by Tina Martin
When I’m home, I fix up a salad – nothing fancy. Tomatoes, lettuce, some shredded cheese and ranch dressing. I watch thirty minutes of TV while I eat and as I’m finishing up my dinner, my mother calls. Two calls from her in two days. It’s a new record. I’m sure she’s not calling to see how I’m doing. It’s always something about my stepfather – the man I refer to as her husband – Webster Gregory – a name I wish I could erase from my memory bank.
I’m not in the mood to talk to her so I let it go to voicemail. I’m sure she won’t leave one. She hates leaving messages. She’d prefer to talk to me – to torture me in real time. Unfortunately, I don’t prefer to talk to her.
I use what little daylight I have left to go outside and check on my flowers. My babies. Screw Montgomery and his yard! I have a yard of my own – one that I’m very proud of. I have marigolds (yellow and orange), zinnias, hydrangeas, tulips, hostas, petunias – there’s a wide variety, all with healthy blooms. It’s a hummingbird’s paradise.
I pluck off dead leaves and water all the plants and when I’m done outside, I go straight for the bathroom. It’s seven-thirty. I have just enough time to shower and get ready for bed.
I don’t know why I’m going to bed at eight when I have plans to call out of work tomorrow. I’ve never called out of work like this before, but I’m not changing my mind. There will be no change of heart in the morning. I’m not going to be Montgomery’s superwoman tomorrow. So, I don’t set my alarm. I’ll get up when I get up.
For now, though, I just lie here, entangled in covers with a lot on my mind. I try to decide what day I want to call my mother back. I ponder over what she has to tell me this time about her husband. I think about how much torture I had to endure in that house when I was growing up. Living in dysfunction. And then I think about my Aunt Jolene – the woman who rescued me. I was on a downward spiral before she took me in, gave me this place as a safe haven. Now, she’s gone.
I sigh and close my eyes, drifting off to sleep when I hear Montgomery’s demanding voice echo loud in my head saying, “GET OUT OF THOSE FLOWERS!”
My eyes fly open in a panic and I sit straight up in the center of my bed. My heart is thumping faster than I can breathe. My pulse races. A cold chill takes over my entire body. Is this man in my house?
I flick on the lamp and look to the right and left to make sure he’s not in my bedroom. There’s no one here, but the voice was so clear and vivid, it has me shook. I ease off the bed, grab the baseball bat I keep next to the door and tiptoe down the hallway toward the living room. I check the kitchen. I double and triple check the locks on the doors, and then I’m finally able to calm myself down. No one’s here and I’m losing my freakin’ mind.
Relieved, I lower the bat, grab a bottle of water and return to my bedroom. I lock the door – I usually lock my bedroom door at night even though I’m the only one who lives here – then I move the bat closer to the bed beside the nightstand.
Montgomery St. Claire is going to be the death of me.
Now, I can’t sleep because when I close my eyes, I see his face. Before, that was a good thing. I used to have dreams about him and that handsome face of his. That was when I first started working for him – when I didn’t know any better and thought he was a normal, down-to-earth kind of guy. Even after discovering he was the exact opposite, I still made excuses for him. Like, maybe it was the pressure of his job that had him throwing papers and yelling at people. It’s a lot to run such a huge organization and handle large quantities of money. He projects self-confidence and has everyone thinking he has it all together, but what if he really doesn’t? We all have our struggles, right? I often wonder what his are. What makes such a handsome, beautiful soul come across as so broken?
Chapter Eight
Monty
I slap the alarm to silence it and prepare to start my Friday. I shower, brush my teeth, rake my fingers through my hair, a reminder that I need a cut – then I head over to the closet noticing right away there’s no suit laid out for me. No shoes, no socks, no necktie, no cufflinks. Nothing.
Either Cherish isn’t here, or she’s doing this to spite me since I’ve banned her from the flower garden. I take a step back into the bedroom. I walked right by a minute ago and didn’t realize the bed was unmade. My slippers are still beside them. The water bottle I had last night remains on the nightstand. So does the cufflinks and my Rolex. Cherish hasn’t done her job this morning.
I smirk. “Okay, so you wanna play dirty, huh, flower girl?”
Little does she know it’s nothing to me. I don’t care what she does or what special talent she thinks she possesses. Everyone is replaceable. Everyone, especially a girl with no college education who makes beds and run errands for a living.
I return to the closet and pick out my own clothes – a black suit, black shirt, black tie, black shoes. I have a feeling I’ll be in a dark mood today. May as well dress for the occasion.
I go straight to my office downstairs and notice right away I don’t have coffee. I keep walking, heading for the kitchen where no coffee is being made. Nothing is being done, actually.
“Naomi! Where are you?”
Now, I’m frustrated. I don’t know where the coffee is stored. When I see Minnie walk into the kitchen, I ask her, “Where’s Naomi?”
She pulls white earplugs from her ears and says, “Sorry, Sir. Did you need something?”
“Naomi—where is she? Is she late?”
“No, Sir. Naomi doesn’t get in until 6:30 a.m.”
“Six-thirty? Are you sure about that, Minnie?” I ask, frowning.
“Yes, Sir. Every morning she’s here at 6:30 give or take a few minutes.”
“Then who makes the coffee before she gets here? I always have coffee on my desk. This morning, there’s nothing.”
“Oh. Cherish usually takes care of that, Sir.”
“Cherish?” I glare at her, offering her my rage since she’s the only one here to receive it.
“Yes, Sir.”
“And where is Cherish?”
“I’m not sure, Sir.”
“Right. Okay, well you make me some coffee until Naomi gets in.”
“Yes, Sir,” she says.
“And bring a cup to my office. Do you know where my office is?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“What do you mean you think so? Don’t you do the cleaning around here?”
“Yes, Sir, but not for you. I do the common areas and your mother’s residence. I don’t have access to your residence.”
“You do today. I’ll leave the entrance unlocked.”
I walk away from her – retreat back to my office where I put in a few phone calls about components I need to tweak the taser design. Minnie walks in with a mug a few minutes later. Her hand is shaking so bad, I fear she’ll spill coffee all over my desk, so I get up and meet her halfway.
“Sorry. I’m a little nervous.”
“I can see that. Hey, before you go, tell me something. If you don’t clean my office, who does? Isidora?”
“No, Sir. Cherish cleans your office. She pretty much does everything for you.”
“What does everything entail?”
“Um, everything involving your residence she cleans and organizes—your bathrooms, closets. She arranges for your cars to be washed once a week even though you don’t drive them most days. She prepares a menu for you. Like I said she does everything that concerns you.”
“And how does working in flower gardens concern me?”
“Oh,” she smiles. “Cherish loves flowers, Sir. You should see her front yard.”
“I didn’t ask you about her yard. I asked about mine. How does working in a flower garden concern me?”
She looks conflicted for a moment then says, “Cherish once told me you stand at your window a lot. Said she wanted to make your view as bright and beautiful as possible. Said flowers make her happy and she was hoping they’d do the same for you.”
Now, I’m frow
ning. “She actually said that?”
“Yes, Sir. She only gardens on your side of the house…just to give you a good view.”
I take a sip of coffee and shoo Minnie out of my office. When she’s gone, I walk over to the window and look out into the yard. I see all the flowers Cherish has planted. But I’m curious now – I have to see the whole yard to verify Minnie’s story. I step outside. The grass is still wet with dew but that doesn’t deter me from doing a full lap of the yard. By the time I’m back around to the west entrance, the bottom of my pant legs are wet but I have my answer. None of the other flower beds are as detailed and beautiful as the ones on the west side of the house. Cherish was actually doing something thoughtful for me and I made her stop.
I run upstairs to change suits and when I’m back down, I realize Naomi is here. I can hear her cackling again. When I step into the kitchen, she immediately stops laughing.
“Good morning, Sir,” she says.
“Where’s Cherish?”
“Uh…I don’t know. You might want to check with Mrs. Sylvia.”
“You haven’t spoken to Cherish today?”
“No, Sir. I’m just gettin’ in myself—‘bout to get started on your breakfast.”
“Don’t bother.”
“You don’t want no breakfast, Sir?”
“No,” I tell her, then leave the kitchen, heading for my mother’s residence. Once inside, I go straight to her office. I’m not blind to the fact that she’s on the phone. I just don’t care.
“Where’s my assistant today?” I ask.
“Um, I’m going to have to call you back,” she tells whoever it is she’s talking to, then hangs up. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Where’s my assistant?” I ask again.
“Cherish is out today.”
“How do you know that?”
“She called me this morning?”
“She called you?” I ask, livid. “She’s my assistant and she called you?”
“You think she wants to call you? Nobody wants to call you, son.” She shakes her head. “You just don’t get it.”
“Why is my assistant calling you?”
“Because she works for me in case you forgot. I hired Cherish—not you.”
“What was her reason for not coming to work?”
“What does it matter? She’s off. She has plenty of vacation days and personal leave time if that’s what you’re concerned about. Seeing as though the girl never takes any time off, she probably has about five weeks worth of time by now.”
“That didn’t answer my question.”
She looks at me with utter disgust and annoyance clouding her features, she says, “I don’t know why she’s off, Monty. Maybe she had some other business to attend to. Or maybe she’s just tired of your bull and finally couldn’t take it anymore. She’s probably looking for another job like everybody else around here.”
“I’m not going to listen to your insults. I’ll find out for myself. Thanks for nothing.”
I go back to my office, take the keys to Porsche and fire her up, revving the engine. I release the garage door, hit the button to close it back and speed down the long, paved, winding driveway to get to the street. I’m so angry, I can see red and I don’t know why. Don’t know why I allow myself to get this furious over trivial matters. I have no claim over Cherish or what she does with her time. She has every right to call out of work if she wants to, but like a madman, I take offense. I see her absence as retaliation because I banned her from the flowers.
I merge onto the ramp to I-85 South toward Charlotte but I pull over for a moment because my heart is racing. That’s not common for me. The last time I felt anything close to it was when I attended my father’s funeral. I hold my head and try to get control of myself but it’s not working. I feel like I’m losing it. Like a person who shouldn’t be driving right now.
The anger building up in my chest encourages me to proceed – to drive to her house and let her know who’s the boss since she’s obviously forgotten. The five percent rational side of myself tries to make me turn around. To go home and apologize to my mother. To make up for all the wrongs I’ve done. To use this tightrope I’m walking on as a starting point – a change for the better. To show people that beneath the businessman persona and all the anger, I’m really a good person.
But in the battle between good and bad, bad is winning. My head hurts. I don’t want to go home. I want to check this girl. Put her in her place and find out why she took the day off. When I’ve accomplished that, then my brain will allow me to continue on with work.
I check the mirrors and start the drive to her house again. I’m on I-85, doing eighty-five even though the speed limit is sixty-five. When a car passes me like I’m going slow, I increase my speed to ninety-five. Pass ‘em back. Now, I’m pushing a hundred, weaving in and out of traffic, crossing white lines, passing eighteen wheelers, and dump trucks. When I see the exit for Mallard Creek Road, I floor it and float across three lanes of traffic. When I go for the exit, a pickup truck cuts me off, merges right in front of me. I slam on the brakes. My tires squeal. The car fishtails then goes crazy, sending me back across the lanes opposite of the exit and then—
Chapter Nine
Cherish
I should’ve done this a long time ago…
It felt so good to sleep in. I haven’t had a good, solid night’s sleep like that in years. This morning, I got up at nine. Not three. Nine. The sun was already blazing outside. A lukewarm breeze fanned through the thin columns of the porch giving me a pleasant morning to sit on the porch swing and eat a bowl of cereal. I waved at my neighbor – Ms. Kettleworth – who’s always breaking her wrinkly old neck, looking over here like I’m her daily dose of entertainment. White lady. Her name should be Ms. Meddleworth as much as she stays in my business. She can’t help it though. Some people are just naturally nosy. She doesn’t mean any harm.
She has a head of gray hair – looks like she slicks it back with baby oil. It removes whatever little body she has in her weak strands. She used to smoke (quit about two years ago) so her skin is decorated with blotches of brown and beige. Her clothes are always sprinkled with cat hair. Even with her dentures in, she pronounces my name Sherrish as if she never learned the letters ‘C’ and ‘H’ in the word cherish makes a ‘cha’ sound.
She knows my schedule so she came over to ask me what I was doing home. I filled her in on my life for a few minutes, before watering my flowers. Then I came back inside and spruced up the place. I swept and mopped my own floors for a change. I vacuumed. Dusted. It was sort of like being at work, minus the bad vibes. I was totally relaxed and at peace.
Around noon, I settle on the couch with a ham and cheese sandwich. It’s interesting what a day off work has done for me. I feel like myself again. Carefree and at ease. There’s nothing I can’t do or accomplish. Believe it or not, I actually consider calling my mother back. I reach for the phone while the midday news plays in the background. I press Belinda Gregory’s name in my contact list and the phone rings. While I wait for her to answer, a BREAKING NEWS headline flashes across the TV screen:
I-85 South shut down because of a one-car accident. All lanes are closed.
A news chopper is showing an aerial view of the scene. There’s an overturned vehicle near the cement barrier. It looks bad. Traffic is backed up for miles. Looks like the car is smoking. It’s about to catch on fire or still smoldering from a fire that had been put out already. I immediately begin to feel sorry for whoever was driving because they couldn’t have survived that.
I hang up the phone when mother doesn’t answer. She’s probably at work. She works part-time as a receptionist at a dentist office. I refuse to dial her work number. The last time I did that, she nearly had a stroke. Talkin’ ‘bout she could get in trouble for taking personal calls on the company’s phone.
I grab the remote to turn up the volume. The helicopter is still circling the crash scene while the news anchor gives the
play-by-play of what’s happening. Says this is a single-car accident. Police are investigating what exactly happened. Witnesses say the driver was speeding and lost control. About three state troopers with flashing blue lights on their cruisers have all lanes of traffic blocked. There are two firetrucks. An ambulance is beginning to drive away.
The anchor then says, “If you’re just joining us, we have breaking news on I-85 at the Mallard Creek Exit. There’s been a single-car accident that currently has all southbound lanes shut down. Police are beginning to divert traffic to the shoulder and around the scene. You will want to avoid this area for at least the next hour or so as traffic is backed up for miles.”
Another reporter chimes in, “We just received word that the driver is thirty-three-year-old Montgomery St. Claire of Concord. He’s being transported to Atrium Hospital in University City. We do not know his condition at this time.”
My heart stops.
I didn’t just hear what I think I did, did I? Couldn’t have. My mind is playing tricks on me. My hands won’t stop shaking. I grab the remote, press rewind and replay the last thirty seconds. I listen intently this time:
“…received word that the driver is thirty-three-year-old Montgomery St. Claire of Concord.”
“No. No. Not Montgomery. No…”
I can’t breathe.
Can’t think.
Can’t blink.
And I can’t stand up straight without falling over.
This is Montgomery’s car that’s crushed to a potato chip and flipped upside down on the highway? That’s smoldering? That has all lanes blocked? That was him in the back of that ambulance? It can’t be.
My hands are still trembling. My heart is about to jump out of my chest. This ruthless man who’s made my life unbearable for the past two days is also the man I’ve secretly adored and admired for two years. The mean things he’s done to me has no bearing on me in this moment. I’m truly concerned for him.