Paths

by David DeSimone

  “What did you see?” Cheryl asked.

  “Like I said a million times before. I don’t know-”

  “I know what you said. I’m asking you to go farther. I’m asking you to think about it. Really think about it.”

  “You’re the psychic. You tell me.”

  “I told you, it doesn’t work that way. You need to know before I know.”

  Flustered, Ana only shook her head, her anger rising.

  “I can tell you’re getting upset. That’s okay. You don’t have to tell me, but I think it might be important that you do.”

  “Why is that important? Even if it was prophecy, who’s going to believe me? I don’t even believe me.”

  “I’d believe you.”

  “Why do you want to know?” said Ana.

  “I just do…” She took a sip of coffee, put it down. Her expression softened, eyes looking a little sad. “I have a son that I love very much. If there is anything I could do to protect him from harm, anything, including getting information by, well, unconventional means, I’d do it Ana!”

  “Like I said, you should have been a lawyer.”

  Cheryl leaned back against her seat, her arms dropping to her sides. She sighed. “Forget it.” She started to get up. “I’m sorry to bother-”

  “Wait!”

  Feeling the pressure of the clock, Cheryl glanced at her watch, then back to Ana, steadily growing more anxious with the passing of seconds.

  “This is going against my better judgment. You know that don’t you?” Ana said.

  Cheryl said nothing afraid that Ana might change her mind.

  Ana closed her eyes, dipped her head down and rested her forehead between the crook of her thumb and forefinger. She let out a breath and began to concentrate.

  “Think hard,” Cheryl urged softly.

  The brown walls of the Starbucks, the people inside and their clamorous voices began to fade as Ana sank deeper into her memories, searching.

  “What do you see?” Cheryl asked.

  Ana muttered something unintelligible, shook her head. Cheryl strained to hear.

  “Ana?”

  A pause.

  “Ana?”

  Whenever a head turned their way, Cheryl would glare back sending a message loud and clear to mind their own damned business and the curious would turn away. But the pressure was on. The clock was ticking and they were starting to attract attention.

  “Ana, I think we have to-”

  Suddenly, Ana’s head shot up. She drew in a long breath and let it out.

  Eyes fell upon them. “She’s okay,” Cheryl said to their audience, then reached over and placed her hand on top of Ana’s.

  As Ana recovered, she tried to speak.

  “Ana, what is it?” Cheryl said waving off the few remaining onlookers. “Did you see anything?”

  “I’m not sure,” she muttered. “I...”

  “What?”

  “I saw something and now it escaped me.”

  “Try to remember. I’ll take whatever you have. Anything.”

  As fragments of images returned, Ana’s said, “This might sound stupid.”

  “Nothing’s going to sound stupid to me. Whatever comes to mind, just say it.”

  “Okay,” she sighed. “I don’t know what to make of it so I’ll leave it to you… At first I saw sparks.”

  “Sparks.”

  “Yeah. Sparks. A lot of them like the Fourth of July. I knew something was there.“

  “Were you able to see past the sparks?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you see?”

  “I… I think I saw a circle,” Ana said, then let out a self-conscious laugh.

  Now even Cheryl looked puzzled.

  “Or a ring,” Ana said. “I’m not sure. Something round anyway. It was like bright red or orange-ish.” She pondered something. She said, “And, like, something was in the center.”

  “What was it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Okay.”

  Ana continued, “It could have been more than one thing. Maybe there were two or three things there.”

  “And you have no idea what they could have been?”

  “No, sorry. I don’t.”

  Cheryl held her gaze on Ana for a while, not staring at her as much as through her. Images formed in her mind’s eye influenced by Baptist beliefs - a fiery pit, damned souls, scorched earth, an apocalyptic landscape of death and destruction - before mercifully leaning toward Rufus’ more plausible conclusion, that it was just the result of pregnancy and stress. Yet she still felt uneasy. She probed further. “What did it feel like?”

  Ana cocked her head questioningly.

  “What kind of impression did it have on-”

  “You mean did it scare me? Of course it scared me. But only because I didn’t know what it was, not because of anything it was trying to tell me.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “Like, just remembering is different than actually experiencing it. It doesn’t have the same impact. A lot is lost in the recall.”

  “I see.”

  “But I gotta tell you, I won’t do this again.”

  “What - remember?”

  “Yeah. It’s too depressing. It makes me feel sad and hopeless.”

  “The vision?”

  “Yeah, if you want to call it that. Or it could just be what Rufus suggested, panic attack.”

  “I’m not sure it’s that,” Cheryl said. “I’ve never experienced that with my child and I don’t recall anyone I know who had experienced it either.”

  “We’re all different.”

  “Anyway, you’ve given me a lot to think about. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome I guess.”

  Cheryl rose from her chair, threw on her jacket. “I’d better get back to work. You coming?”

  “No,” Ana said forcing a smile. “I’m just gonna sit here for a few more minutes, maybe finish my sandwich.”

  8

  Since learning from Ana about having two episodes in one day (Ana wasn't willing to call them “visions” or “premonitions”), Hector had been clocking out early to arrive home at the same time as Ana, a well-intentioned gesture but at times smothering. Finally she had to say, “I know you mean well, Papi, but please relax.”

  On this late Thursday afternoon, he picked her up from the office, took the 5 Train to Parkchester and escorted her home. Had she known he was going to be so overprotective she would not have said anything to him. Then she reminded herself that it was better he got the news straight from her. Hearing it elsewhere, which was inevitable with friends like the Lang-girls, would have been worse. She didn’t need an argument, the kind that began with, “Why didn’t you tell me!”

  Even though he was inclined to believe in ESP and the paranormal, Hector shared Rufus’ opinion on what happened to his wife, that she suffered from symptoms of stress and mood swings associated with pregnancy.

  Ana wished she could agree.

  Home now, Hector helped her to the couch and took off her shoes, a worn-down pair of flat loafers. He sat next to her, put her legs on his lap, and began massaging her feet. She closed her eyes and groaned with pleasure.

  “I’ve got steaks for supper,” he said cheerfully.

  “Don’t stop,” she croaked.

  “My hands are getting tired.”

  “I don’t care. Don’t stop.”

  Hector chuckled. “Okay. You’re wish is my command.”

  “You don’t have to go out of your way and pick me up tomorrow. I’ll be fine,” Ana said.

  “Well, since tomorrow’s your last day, one more time isn’t gonna hurt.”

  “I’m just sayin’ it’s totally unnecessary.”

  “I want to.”

  “Is it because you blame yourself for what happened to me?”

  “No, no,” he said. After a moment’s hesitation he added, “You’re gonna give birth any day now. I want to be sure you’re okay, tha
t’s all.”

  “Okay,” she said, “because I want you to know the episode - or whatever - happened when I was feeling calm, which means that if it’s gonna happen again it’ll happen regardless of what you do.”

  “Ana, don’t say that.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to upset you. I’m just sayin’ that it wasn’t your fault.”

  “Okay. It wasn’t my fault, but I still don’t like to hear it.”

  He stopped rubbing her feet, slid out from under her legs and got up. “And if it does happen again, I’m taking you to the doctor.”

  “You’re making too much of a big deal out of th-”

  “No, I’m not!” he barked. “Especially now that I know.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “If something like that happens again and I do nothing, and it leads to something worse, then I’ll blame myself.”

  Ana chose to say nothing. She lay on the couch with her feet hanging limply outward, making her somehow look at once cute and helpless. Finally she said, “I think I just felt one of them kick.”

  “Good!” He said. “That was for me. Now you just lie there and relax. I’ll be back to get you when the steaks are done.”

  He headed toward the kitchen. “Estás loco,” he muttered. A smile crept on his face as he disappeared around the corner.

  She called out after him, “I’m not the crazy one!” A pause. “But I love you anyway!”

  He popped his head around the kitchen entryway. “I love you too! Now shut up and get some rest.”

  9

  FRIDAY AFTERNOON

  The printer on Ana’s desk ran out of toner while rolling out a five page monthly report on absenteeism - Rufus’ anvil, in paper form, reserved for the heads of those offenders guilty of repeated no-shows. Pulling the pages from the output tray, Ana assessed the printout and determined it to be of poor quality. She peered over her cubicle toward Rufus’s office. It was empty. Seems the boss has been playing a little hooky of his own. He’d soon be back, she knew, because he’d sent an email labeled ‘High Priority’ not twenty minutes ago requesting that she deliver the report ASAP.

  Ana would just as well have replied to his email along with an attachment of the report, but the anal-retentive bureaucrats in Compliance imposed a regulation against sending potentially “sensitive” information through emails, including employee records of any kind. Because of this, things had to be done the hard way, and when you’re very pregnant with two humans in your gut, anything that requires getting out of your seat is the hard way. She pulled the toner cartridge out of the printer with an audible grunt, catching herself before falling forward.

  “Hey.”

  Ana gave a start.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” Liz said.

  Ana turned around, saw Liz standing behind the divider wall.

  “Do you need help?”

  “I just gotta get toner.”

  “Would you like me to get it for you?”

  “No,” Ana said. “Doctor says I should get up and walk every so often. It’s good for the circulation.”

  “I’ll come with you. I’ve got some ideas for your baptism party.”

  A groan. “I don’t want to talk about that,” Ana said. “My mom’s driving me crazy about it.”

  They headed down the aisle.

  “Where’s Shawna?” Ana asked as they entered the elevator lobby.

  Liz made a quick glance through the glass windows behind. “Don’t know. She’s probably on break.”

  Ana checked her watch, 4:03 p.m. Kind of late for a break, she thought, and then let it go.

  “I was thinking about having balloons at the buffet table with shades of color matching their birthstone,” Liz said.

  Ana pressed the DOWN elevator button.

  “I could make it look so nice. I could also get you bouquets of flowers of similar colors.”

  The elevator arrived with a ding, the doors opened.

  “Liz, I appreciate the thought,” she said as they stepped in, “but Hector hired a catering company that’s taking care of the decorations.”

  The doors closed. Ana pressed the down button to the second floor.

  They were the only two in the elevator car. Liz frowned. “You’ve got to let me contribute in some way.”

  “You will by just being there.”

  “Should I bring something, a gift?”

  “Please no. I already have enough from the baby shower. I’ve got a whole bedroom full of gifts.”

  “I’ll bring wine.”

  “Liz, that’s not necessary. There’ll be plenty of alcohol.”

  A single chime announced the approaching fourth floor. The doors opened and stayed open for several seconds. Nobody got on. The doors closed. A slight jerk shook the floor below their feet and the elevator car resumed its descent. Ana stared placidly as the button to floor three blinked on for a few seconds before going out. The downward pull of the elevator car made her stomach feel light, tingly, which was not unpleasant. What she did find unpleasant was the silence. It wouldn’t have come to her attention at all if she hadn’t felt the intensity of Liz’s stare, like an invisible drill boring into her temple.

  “What?” she said finally.

  “What, what?”

  “You’re staring at me.”

  “No I’m not.”

  A ding sounded their arrival. The elevator doors opened to the second floor and they got out. Ana stepped aside to allow people to get in, pulling Liz with her.

  “Lizzy, something's on your mind and it’s not the baptism party,” she said growing annoyed with Liz’s evasiveness.

  Liz frowned. Her eyes became watery. She had a sadness that struck Ana to the core. Something was wrong.

  “Liz, what is it? Tell me!”

  “Not here,” Liz said heading away from the elevator lobby, pulling Ana with her.

  “Slow down,” she said.

  They made a right turn and walked down a brightly lit long corridor, soon passing the interrogation room on the left. A pair of NYPD officers stood guard. As they passed, the small window afforded her a glimpse of Special Agents Beau Maxwell and Barry Singleton. A female agent was also in the room, but Ana could not tell who she was only that her gaze was as tightly drawn on suspects out of view as that of her two male colleagues.

  Down the lengthy corridor the two women continued, turned abruptly right and entered a shorter, desolate corridor.

  “Here,’ Ana said stopping at a door to her left. She took out a key from her pocket, unlocked the door. Liz followed her inside, into large room containing a labyrinth of metal shelves, rows and rows upon which office supplies of various kinds were neatly stacked from floor to ceiling.

  “Where’s the toner area?” Ana asked. “It’s been like forever since I had to change it.”

  Liz pointed down an aisle that grew dimmer as it receded into shadows, seeming to stretch into infinity.

  Ana began to walk. “Stay close,” she said, an edge of fear in her voice. “This place creeps me out.”

  Third row from the end, Liz guided her to the right. Across the yellowing tiled ceiling a few tungsten bulbs, which looked as though they hadn’t been changed since the ‘30s, turned everything a shade of sepia. It made Ana imagine she just stepped into a photograph taken at the turn of the century. She scanned up and down each column, straining to read the text on the placards categorizing the items, until she found one that said TONER. She pulled a nearby ladder on wheels, rolled it toward her.

  “Would you mind getting it for me?” she asked.

  Liz climbed the ladder. “Which one is it?”

  “The HP 2055.”

  A good part of a minute went by as she searched. “I’m not finding it.”

  “Keep looking please.”

  Liz searched again. Seconds later she pulled a box from the top of a short stack. “Found it.”

  She climbed down from the ladder and handed the box to Ana. The dis
traction gave momentary reprieve from her worries, whatever they were. She looked herself again, calm with an air of light-hearted gentleness so familiar to Ana. And then the weight of unease pulled her back down. Ana could see the change happening right in front of her. First Liz looked away, and then the corners of her mouth sank into a frown, followed by a disheartening drop of the shoulders.

  Ana said to her, “So tell me what’s wrong?”

  As one of two executive assistants in the company’s pension fund department, Liz’s primary responsibility was to provide assistance to retirees who had opted to let InterLang manage their life savings. This gave her access to hundreds of individual accounts. When a letter from the IRS stated an error in her personal tax return and two periodontal procedures occurring within the same month, Liz suddenly found herself $6,000 in the hole - more than three times the amount in her savings. Her parents living paycheck to paycheck up in Yonkers were of no use and she had no close relatives to speak of. Her options were limited to borrowing money from the Credit Union (though she already had two outstanding loans with them), taking out a bank loan (though with a credit rating of 630 she’d have been lucky if a bank gave her money enough to cover just the interest rate on her MasterCard) or, she thought cynically at one point, she could advertise herself as an escort on Craig’s List. None of these appealed to her.

  She decided on another plan.

  With a bit of computer sleight of hand, Liz set up a hidden account and configured the accounts management software to funnel $2.00 from all account numbers beginning with the letters ART (as in “active retirement”). To camouflage this illegal transaction, she used the software’s customization feature to create a remittance field and called it “other” federal deductions. It was just another excuse for the government to pluck another couple of dollars from hard working taxpayers. What else is new - right? In reality that money, by way of a ten digit routing number - went directly into Liz’s checking account. She was skimming from the pensions of retirees.

  The first weeks following her executed plan, Liz was filled with so much tension she had purchased enough antacid to fill a drug store. But when weeks turned to months, the tension slowly subsided. No one called the deduction into question.