“And it has been,” he answered impatiently. “You can have your old job back, if you want. I could use you both. But this other opportunity is certainly worth considering.”
“Yes, certainly,” she answered coldly.
After thanking him perfunctorily, she stood and returned to the desk that held the coffeepot. Computer programmer? What made him think that was what she wanted to do? Be reasonable, she told herself. It has nothing to do with you. He just wants to keep Lucy on, and you’re in the way. And Lucy, the conniving bitch—how convenient of her to get kicked out of the house right then. Well, she wasn’t going into that trainee course. Why make it easy for them? Let him try and convince his management that he needed two secretaries.
She checked her watch. Lucy was fifteen minutes late.
Before a phone could start ringing, Cheryl grabbed the straps of her purse and walked down to the ladies’ room. She went into a stall, pulled down her panty hose, and stared at her white unstained panties. Her period was three weeks late and showed no evidence of coming. Stress! She knew it was just stress. But this weekend she had even been afraid to take the aspirin Richard offered her. And she certainly couldn’t take the job that Derrigo mentioned. She was going to have to fight for what was hers. As soon as Lucy made an appearance, she would force her to switch desks.
Lucy arrived, bearing a pink, brown, and white box. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she hollered in to Mr. Derrigo, then, displaying the box of doughnuts, said, “I thought we’d celebrate Cheryl’s return.”
Cheryl refused a glazed doughnut with a curt “I’m dieting.”
“Really?” Lucy acted amazed. “You look like you’ve lost a lot of weight.”
Cheryl wasn’t taken in by her. Anybody who dressed like Lucy couldn’t speak the truth. The girl had on skintight black slacks, a white sleeveless blouse with a frilly yoke that dipped low in the back, and stiletto heels. The summer sun had bronzed her, and to highlight her tan, she had taken to wearing gold glitter eyeshadow and a peach shade of makeup.
While she was in Derrigo’s office tempting him with a doughnut, a phone started ringing. Cheryl pushed in the call button.
“I’ll get it,” Lucy trilled, and with three quick strides she was out of Derrigo’s office, leaning over the ledge, and taking a message with one of her purple felt-tips.
Cheryl had nothing to do. She poured herself a cup of coffee. It would make her jittery. But she had every right to be jittery. Her job was in jeopardy.
Martha Austin appeared at Lucy’s desk to welcome Cheryl back. She took a doughnut and listened to Lucy prattle about her weekend.
“He came over for dinner on Saturday night,” Lucy said, keeping her voice none too low. Derrigo could easily hear her. If she was discussing boyfriends at the office, that must mean that she and Derrigo weren’t having an affair. He had to be keeping Lucy on for some other reason. But Cheryl didn’t have a clue as to what it could be.
“But the whole time he was over, all he did was watch my bed. I know it’s a studio and you can see my bed from everywhere, but he could have been more subtle about it. I don’t know—I just keep meeting the wrong kind of guy.”
Maybe it’s the way you dress, Cheryl hypothesized, as she silently drank her coffee.
“Was it like this when you were dating?”
“I’ve been married a long while,” Martha answered complacently.
Less than a year, and you pounded lots of pavement before you found that guy. God, I’m getting vicious, Cheryl decided. I have to do some work. But what? Raymond’s phone rang and she grabbed it, only to find she had to ask Lucy where he was.
“Belgium. He’ll be back next Tuesday.”
Cheryl was relieved to be on the premises for only half the day. She contemplated calling Richard, but it was too early. She didn’t want him to know how desperate she was feeling. When Martha disappeared, she asked Lucy, “Do you have anything I could do?” She expected to be handed a month’s worth of filing.
Lucy shuffled through the folders on her desk. “Most of it’s the yucky stuff I’ve been putting off—Xeroxing, filing.” Then brightening, she said, “Oh! Raymond left a tape. Want to do that? He’s not crazy for my typing.”
Cheryl put her hand out for the recorder and miniature Dictaphone tape, but Lucy was staring through the desk divider at the coffee maker. “Oh, gosh,” she wailed. “You’ve got all that coffee stuff on your desk. I’ll get a typing table to put it on.”
“It’s all right,” Cheryl assured her, but Lucy was already racing to the supply room.
Cheryl checked her watch and decided it might be an ideal time to phone Richard. He didn’t answer until the fifth ring and as soon as she heard his deep hello, Derrigo began to bellow “Lucy, Lucy!”
“Richard, I’m sorry. I’ve got to go.”
“It’s okay.”
She didn’t know how it could possibly be okay. Doubtless he had gotten to the phone with no little effort. But don’t let him get down on me, too, she silently prayed. I couldn’t take that right now.
Derrigo dumped a load of legal agreements into her arms. “This has got to go out to the Coast right away.” He didn’t appear to notice she wasn’t Lucy.
After she sent the papers Air Express, she began typing Raymond’s dictation. A speech he was outlining: “You may well ask how the determination to acquire Majestic Corporation was made. And that’s a valid question. At 107 million dollars, Majestic is the second largest acquisition in Software International’s history.”
Derrigo’s gray head appeared at her ledge. She removed the headphones and switched off the tape.
“Have lunch plans?”
“Not really.” She had intended to go home and eat with Richard. But Derrigo had never invited her for lunch before, not even on Secretary’s Day.
“Twelve o’clock okay? I drove in today.”
“I’ll follow you, ’cause I’m going home after.”
“It’s a date.”
Her face flushed. It was stupid to be flattered by his attention. He just viewed her as a convenient tool. But she knew that and was still flattered. I have no convictions, she thought. I can’t even maintain a grudge. When Lucy gave her a shy smile, she smiled back.
“Thanks for doing that tape.”
“I like typing.” She cursed herself for being so pleasant. Her mother would have known how to freeze out this hussy. But she didn’t even have the courage to demand her own desk back. “Are you going to be here for a few minutes?”
Lucy wrinkled her brow as if fielding a difficult question. “Yeah,” she finally replied.
“I want to call my husband.”
“Oh. I can disappear.”
“No. I’d rather you be here in case Mr. Derrigo needs something. I don’t want to hang up. My husband is in a wheelchair and it’s hard for him to get to the phone.”
“Boy, when you two said in sickness and in health, you really meant it.”
More like mutual desperation, Cheryl wanted to say. That’s what brought Richard and her together. And mutual effort would keep them together.
Richard answered on the first ring this time.
“Sitting by the phone?”
“Sort of. I’m baking a cake.”
She could visualize all the dangers of the oven. And there was his walking now, too. He would start at the stairwell, take ten lurching steps forward, then hop back into the wheelchair. He was determined to walk again. But he could fall so easily. Maybe lunching with Derrigo wasn’t such a good idea. “Mr. Derrigo invited me to lunch. But I don’t have to go.”
“No! Go!” He sounded anxious to get back to his baking.
There was no point in prolonging the conversation. “Be careful.”
He was enjoying his newfound privacy. There was no doubt of that. If only she could afford to work part-time, maybe that day-care center could be avoided. But part-time workers didn’t get any company benefits like insurance. She had to remain a full-time employee.
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When she pulled into the parking lot at O’Hara’s Café, Derrigo was pacing back and forth beside his Mercedes. He was also jingling the change in his pockets, the way he did before meetings with his superiors. He was nervous! That observation calmed her, and she took her time getting out of the car.
O’Hara’s was dimly lighted and well air-conditioned. Cheryl felt as if she had just entered an underground cave. Because she had difficulty seeing, Derrigo, a regular patron, led her to a table by an unlit fireplace. His behavior was puzzling. He wasn’t treating her like a date, but he wasn’t treating her like a secretary either. It wasn’t until they were through with their appetizers and he had ordered her a second drink that she figured it out. He was treating her like an equal—like another man.
“How did Stu feel about your coming back to work?”
It was blasphemous to let him refer to Richard by that name, but too dangerous to correct him. She was going to have to stick to a neutral he.
“Happy, I think. Even when I was home all the time, he liked me to get dressed up and go out. Then he liked me to come home with stories about what I did and saw. When he unpacks the groceries I buy, he even likes to hear about the supermarket.”
“That’s good. When Marge first went back to the nine-to-five world, I wasn’t very pleased. She talked about her job all the time. She wasn’t making all that much money, so I didn’t know why it was so important to us. But now I realize how important it is to her.”
She watched his stubby fingers fiddle with the unlit pipe. “And I’m beginning to enjoy doing some of the cooking—making my own breakfast, stuff like that.”
Welcome to the twentieth century, Cheryl thought as she nodded enthusiastically. “My husband enjoys cooking, too.” The drink was inducing euphoria, a calming state similar to the one she experienced after her monthly cramps ceased.
“It doesn’t sound like Stu would stand in your way if this job is something you want.”
“Oh, no,” she answered proudly. “He never would. He’s a big believer in figuring out what you want and going after it.”
“Then, is there anything to discuss?”
She knew he was manipulating her. But she thought about carrying an expensive briefcase and wearing well-tailored suits. The biggest plus would be having her own phone—one without call buttons. “I guess not. I guess I want to enroll in that class. Would I have my own office?”
“As soon as you pass the course, you’ll have your own office in the Applications Development Department. Sound good?”
She nodded like a happy child.
“In the month that’s left I hope you can help Lucy get up to speed. She’s a good kid, just a little rough around the edges.”
The coffee sobered Cheryl and her head began to ache. She had let him do it again. For the price of one lunch, he had gotten her off his payroll and into A.D.D. expenses. The man was no fool.
As she watched him fix his coffee with cream and two sugars, a comforting thought occurred to her. One more month and I’ll never have to fix his coffee again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“I hate you.” Richard only said it once. To have repeated the statement would have implied that he was out of control and hysterical. He was not, though Cheryl would probably have been gratified if he were.
“You don’t mean that,” she said calmly. “You’re upset.”
He stared at her coldly, and she backed into the corner by the silverware drawer. She was dressed for the first day of her class in a blue suit she had bought over the weekend. He had coaxed her into buying it. Then he had spent the rest of his weekend trying to build up her confidence. “If you want this badly enough, you can do it. You aren’t too old or too slow a learner. At least give it a chance.” And now with a few well-chosen words he intended to tear her to shreds.
“This is a fine time to tell me. Isn’t it? Now that a wheelchair service is coming in a few minutes. Day-care! You decided—no discussion, no nothing. You think you’re so important. The only reason you’re in this class is because your boss wanted to get rid of you. You fat, cowardly—”
She slapped his cheek. The resulting crack unnerved her. She leaned against the counter and began to sob.
He wasn’t moved, had no desire to comfort her, and was glad when the doorbell rang. Unfortunately the wheelchair service attendant backed him out of the house, so he had to continue staring at her.
“He’ll be okay,” the attendant told her cheerfully. “They always are, once they get there.”
There were three old people in the back of the van. He couldn’t see their faces, but he supposed their circumstances were similar to his own. Marriages were over, friends were gone.…
He had an opportunity to put an official end to the marriage right after he got to the West Side Center. A capable-looking woman in purple slacks and a coordinating tunic top shook his hand. “I’m Kay,” she said kindly, “and I’m sorry I didn’t get to come to your house and meet you. But we’ve been so busy with people going on vacation and sending their parents here. You are a little younger than most of our guests.”
Kay bent down and peered into his face. She was blonde, fairly young, and her perfume smelled like pine needles. “You’re getting a black eye.” She pushed him through the living room and into a cubicle-size kitchen. After giving him some ice, she asked, “How did it happen?” When he did not answer, she added, “Don’t be afraid to tell me. If someone is abusing you, there are things that can be done without jeopardizing your safety.”
It would be so easy. But he wanted Cheryl to be the one to end it legally. Let her call the lawyer, get the annulment, and find a place to send him. She was the one who had wrecked their marriage with her sneakiness. He shook his head firmly. “I am jus-s-t clum-ssy.” He spoke haltingly, as if making the sounds were difficult. He didn’t need her prying into his life right now.
The guests started their day at the West Side Center with warm-up exercises. The eight residents made a circle and bounced a multicolored beach ball to one another. He noticed that most of his companions wore sweaters. The center could have saved itself some money by turning off the air conditioner.
The ball only came Richard’s way once, and he obediently swatted it away. He saw no point in being hostile.
The only other male, an old guy in a gray cardigan, wasn’t participating at all. He paid no attention to the ball, just constantly mopped his eyes and blew his nose. As soon as the game was over, the man backed his wheelchair over by a window and Richard followed him.
The women moved to a long folding table where various Christmas crafts projects were in progress. A blue-jeaned aide approached him, probably to bring him over to that table, but Kay called her away.
Richard was grateful. He liked this spot. The sun was warm and he felt relieved that the glassy-eyed old man wouldn’t talk to him.
He wondered if Cheryl had gotten herself to the programming class. She had once told him that in all her years as a secretary she had never sat down in any of the men’s offices. What she did when talking was perch in the doorway, and if a professional came along, she immediately left even if in midsentence. Nobody should live like that. He hoped she was safely in her class.
This was the cruelest part. Though she had betrayed him by springing this day-care stuff, he was going to think about her—wherever he ended up. He was going to have to learn to live with his infirmity—and without Cheryl.
Kay came over to Richard’s neighbor, placed a hand on his forehead, and proclaimed, “Mr. McGrath, you’re a little feverish.” She quickly wheeled his chair away. The spot where he had been sitting was marked by a half circle of used Kleenex. When no one was looking, Richard grabbed one of the discarded tissues and pressed it to his mouth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Al hoped the pastor was hearing confessions. The confessional box was thickly curtained and fairly soundproof, so there was no way of finding out ahead. Once in there, it was too late.
> What would he do if it was that young priest? He broke out in a cold sweat just thinking about it. That guy would want to have a conversation afterward. How old are you? Working? Do you get out much with people? What made you feel bad enough to do such a thing?
He couldn’t stand that. The only way he could confess was to kneel in front of St. Theresa’s old pastor. You could mumble your sins to Monsignor Tarisi, then hightail it without fear that he’d try to get personal.
If only there was someone he could ask. A heavy woman in a shapeless black dress was at the end of the line of prospective confessors. She wore dark stockings and sensible, lace-up shoes. Her steel-gray hair had been forced into an untidy bun. He used to think this somberness was an Italian custom. But he had come to believe it was something more fundamental than just custom—something in the genes.
After Rose left him, he began to shun all his favorite checked shirts, and now wore only solid brown, a bad choice for summer since it made any underarm wetness spectacularly apparent. But Al didn’t worry about his appearance anymore. He supposed this old woman didn’t care either. He looked back at her again and then knew what he was going to do. Once she left the confessional, he was going to wait a few respectful minutes, then approach and ask who was hearing.
If she said Rosselli, he would leave. If it was Tarisi, he would bow his head and get in line.
He was going to have to wait awhile, for there were still three people in front of her. Having a plan calmed him. He sat back in the pew and began to rehearse what he would tell the monsignor. “Bless me, Father. My last confession was about two years ago.” (It was two years exactly. He had gone right before marrying Rose.) “These are my sins: I’ve missed Mass, drunk too much, and in June I raped my wife.”
He had thought adding the month and attaching the word wife made the sin sound less grievous. But just imagining saying it made his stomach queasy. He wasn’t going to be able to go through with this. He stared at the gold squares in the ceiling above the altar and wished he could push back the clock thirty years. Back then he had liked coming here to Saturday morning confession with his mother. He had loved the ornate ceiling and the gold chandeliers with their red glass. But he had never been allowed to come to Sunday Mass at St. Theresa’s. Sam felt churches named after women were inferior; so the Valerinos always went to nine o’clock mass at St. Virgil’s, where the priests were unfriendly and there wasn’t much parking.
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