Temporarily Employed

by Vicki Batman

  After a moment, I heard the thump, thump of his feet as he padded down the stairs. “Okay, open.”

  Cradled delicately next to his chest was a cat. A large, fluffy, gray-and-white-striped tabby. My mouth dropped in amazement because the last thing I’d expected to find in A. Wellborn’s arms was a cat.

  I smiled so hard, I was positive dimples I didn’t have popped up. “A kitty. What a cutie pie.” Moving closer to him and his new friend, I extended my hand. The cat sniffed my fingers giving me the go-ahead to pet his head and ears. Instantly, a roaring purr started. “How great. Can I hold him—her?”

  “It’s a him and sure.” He surrendered the cat.

  Cuddled upright on my shoulder, he didn’t squirm or claw or do anything other cats do when they were first introduced to strangers. I stroked its ears flat and then moved to scratch under his chin. With gentle movements, I stepped to the couch and sat, releasing the furball to my lap. I ran my fingers along the cat’s spine, and his back arched in response.

  A. Wellborn sat beside me.

  I gave him a sweet smile. “I love cats. What’s his name?”

  He shrugged with an uplift of his hands. “I haven’t decided. I’ve tried a couple, but they sounded lame.”

  “Like what?”

  “Killer, Tiger, McDonald. They don’t seem to work. Have any ideas?”

  McDonald? “It’s definitely a him?”

  “The vet said so. He had been neutered.”

  “I like him.” The cat walked back and forth across my lap, his head bumping against my hand with each pass. I had a curiosity about the match since guys were usually into dogs. “Why did you get a cat?”

  “I went to the golden arches for a burger. When I opened my car door, I saw him hunched by the wheel. He looked sad. I spoke quietly, and he came closer. I picked him up and stuffed him in the truck.”

  Which explained the burger store name. “You’re fortunate he didn’t go berserk and claw everything inside.”

  “He got in the floor board and just sat. Must be used to being in a car.”

  My gaze and mouth went tender. “You’re a soft touch.”

  “Yeah, but don’t tell any of the guys at work.”

  What a notion. The corners of my lips shaped into a mysterious smile. I could store this blackmail material as payment for the incident with the friendly waving cops.

  “Hey, I know that look. Don’t get any ideas.” His finger shook in front of my nose.

  The cat’s ears flattened and he backed away.

  “Anyway, he seems to like being held. So, I drove around the neighborhood, looking for lost pet signs, but didn’t find any. After searching for a while, I decided to keep him.”

  Maybe I needed to wash my hands. I turned them over and examined for weird, invisible, fatal feline germs. “Is he sick with anything?”

  “Nope. The vet checked him over, under, inside out. He probably belonged to someone who had loved him and got lost.”

  “How sad. Think his owners will be found?”

  “He didn’t have a microchip.” A. Wellborn scratched the kitty’s ears. “I didn’t find any signs posted on poles near the restaurant. It’s a pretty safe bet they’ve given up or don’t care.”

  Everyone knew this story. I wished my complex allowed furry pets. Cats were much better than fish at following. They could talk and have a sense of need, knowing precisely when to graze their body against a human’s or sit in the middle of an unfolded newspaper for attention. They didn’t have to be walked like a dog. They fed, bathed, and pottied all by themselves.

  I said, “I lost my cat, Snuffer, when I was a little. I missed him for a long time. He was very affectionate and big. He bumped heads.”

  “Mine, too, a sheepdog. Baxter.”

  I stared, my jaw dropped open. For sure, I had misheard and felt stupid asking, but did so. “You named your dog...Bastard?”

  A. Wellborn howled with laughter. He just about dropped down dead on the floor, laughing so hard.

  Confusion swamped me. Undoubtedly, Mom had hit the nail on the head when she’d said loud rock and roll would ruin my hearing. Who would name a dog Bastard, especially one for kids?

  Finally, his hysterics ended. “Not Bastard, Baxter. B-A-X-T-E-R.”

  “I knew I misunderstood.” Trying to shake the humiliation enveloping me, I moved on. “I don’t remember your dog.”

  “We had him when we lived in California before we moved to Sommerville. A long time ago.” He sobered and silence settled while we thought about our lost friends as the cat walked across our laps and then back again.

  “So you’re keeping him. Did you get a cat box and kitty litter? Food? Toys? A brush?”

  “Yes, yes, yes, everything you mentioned but the brush. Cats like to be brushed?”

  “Big time. They walk everywhere and rollover so you can reach their tummy. It reduces excess hair and fleas. And since his fur is long and silky, hairballs.”

  “Good to know. I’ll get one.”

  “Isn’t he lucky?” Lucky. Hmmm. Lucky just might be the perfect name. Softly, I sounded it out loud, “Lucky.”

  His gaze drilled into mine. “Lucky?”

  “Yes, Lucky.”

  “Let me get this right. You want to get, uh, lucky?”

  How embarrassing! How humiliating! How stupid! The horror of the double entendre. I fisted my hands to keep from burying my face. Will these kinds of situations never end? A. Wellborn thought I’d propositioned him. He’d completely missed my train of thought. I’d hit a big two-in-a-row jackpot of mortifying misunderstandings, winning the mother lode in Vegas.

  If only I could disappear.

  “Not that kind of lucky,” I said in a squeaky voice. “I’m thinking the cat’s name could be Lucky, as in isn’t he lucky you found him?”

  He laughed again. “Are you sure? I can arrange the other if you want.”

  I felt positive he felt positive he’d thought his offer magnanimous. I shook my head. We smiled.

  “I knew it was almost too good to be true.” A. Wellborn bumped the cat’s forehead head with his. “Lucky. I think the name works for him, and it works for me. Lucky, you are pretty lucky.” He scratched his new buddy’s ears. “I do like the other kind, too.”

  It’s a well-known fact, all guys more than like that kind of lucky.

  Like the best of companions, we petted our feline friend. I glanced at A. Wellborn, flushed, and felt the shimmery, butterfly attraction in my chest return. Once, I’d read a magazine article which described how a guy treated his pets was indicative of how he treated his girlfriends. Tummy rubbing—pretty interesting.

  Hunger rumbles rolled in my belly. How opportune when having a date. Mom had always said, “Stomach noises aren’t very lady-like.” I hadn’t planned on this happening, but how did anyone stop it? Hopefully, A. Wellborn was slightly deaf or distracted.

  “How about pizza? I promised your favorite.”

  Evidently, he read tummy sounds as well as minds. “With big bad-ass cholesterol?”

  “Is there any other kind?”

  I smiled and shook a no.

  He handed over Lucky and went to the kitchen, pulling a flat box from the oven which he placed on the coffee table.

  My favorite sacred food oozed a tantalizing aroma. I inhaled deeply, taking in the smell of garlic and bacon, almost through my skin.

  Returning to the fridge, he grabbed two cans of soda, one of which he passed to me.

  After releasing kitty, I cradled the cold can to my chest. “What would you have done with all the pizza if I hadn’t accepted your invite?”

  “Let’s see… I could do breakfast, or lunch, and any left over could be for supper.” He ticked off the meals on his fingers.

  I laughed for all of us have had eaten pizza for breakfast at some point. Pizza smeared with sauce and bacon on top, instead of on the side, could be considered toast. Served with milk or OJ, it was the quintessential breakfast food.

  The
cat incident had warmed me, giving me a fresh attitude about A. Wellborn, one that filled my heart. All the embarrassing things which had occurred lately upset me. But who can stay angry for long with someone who continued to prove he was nice, thoughtful, food supplying, and now, a cat-loving hunky guy? He was immensely huggable and ultra-kissable. I began to wonder if he would kiss me into oblivion again. Kiss me, kiss me floated in my head. The butterflies returned to wreak havoc in my body.

  Slyly, I watched A. Wellborn set a plate loaded with two pieces in front of me. A desire to explore the soft spot on his neck overcame all of my sensibilities. I placed an imaginary finger right below his ear. Yeah, that one.

  “You’re looking at me funny again.”

  Rats. He was too damn observant. My poker face had failed. On the other hand, being observant was a major component of his job. I tried playing nonchalant while taking a drink of soda. “I’m happy to be here.”

  Oops. Without a doubt, thanks to my big fat mouth, I’d fail Interrogation 101.

  “I’m glad you’re here, too.” He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and set another slice on his plate. “Tell me about your book club.”

  My no! pierced the room. “You don’t want to know about book club.”

  “Sure, I do.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I do. I want to know more about you.”

  Since the Funsisters confessed everything to each other, too many secrets were attached to book club. Anyway, as the discussion had revolved around him, I didn’t want to share anything. Similar to the television commercial about Las Vegas: What happened in book club, stayed in book club. “I rather not. It’s a girl thing.”

  “Okay, but I’d still like to hear about it.”

  “I’m telling you, you-don’t-want-to-know.” My voice grew loud to emphasize my point. “Take my word for it.”

  His hands went up in resignation. “Okay, okay, whatever you say.” He pushed away his plate. “Looks like we’ve been called to court next week.”

  Thank God, he’d changed the subject. A blush crept up my neck to stain my cheeks. “I guess so.”

  “You aren’t paying the citation?”

  “I am not,” I said with a crisp tone. My fingers crushed my napkin. “You know I didn’t exactly have a taillight out.”

  “Ha.”

  “You think this is funny? Well”—I lifted one shoulder—“I don’t, and I don’t have $190.00 either.”

  “I forgot about the fine and your job situation. Well, court with you should be entertaining, I, uh, mean, interesting.”

  Maybe I should do the Charleston to prove how entertaining I could be. My eyes stretched into cat-like slits. “Glad to be a source of amusement.”

  “Can I ask you some more questions about work?” he asked.

  “Fire away.”

  Chapter Eleven

  A. Wellborn and I tidied the coffee table of the pizza crusts. A long time ago, I’d read the Aztecs followed meals with chocolate. I thought their idea superior, and regularly followed this belief myself, particularly with peanut candies, not plain. Plain tasted best when mixed with peanut.

  Guys thought chocolate consumption a girl thing. Men went for vast bowls of ice cream. From his pantry, A. Wellborn fetched a bag of double stuff cookies.

  I batted my eyes and blew a tiny sigh. Another sacred food, scoring more points in the Highly-Desirable-Traits-o-Meter.

  He passed me the opened bag and a fresh paper napkin. “Are you still temping at the insurance agency, or did you decide to look for another buying job?”

  I pulled three treats from the bag and returned it to him. “I hate to admit I’ve drifted into complacency at Buy Rite. I’m not looking for a buying job as hard as I should be nor any other retail position. The temporary job isn’t difficult, just busy. Claims come in all day long, every day. Wrecked cars need repairing; stolen parts need replacing. There’s filing, copying, answering phones, and other normal tasks.”

  “It sounds like ordinary office work. How are Lester and Opal?”

  I rotated off the chocolate cookie top and took a bite, hoping unattractive, dark goo wouldn’t stain my teeth and lodge along my gums. I swiped my tongue over my front teeth before answering. “Lester can be very nice, especially when it’s to his advantage.”

  When realizing I’d made a derogatory remark about Lester, I caught a cookie crumb with my tongue and backtracked. “Sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. I’ve already described him physically, which by the way, hasn’t changed. I might get lung cancer from all his cigarette smoking.”

  “Yuck.”

  “Opal still swishes.”

  A. Wellborn raised a questioning eyebrow. “Really? Maybe she should go on a diet.”

  “Ha. Not going to happen. She hides candy bars in her desk drawer and eats when no one is looking. Only, I see her. I guess she thinks swishing is an attribute. And she still wears bullet-proof polyester clothes. You know the kind?”

  His head made a no.

  “Bullet-proof polyester is a very thick, double-knit, wash-and-wear fabric, waaayy out of style. No ironing is required. It’s so hot, you’d think she would dissolve.” I could say other things, but I didn’t want to sound like a whiner. “Opal leaves me alone, but I always feel creeped out, like she’s watching what I do. It’s a-a hovering feeling, one hanging over my shoulder even when she isn’t in.”

  I twisted off another cookie top and licked the filling. “I don’t know. Maybe she’s waiting for me to make a mistake. She’s such a perfectionist. I ask her about complicated claims, and she helps me with those. She offers to assist if I’m overloaded, but it hasn’t been an issue—yet. I must be more capable than I look.”

  His lips twisted a fraction. “They sound spooky.”

  “They might be.” After I popped half the cookie top in my mouth, I chewed, then swallowed. Most excellent. “I suppose I’m used to people like myself and my friends, and not used to people like Lester and Opal. At Tuckers, we dressed and worked differently because the clothing industry is poles apart from the insurance business, not attracting the same kind of employee.

  “Lester and Opal take their jobs seriously. I’m not saying I didn’t take my job seriously at the store. I did. I enjoyed the working environment at Tuckers more. It’s what I’d always wanted to do. Lester and Opal have a life-and-death dedication which seems unusual, but probably typical for people passing middle age.

  “Anyway, Lester has been employed by B.R.A. for thirty years. He looks old enough for retirement, although he hasn’t said anything. He has a grown son who looks to have ten-plus years on me. When I saw a family picture on Lester’s desk, I asked him who everyone was.

  “Opal has been Lester’s Executive Assistant for a long time. One day, she said something about eight years. I tuned her out. Sounded as if she has been with Buy Rite long enough for tenure. Nowadays, eight years of service with any company is quite remarkable.” I paused and scratched my temple.

  He cocked his head. “Something else?”

  “I think I need milk.”

  A. Wellborn went to the kitchen where he poured two short glasses of two percent, perfect for dunking. He returned, handing me one. Most men would pass me a beer, but not this hunky one. I took a long drink.

  He said, “You were trying to remember something else about Buy Rite.”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure.” My brow furrowed while thinking about the oddities of my co-workers. “If I don’t remember, it isn’t important.”

  “Sure, it is. Tell me.”

  I watched him gulp deeply from his glass before replying. Was I the only person in the world who thought a man drinking milk looked sexy? Or maybe everything about him looked sexy.

  Breaking a cookie in half, I said, “I thought it weird Lester and Opal took a long time hiring a replacement after my predecessor passed. The paperwork shouldn’t sit around and collect. If the stuff isn’t processed properly, it takes longer for a check
to be produced.

  “The clients inquire as to the claim’s status. They get irate, and probably will take their business elsewhere if the complaints aren’t fixed because in the long run, the claims business is about customer service and satisfaction. Could Opal and Lester have worked overtime to process the claims or maybe they had other temporary help—who knows? They never said, and I never asked.”

  “Are the customers dissatisfied?” he asked.

  I waved my half treat in a negative. “Not really. We get a few complaints. I mean the stolen parts people are having trouble getting checks on time, just like me. Sometimes, the customers grumble about their settlement check, saying the amount should be more.” All the talk about stolen cars made a thought in my head ding. I changed the subject. “By the way, my claim is handled through B.R.A. I accidentally found the file the other day. Nothing odd there. I asked Opal, and she said the check is in the mail.”

  He nodded.

  “Still, Ms. Pamela Morris has waited a long time. Her car door had been stolen, and we talked about how much we love our vehicles.”

  “You spoke with Ms. Morris about her car?”

  He sure does ask a lot of questions. “Of course. Every day I cover the phones precisely at noon when Opal goes to lunch. Ms. Morris makes her personal calls at lunchtime. We’ve had lengthy discussions about how long it’s taking for her to get her check. Why do you ask?”

  His finger ran along the rim of his glass. “What do you do when a customer hasn’t received a check?”

  “I told Ms. Morris I would track her check and determine if it’s in the snail mail. I specifically asked Opal when she returned from lunch, showing her the message. I explained Ms. Morris really wanted to get her car repaired before she travels to China to adopt her baby girl. She’ll need it fixed for when she returns.”

  “So, she’s adopting a baby.”

  “Yes. She can’t drive a child around in a car without a door. It has to be fixed, which makes sense.”

  “How many times has Ms. Morris called?”

  “I would say three.”

  “Always at lunch?”