Mark of the Two-Edged Sword

by K A Bryant

  "Mr. Secretary, I owe you an apology. Especially for the mention of your wife. I was out of line. I lost my mother to cancer. Don't know what I would do if someone brought her up that way. Anyway, I'm just a desk jockey that was trying too hard to do my job. Do you forgive me?"

  I know he's relieved. He'll relax. His eyes have a creased squint in the corners as if they are always smiling. His mouth shows what he really feels. It's turned down. His gray moustache and beard perfectly trimmed frame it. He reaches for his cane. Even I'm shocked. Fritags. He goes for a club turkey and cheese. The whole room is watching him eat. Is this some sort of punishment?

  "I'm disappointed," he says, then takes a bite and chews. Slowly. A sip of water and he clears his throat and speaks.

  "Today, I wanted evidence. Evidence that I was leaving this department ready for what lies ahead. This country is at war. We are one attack away from a code orange. You all are the front line of Defence. You are a weak man, Jason. I had hope for you in the beginning. You drove strong. But when you yielded, you dropped the ball. No one — no one can be above the law. What if I was disgruntled with the President? Knowledge of the ins and outs. You're his front line of defence. It's YOUR job to find the hate, the bitter, the glitch. You buckled. Telling me about your mother dying. No one gets that! Not from a United States Agent. Men died in my arms and everything I do is to keep that from happening again somewhere else in this world. So, I apologize to you. Because somewhere, somehow, I failed to do my job.”

  His eyes trace over everyone in the room.

  "So..." He wipes his mouth with the cloth napkin. Stands, braced on his cane, tugs his suit jacket downward and walks toward the door, then turns, facing everyone. "I apologize to you. All of you."

  Wilkes raises his tone. "Director White, I will issue a statement regarding the BST-10 Project so you can tie up your ends. I'm no threat to this nation or the President. I love it like I loved my wife. You see, loyalty is steady."

  My cell phone rings in the case we all deposited our phones into. I can tell by the ring tone. I open the case and look at it. Oh, perfect. I will take it.

  "No need to apologize, Mr. Secretary," I say to him as he turns away from us heading toward the door.

  "Hello Mom."

  Yes. I lied. He stops, turns his head slightly to the right, huffs, and leaves. The automatic glass doors shut behind him but I get a feeling that I will see him again.

  "No, Mom, I won't forget the milk."

  I hang up the phone. White comes out of the glass room with a sea of faces staring through the door. Benjamin picks up the last file I read out loud to Wilkes.

  "You tried it," Benjamin says, looking at the open file.

  "Blank!" Leave it to Phil to be dramatically outraged. "You are unbelievable. What if-?"

  "He didn't. Do you know why? Because he wasn't surprised by the statement. Know why?"

  Benjamin fills in. "Because there were practices that were unethical."

  "Exactly."

  Benjamin is expressionless. I expected that. But, why is Phil's lip almost bit to bleeding? He is unusually flustered. What is it? Is he scared of the Secretary of Defence? Or is he involved? Time will tell.

  "That," Phil points to the blank piece of paper, "is unethical."

  Benjamin writes a note, shuts his file. Phil can't spin his ring much more before it burns into his finger. The swinging paneled door opens and Director White’s hand is on her hip. Her smart black pant suit is the perfect color for the moment. Secretary of Defence told the truth about one thing, Fritags' ham and swiss is great. I put another one on my plate. I was hoping to fly home tonight but from the sounds of the storm outside, flights are probably still grounded.

  "Director White, shall I go back to my office or back on... vacation?"

  White’s arms are crossed. She knows as well as I do that my report, littered with the multiple times she attempted to dissuade me from asking the tough questions, will not read well for her. In this respect, her positional insecurity serves me. She'll just have to go back to her office and pop one of those pills she has in her pocket that she thinks no one knows about. If her trousers were a half a size larger, they would hide their lumpy outline. Her silence was my cue to exit and go to the office.

  I was right to make that call. It is time.

  I hate that clock. Not sure how long it's been going off. Funny how we keep things around just because they're there. My head is throbbing, that's not unusual. Why can't I see? This isn't right. Something fell. Was that the lamp? I'm in bed. I can hear the squeak. Maybe if I push my hair backward I'll be able— Nope. Wait. The last thing I remember was being grabbed.

  I need to see. I need to know if I'm really in my bed. Am I a hostage? That's a viable possibility. Maybe it was just a dream. Even worse, maybe I'm still in my dream. It's happened before. In the past, I dreamed that I've woken up from a dream. Only one way to find out.

  Sitting up, I grab the bottom of my shirt and rub my eyes with it. Relief. I'm not blind. Things are blurry but I can see. Okay, I am in my room. I am not dreaming. But, how did I get here? I know I was taken. I felt it. But, why would they let me go?

  No boots. I need to see. The water feels good on my face. I can see. A little blurry but it's probably the headache. My head. I hit it on the floor of the van. Nothing there, not a drop of blood, scratch. Not even a tender spot. It felt so real. Was it just a drunken dream or my own mind trying to make me feel more important than I am. Who would take a broke drunk? Then, take all the trouble of putting him back in his room. I hope they took the eviction notice.

  Here comes my reality. I am the crack in the mirror. They didn't keep me. No one would have need to.

  "Shut that thing up!"

  I'm amazed she took time out from yelling at her husband to yell at my clock. I slam my hand down on it. It turns off. The room is cold. Nothing odd there. Everything is where it usually is. My clothes, laid across the back of the chair. My boots, at the side of the bed. Is that the time? Work. I need aspirin and a shower. Pulling the drawer open the aspirin is where it always is. Where are my keys?

  They wouldn't know how I put my things away, where I put my keys. Typical men put their keys in their pocket. Jeans pocket where it can't fall out. I don't. I never do. If they took me. That's where they'd be.

  Not in there. I tug the drawer again and the keys slide forward exactly in the spot they are usually placed. Strange. I almost feel disappointed. Only a truly lonely person like me would feel disappointed at not having been important enough to be kidnapped.

  Dressed, and full of aspirin, I lock the door behind me. I feel the buzz. Sunglasses, cheap ones even work when you've got a hangover the size of New Jersey. The hall prostitute isn't there. She must have had quite a night too. I look half decent in my man pony tail and combed beard. Lou told me I look twenty years older with all this hair but I figure, why bother? Razors, shaving every day, it makes no difference. No one spoke to me more or less with or without it.

  I hold my breath going down the urine scented stairwell.

  "Caleb. Today by 6:00. Or else." Pointing to a new box of black garbage bags.

  "I got you, Jerry."

  "Yeah, right."

  That metal plate on the door clicks and I get an eye-opening blast of cold air. I hate to do it, but I'm going to have to ask Lou for an advance. If he collected, I'd be an indentured servant. He never takes the money out of my checks. I only asked once before a year ago. I got a solid two blocks before... Rachel.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Caleb Promise

  I hate that clock. Not sure how long it's been going off. Funny how we keep things around just because they're there. My head is throbbing, that's not unusual. Why can't I see? This isn't right. Something fell. Was that the lamp? I'm in bed. I can hear the squeak. Maybe if I push my hair backward I'll be able— Nope. Wait. The last thing I remember was being grabbed.

  I need to see. I need to know if I'm really in my bed. Am I a hostage? That's
a viable possibility. Maybe it was just a dream. Even worse, maybe I'm still in my dream. It's happened before. In the past, I dreamed that I've woken up from a dream. Only one way to find out.

  Sitting up, I grab the bottom of my shirt and rub my eyes with it. Relief. I'm not blind. Things are blurry but I can see. Okay, I am in my room. I am not dreaming. But, how did I get here? I know I was taken. I felt it. But, why would they let me go?

  No boots. I need to see. The water feels good on my face. I can see. A little blurry but it's probably the headache. My head. I hit it on the floor of the van. Nothing there, not a drop of blood, scratch. Not even a tender spot. It felt so real. Was it just a drunken dream or my own mind trying to make me feel more important than I am. Who would take a broke drunk? Then, take all the trouble of putting him back in his room. I hope they took the eviction notice.

  Here comes my reality. I am the crack in the mirror. They didn't keep me. No one would have need to.

  "Shut that thing up!"

  I'm amazed she took time out from yelling at her husband to yell at my clock. I slam my hand down on it. It turns off. The room is cold. Nothing odd there. Everything is where it usually is. My clothes, laid across the back of the chair. My boots, at the side of the bed. Is that the time? Work. I need aspirin and a shower. Pulling the drawer open the aspirin is where it always is. Where are my keys?

  They wouldn't know how I put my things away, where I put my keys. Typical men put their keys in their pocket. Jeans pocket where it can't fall out. I don't. I never do. If they took me. That's where they'd be.

  Not in there. I tug the drawer again and the keys slide forward exactly in the spot they are usually placed. Strange. I almost feel disappointed. Only a truly lonely person like me would feel disappointed at not having been important enough to be kidnapped.

  Dressed, and full of aspirin, I lock the door behind me. I feel the buzz. Sunglasses, cheap ones even work when you've got a hangover the size of New Jersey. The hall prostitute isn't there. She must have had quite a night too. I look half decent in my man pony tail and combed beard. Lou told me I look twenty years older with all this hair but I figure, why bother? Razors, shaving every day, it makes no difference. No one spoke to me more or less with or without it.

  I hold my breath going down the urine scented stairwell.

  "Caleb. Today by 6:00. Or else." Pointing to a new box of black garbage bags.

  "I got you, Jerry."

  "Yeah, right."

  That metal plate on the door clicks and I get an eye-opening blast of cold air. I hate to do it, but I'm going to have to ask Lou for an advance. If he collected, I'd be an indentured servant. He never takes the money out of my checks. I only asked once before a year ago. I got a solid two blocks before... Rachel.

  "Hey, Caleb."

  Why is she always so happy? She greets me like we're a couple that share a kid together or something. I don't lead her on but she's just as nice every time.

  "Rachel, hi."

  "In a rush?"

  "Ah, yes. You know, work."

  Wrapping her knit sweater around herself tightly. Small talk. Make small talk. That's what I would do.

  "Flowers look good."

  "Thanks. I got a new shipment this morning. You know me, if it blooms, I've got it."

  Did she just hit me with a sales pitch. Do I look like the kind of guy that buys flowers. Maybe before, but that was a long time ago.

  "Yeah, they’re nice."

  The wind has died down but the cold seems more frigid. We are both squinting.

  "Hey, how about dinner tonight?"

  No.

  "I'd like to but I think I'm doing a double shift."

  I'm lying and I think she knows it so why does she look down but keeps smiling? Maybe she remembers that's the excuse I gave the last three times.

  "Next time, okay? You know where I am."

  She points to the window above the flower shop.

  "Caleb, if you need anything, ever, just let me know, okay?"

  Walking backward a few steps.

  "Thanks. See ya."

  For the first time, I'm glad to be at work. Inside from the cold. The glance from Tina, the hostess, warns me there's a storm brewing in the back that is probably about me. Liz isn't on the floor. I hate her. No, I hate all she takes for granted. She's got everything. I'm not talking about the fact that she's rich, she has her parents. The other bus boy gives me a warning.

  "Before you go back there, soldier-up."

  I can hear Lou coughing while her nasal voice rings through the kitchen. I shut my locker quietly and tie my black apron on. It's not exactly an employee break room. A row of rusty twenty year old lockers on a wall and employee only bathroom.

  Turning the corner, I can hear them. The entire kitchen can hear them.

  "Lou, the fact is Caleb is a drunk! He hangs out all night-"

  I step right into it. Let’s get this over with.

  "What I do after work is MY business."

  She rolls her eyes and shoves her hands into her apron pockets.

  "Speak of the devil."

  "No. We're not talking about your daddy, Liz."

  Yeah, I said it. Her face can't get any redder. I needed to draw her attitude to me and off of Lou. He doesn't look good. Of course she's oblivious to that. This needs to end fast.

  "Immature idiot! See." She points at me with an open hand. "This is exactly what I'm talking about. He strolls in here late, looking like a billy goat and no one says anything to him but Scott gets fired. For what?"

  Lou coughs and manages to respond to her.

  "That's between me and Scott."

  Lou's raspy voice is troubling. His black land line phone rings. It's an old dial phone. He just can't let the past go. 'Some things should take time,’ he told me when dialing the circular dial when making a phone call. He answers the phone.

  "Lou here. What? Yeah, I got that, hang on."

  He fishes around on the desk and I put my back to the doorway blocking Lou's view. I lean in toward Liz.

  "You can come at me all day. I don't care, but Lou doesn't need this right now. Open your eyes, Liz. He's not doing well."

  "He's the boss. He asked for the job so he should do it and do it right. I see a dozen code violations and quite frankly, one phone call can end this debacle."

  That was low even for her. I couldn't help but rear my head back and look confused. What would she gain? Ah. Of course.

  "Earn your little legal street credit somewhere else. He gave you a job-"

  "He gave me a job because of my dad. He's not mother Theresa."

  "What do you want?"

  "You, gone."

  "Or?"

  Glancing over my shoulder I can see Lou still on the phone. He closes a file.

  "I've got the health inspector on speed dial."

  I want to punch her square in the face. Haul off and nail her one good one. Not for me. For him. He's a fair guy. He works this diner day and night to leave it for his kids who don't even call him anymore. But, because of my mother who taught me better, I won't. For Lou, I won't.

  "Really."

  I hear Lou go into a coughing fit and his pill bottle rattle.

  "Really, Caleb. Today."

  "Fine."

  Surprised, her eyes widen and for a split second I think her human kindness kicks in. Then my hope smashes. A smug glow falls on her face and she crosses her arms in satisfaction.

  "Just so you know, Scott got fired because Lou caught him stealing tips. Your tips. I do this my way. Walk away."

  Even she knows I'll keep my word. I may not have money, but I do have my integrity. Lou's chair screeches as he turns toward the doorway seeing Liz walk away.

  "Don't worry about her, kid, I can manage her."

  This wooden chair is more comfortable than it looks. I've sat in it many times after work and just talked to Lou.

  "No, no need for that."

  "You look terrible. Caleb, that bottle sucks the life out of
you, I told you-"

  "You don't look so hot yourself."

  There's a hospital identification band on the desk, freshly cut off. "Yeah. They changed my prescription again."

  "You need to rest, Lou. Joe can keep an eye on things."

  "Joe’s butt is glued to that stool. That's where he belongs. This is where I belong."

  The office is nestled behind the kitchen. No windows, stacked with papers.

  "I just came in to tell you something. I got another job."

  He's smart. He looks at me from head to toe.

  "You came in to tell me that. Where?"