infested motel opening her legs for the same, or worse, forced into duping, so all things considered, she’s not so bad off.

  Lucy stays close to the wall, out of range of tires spitting salty slush. People hurry down the sidewalks, eyes glazed over, giving wide berth to the guys huddled disconsolately around the steps of the convenience store. The bell jingles, and the owner barges onto the sidewalk, yelling curses at a car parked in front of the hydrant. The driver’s side door swings open, and to Lucy’s dismay, Detective Bedrosian gets out. He looms over the guy, holding up his badge.

  Lucy stumbles, she should turn around, get the hell out of here, but he’s seen her. Of course he has; she’s the reason he’s here at all. He watches her approach without expression, making her feel clumsy and anxious. He’s wearing a furry Russian hat with the flaps tied up and a thick wool coat, a hulking figure amid the fast-walking commuters. She’s got no choice but to stop in front of him.

  “I can’t talk now,” she says. “I’ll be late.”

  He shrugs. “First day, you need to be on time, I get it. I stopped by the office,” he adds. “Spoke to your supervisor.”

  It takes a moment to absorb the chilling news that he’s been at the agency. “What do you mean? What did you say?”

  “You like your work, Lucy?”

  “Sure,” she says, confused. “Yes.”

  “I hear you turn down a lot of assignments.”

  “Not really,” she stammers. “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, according to your supervisor, you do. The last one was, let’s see,” he licks his thumb and flips pages in his notebook, “first week of January. You hadn’t worked for a while already, and it was choice. Care to explain?”

  Lucy’s mind scrambles, alights on the endless nighttime bus ride to Montreal, the on-board toilet stench, the miniature bags of pretzels and weak coffee. She says, “I had a flu. I couldn’t kick it.”

  “The flu, huh. Too bad.”

  She glances down the street, starting to feel desperate. “I’m going to be late.”

  “Won’t take long. Why’d you drop out of Bunker Hill?”

  The turn’s too sudden to catch up. “What?”

  “You had decent grades. You were, I quote, ‘attentive and enthusiastic.’ That was your Intro to Law prof. She remembered you.”

  Lucy is aghast. “You spoke to my teachers?”

  “Just the one. So why did you drop out?”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  “Why does it bother you, me asking about college?”

  She doesn’t answer. The thick, giddy fullness of that time, buried so long, wells up in a choking lump. Books piled on the floor, her notebooks, the feel of the padded chair in the lecture hall.

  “Maybe it was a mistake you regret,” he proposes. “Young people make dumb mistakes all the time. I know I did. Why’d you leave, then? What happened?”

  “I’m going to lose this job!” she blurts. “Please, just let me go.”

  He looks at his watch, his bushy eyebrows furrowing. “I guess you might. You better get going, then. Oh, and Lucy?”

  She’s already leaving, has to turn around. “What?”

  “Your old roommates, what were their names?”

  “How should I know? It was ages ago.”

  “Try and remember.”

  “Angie. Angie Leavett had the lease. I think one of the others was Sabine. She was from Ethiopia. I can’t remember the other one. Why do you need their names?”

  “Just routine.”

  She stares at him a moment, her mind scattered with confusion as to why he’d need that information. He taps his watch, indicating she’d better get a move on. She whips around and breaks into a jog, her heart racing hard and the Source tweaked and loosing darts of pain, signaling fear. Her neck goes stiff from the effort not to look back. But she succeeds. She gets around the corner, goes limp, slows down.

  “Have a good day,” he calls, jerking her to attention.

  He’s done a ueuy. He waves out the window, then the car tears off down the street.

  The subway ride is a torturous, tense event, her anticipation of the day obliterated. She sits hunched with her hands wrapped tight around the burner phone till the surface is slick with sweat. Call. Don’t call. Call. Don’t call. Julian might never find out. They can’t possibly be watching her every second. Best not to trouble trouble: if it does come out, she’ll just say it didn’t seem important. Downplay all the way.

  The guy opposite her unfolds his newspaper, flips it, and a full-page ad for Aer Lingus appears, clover leaf against a blue sky, glorious green landscape beneath. It’s ludicrous, seeing that right at this moment, like the universe is mocking her. She twists in her seat, closes her eyes.

  The image of Bedrosian visiting her supervisor torments her. She pictures him asking questions, grunting uh-huh, and what about this, and what about that. What could he have possibly said to explain why he was asking about Lucy Hennessey? She feels sick. And her old teacher, what the hell did he say to her?

  He’s not going to give up. He’ll keep digging around, bothering her. And what about when Julian finds out? She can only downplay so much.

  She almost misses her stop she’s so distraught. She jumps to her feet, squeezes and pushes her way to the doors, earning angry looks. She’s sweaty and tense climbing the steps out of the su
bway, dimly aware of the Source flashing pain but paying it no attention. Until she practically walks right into a sentry.

  No, no, no, please.

  The sentry’s her own height, Asian with bright, perfect skin, jet-black hair in braids on either side of her face, wool cap pulled low to the sharp curves of her eyebrows. Lucy feels like an insect being pinched in tweezers, the way the sentry examines her with cold, mathematical precision. “Name,” the sentry commands. She taps the answer on her tablet. “Lucy Belle Hennessey, dropped as an infant? Picked up at nineteen?” the sentry marvels. “Wow, that was shit luck. 182 out of 303, five calls so far this season. And Montreal—that’s a drag.”

  “Please don’t scoop me,” Lucy begs. She points at her destination. “I have a job, I really need it. I just Served the other day.”

  “So you did.”

  “If I don’t show up, I’ll lose this job. I can’t lose it.”

  The sentry squints at her, bemused. “One of those, are you.”

  By which she means, a serv trying to shape a life so she can have one beyond quota. As in, a total idiot. Lucy nods, mentally scrambling for excuses she can give her supervisor.

  “Go.”

  For a second, Lucy doesn’t understand. The sentry widens her eyes, parodying Lucy’s amazement, and thrusts her chin in the direction Lucy was headed.

  “Thank you!” Lucy blurts.

  The sentry’s already moving on down the sidewalk, scanning for others.

  Lucy makes her legs move, though they feel wobbly and weak. She trips and almost falls flat on her face. Someone seizes her arm, keeping her upright. He’s already gone before she can say thanks, swallowed into the crowds rushing in both directions.

  The world whooshes back into focus. Her job, the time, the way the day was supposed to go. She hurries through the crowd, just another worker bee on a frenetic weekday morning.

  THE FIRM’S LOCATED IN a glass tower near the harbor. The building has shining marble floors, and farther ahead Lucy sees a serene atrium with aluminum tables and chairs scattered among the potted ferns. The voluminous space rises all around, silent, dignified. Lucy stops inside the entrance to change out of her boots into pumps under the concierge’s understanding gaze. She tells him her destination, and he says, “Thirty-second floor to the left, miss,” and politely indicates the elevators. Inside the quiet elevator with its gilded mirrors and panel of gold buttons, Lucy straightens her shoulders, willing herself into the state of bright, pleasant alertness required of her position.

  The office manager’s Polish last name is unpronounceable. “Everyone calls me Mrs. M.,” she says with a cheery wink. “Now where are you from originally? Sweden? Denmark?”

  “I don’t really know,” Lucy says demurely. “I was adopted.”

  “Oh—” Mrs. M. shapes her mouth into a pitying smile. “Well, wherever you’re from, you come quite highly recommended, don’t you!”

  Mrs. M. goes over Lucy’s tasks with fastidious care, every step from start to finish. “We just want to be sure you’re comfortable here,” she says. Lucy examines her in secret as Mrs. M. works her way down the detailed list: the lightly powdered skin, faint rose blush, square no-nonsense fingernails a pale pink. She smells clean and well-rested. Her gray hair is gently waved and caught in a barrette. Lucy wonders how long it took to be elevated to her managerial position. She pictures herself years from now in a similar charcoal skirt suit, a string of pearls resting on her neck, greeting the temp as she arrives.

  If she plays her cards right, the supervisor said. Lucy was so full of anticipation for this job starting, but as she trails Mrs. M. through the office, nodding polite greetings as she’s introduced, all she can think about is Bedrosian’s ambush, the menace in his questions and how he looked at her. She fights to hang onto her earlier satisfaction, but it fritters away under the anxious memory as surely as the hundreds of documents she has to feed through the shredder, her first task of the morning. We just have to get this done, Mrs. M. apologized, then we’ll get you to proofing, don’t worry. But given Lucy’s current state of mind, the tedious, solitary work is welcome. She’s in a narrow, white-walled room stacked floor to ceiling with office supplies. A gigantic copier studded with various feeders and handles stands against the wall, blinking and beeping now and then as if it has its own agenda. The shredder is located under the window. She sits on a stool whose wheels slide on the linoleum floor every time she makes any motion. She clutches at the floor through her shoes, and soon her leg muscles start to hurt. She feeds the documents into the machine. Other secretaries pop in, merrily checking on the temp, and she obliges them with mindless chitchat. She empties the shredder bin into a big plastic bag; shreds cling to her skirt and hose, they float up with uncanny lightness and settle on her arm hairs, resisting her vigorous brushing, glued down with static. She starts shredding the next batch.

  Lucy’s Source prickles deep within, and she looks up, startled. After a few minutes, when the pain doesn’t abate or increase, she gets up, peers out the sealed window, searching the street far below.

  A sleek white limousine is stuck at an intersection and the light’s gone red, sending everyone into a fury. A policeman approaches on horseback. The limousine door opens. From within, first a pair of long legs in white leather boots emerge, followed by a tall, splendid Nafikh in a swirling silver dress and an elaborate feathered hat. Lucy lets out her breath, relieved she’s so far up, or else she’d be bent over puking, and that wouldn’t go over too well in the office. The Nafikh turns in place, Her face lifted upwards. It is radiant with pleasure; They always love a good dose of the Financial District with its mirrored buildings, ornate facades, and the glistening bay with its fleet of bobbing white vessels. Passersby slow down, craning to see what’s holding up all the traffic. A group of tourists snaps pictures, assuming the lady with the limo must be famous. Servs mill on the sidewalks, subtly blocking people from getting too close.

  The policeman arrives just as the Nafikh’s sentries usher Her back inside the limousine. The horse is tense, high-stepping and tossing its head. A path clears, and the limo glides away, carrying the Nafikh towards whatever new adventures lie in store.

  Lucy steps back, sinks onto the stool, which promptly swoops off to the left, carrying her smack into the metal shelving.

  She clutches her dinged elbow, gritting her teeth against the lancing pain. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  The room returns to itself: a close, hot space full of white and gray things.

  She starts feeding documents again. The air fills with the whirring noise, the machine giving off heat that prickles her cheeks and neck. She stuffs the documents in ten at a time, even though the label on the front cautions against it. The feeder slows, groaning and grinding, and comes to a stop. Lucy stares down at the tightly crumpled stack of papers poking out of the dead machine.

  After a time, she unplugs the cord and lifts the top part of the shredder out of the bucket. A volley of shreds flies up, plasters her pantyhose anew. Lucy works with anxious concentration, dragging each sheet out. She’s probably wrecking the machine, so she works fast, before someone catches her in the act.

  A SECRETARY CALLED MARCIE invites her to lunch. “It’s tradition!” she waves off Lucy’s protests. Lucy stops in the bathroom first. The lighting is dim, the counters and walls a gray granite, the stall doors black. She carefully applies a new layer of powder in the tomb-like silence. She rinses her hands, closes her eyes a moment, listening to the water trickle from the faucet.

  Marcie suggests they eat in the atrium downstairs. Sunlight filters through the glass ceiling, but the temperature’s thankfully calibrated towards cooler. Marcie buys her a turkey wrap and a cappuccino. “Oh, you shouldn’t pay!” Lucy cries, as is expected. They carry their trays to one of the polished tables and sit. Marcie is in her early twenties. She graduated Wellesley College last spring. She’s working a year then she’ll apply to law school. She’s infectiously happy and lively, her bobbed brown hair
constantly falling from behind her ears so that she has to keep tucking it back as she talks.

  “You look like a model,” she praises. “Did you ever model?”

  “Oh, no,” Lucy demurs. “I’d never have imagined.”

  “So what’s your story?”

  Marcie leans forward, her eyes bright with curiosity. Lucy knows how she appears. Older, unfulfilled. No BA on her resume, no permanent positions.

  “I like to work, save up, then travel,” she says.

  Marcie’s eyes widen.

  “I’ve been up to Montreal and Quebec City a ton of times. Nova Scotia, Halifax in particular. I like the winter festivals. This year I’m planning another Scandinavian tour,” she elaborates, now drifting into lies, but they aren’t, really, in the sense that she’s read so much about these European destinations she might as well have been there. She can answer any question. “One of my all-time favorites is Dublin,” she carries on. “You can take a bus all around the country. You should see the western coast in winter. It’s so grand, practically mythological.”

  “Wow,” Marcie breathes as Lucy winds down. “You are so lucky.”

  “It’s good not to be stuck on one track,” Lucy advises sagely.

  “Yeah. I have to remember that. It’s so great to meet you. We should do this every day.”

  “Sure,” Lucy nods, “though sometimes I have to work through lunch, so I can leave early.”

  She explains about her aunt in Jamaica Plain who relies on her preparing dinner and getting groceries and so on. It’s always a challenge. Marcie explains how awesome Mrs. M. is, not to worry. She never questions a sick day, she’s so kind. Lucy files this information away, wondering if taking this job full time might be feasible after all. The hour passes, and Lucy relishes being part of this world with her little red tray with its crumpled napkins and wrappers, professionals milling about, the noise of her heels smartly tapping the marble floors as they head back for the afternoon shift.