She shook her head. “I’m surprised. I was sure it would be an autobiography and then I’d have to read about all your old flames.”
Her eyes began to tear. He knew what a strain she had been under these last few weeks. “Cheryl, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
She reached out her hand and he took it. He was glad her recent weight loss had not changed the shape of her fingers. They were still womanly, generous, and looked the same as that day in the nursing home when she had handed him the pink Kleenex.
Tonight the stakes were nearly as high as the day when he had asked her to marry him. “Please,” he implored, trying unsuccessfully to keep his voice from breaking, “don’t go upstairs tonight.”
“No, I won’t. But you have to promise me not to give up and get sick when things go wrong next time.”
“No, next time I’ll stick around and we’ll work out a compromise.”
They went to bed early and were tender and shy with each other. But she did not tell him about the baby and now he knew she never would. His lack of support had forced her to do the unthinkable. Now they could not even discuss the worst loss in their young lives. He slowly ran his fingers through her hair. They would live through fall and winter grieving in their own ways. But by spring they would begin to heal. He took her hand and gently pressed it to his lips.
In the morning he wanted to wake up slowly, then drink coffee and have a leisurely breakfast. But Cheryl had become a churchgoer. She got up early to prepare for Mass. He wasn’t surprised to see her leave wearing the lime-green dress she had married him in. For some inexplicable reason, she had begun to wear that dress frequently.
While she was out he started to cook breakfast. He fried the bacon until the strips turned translucent. He would restart the burner right before she was due home. He pulled Bisquick from the shelf and mixed up the batter for biscuits. It was a cool enough morning not to mind turning on the oven.
He thought the hot biscuits, appetizing-looking bowl of fruit cocktail, and the smell of cooking bacon would please her. Instead, she paled perceptibly and rushed past him toward the sliding patio door. Once it was opened, she began to gulp the crisp air greedily.
Richard had not rehearsed anything to do or say because he thought it was too late. He shut off the burner and lifted a ten-pound bag of sugar from the storage shelf, then followed her over by the door. When she turned, he balanced the sugar on his upper chest and began to pat it rhythmically.
She shook her head gravely. “Babies don’t stay that still.” She stared at him intently. “I thought you knew. Does it show?”
“Your hands,” he said impulsively.
It appeared to have been the right answer. She nodded, lifted her hands with palms facing him, and said, “Sure, swollen and pink. They’re a dead giveaway.”
He jiggled the sack of sugar on his knee and then stood and walked carefully to the coffee table. He set the sugar down gently and proceeded to cover it with an imaginary blanket.
“You’ve really made progress with the walking. I had no idea.”
Of course she had no idea. It had been very hard to command her attention lately. But there was no resentment in his reply. “It’s going to be okay,” he said with the confidence that had once been his trademark. “We’re going to be able to take care of this baby.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
There were three of them waiting to see Paul Birch. The secretary had ushered them into an office-size waiting room with gray velour chairs. Cheryl picked a Datamation Magazine off the glass-topped coffee table and began to lazily leaf through it.
She could sense the nervousness of the two young men waiting with her. It was too bad they were getting so worked up over this interview. She had been at Software International long enough to know that Paul Birch wasn’t going to hire any of them. He always talked to the top three graduates from the data processing course; in the last three years, though, he had never hired them. He was looking for some rare type of genius; none of them fit the bill.
She sneaked a glance at Charlie, the younger of her two companions. The baby-faced twenty-two-year-old had a scared smile plastered on his face and was too nervous even to pretend to read. Cheryl had known him before their course. A plodder, he had worked his way up from the mailroom through hard work and night courses. Now he had finished third in the data processing course out of a class of thirty—an honor Software International would not overlook. But he wouldn’t get in the design department. Even the spiffy three-piece suit he was wearing wouldn’t help. Birch didn’t have room for plodders.
Steve, a slight, mustached blond, had a slightly better chance. He had an honors degree from a Florida college and a master’s in information science. He was presentable enough, but there was something about him Cheryl didn’t like. She watched him reading intently as if he expected even now to glean some information useful to him in his upcoming interview. Cheryl realized why she did not like him: he was a user. Every pleasantry she had ever uttered to him he had probably filed away in memory to use again for the betterment of his own career. He was also very competitive. When he hadn’t been able to read her test scores by leaning toward her in a mockingly sexual way, he had out and out asked.
The secretary quietly came in. “Mr. Birch is tied up with a client. He suggests you all go out to lunch and”—the elegantly dressed woman checked her watch—“come back about 2:30.”
Cheryl gave the secretary a radiant smile. She appreciated the woman’s tact. Birch, she was positive, had said nothing about lunch. When reminded there were candidates to interview, he had probably snarled, “Get rid of them until 2:30.”
Charlie, still smiling, shrugged. “We’re getting paid to sit here.”
Steve Elden was less easygoing about the delay. He stood up rigidly, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Birch is,” he mumbled, “playing games with us. He wants to maintain the pressure a little longer—see how we hold up.”
Cheryl shook her head. “Na. He just got busy with a client. He hasn’t got time for games. Let’s go to lunch.”
“You know him?” Elden gave her an interested smile.
To think she used to fall in love with guys that were this obvious! Now he was going to pump her all through lunch about Birch. The creep! “My former boss marketed a lot of his software packages. I don’t know him personally.”
Birch’s secretary was standing outside the waiting room door and must have heard Elden’s outburst. She gave no evidence of it, though. “See you at 2:30,” she said politely.
Cheryl nodded. “We’ll be here. Thank you.”
They decided to eat at Grateful Fridays, a Software International hangout with hanging plants, huge windows, and butcher block tables. The high-backed chairs were terribly uncomfortable. Cheryl thought their selection had been intentional. The place had a huge lunch and dinner crowd and didn’t take kindly to lingerers. No matter how she shifted, her back still felt unsupported. Finally she just gave up, leaned forward, and studied the menu.
A cheerful young waitress approached them. “How about something from the bar?”
Charlie, who had never quite lost his nervous smile, now openly grinned back. “I’ll have a vodka tonic.” Then he flushed, embarrassed to have ordered before Cheryl.
She shook her head. “I’m not ready yet.” She finished reading the list of special summer drinks. Banana blitz—a tackling combo of bananas, rum, and triple sec. Strawberry fizz—a foot-high cooler of fresh strawberries, vanilla ice cream, rum, and grenadine.
Steve ordered tonic and lime. Cheryl sensed Charlie’s discomfort. He had blundered again. A sensible job-seeker did not drink before an interview. But only if you had a chance at getting the job, Cheryl thought—and ordered a white wine spritzer. She knew she shouldn’t be drinking much, but surely diluted wine wouldn’t hurt the baby. It had to be preferable to a banana blitz.
“So what’s Birch like?” Elden asked nonchalantly. He had tried to wait a decent interval before
introducing the only subject that interested him.
“Young, I think,” she answered before taking a sip of her spritzer. “He’s rumored to be quite a tyrant to his people. Makes them wear beepers so he knows where they are at all times. I’ve heard he only wants yes-men.”
Nothing could have been further from the truth. Cheryl knew secretaries in the design department who had developed all sorts of stress-related ailments because Birch gave his people such a free rein. On a typical morning an analyst might phone in saying “I’ve been working on the ADP program all night. I’m going to grab some sleep and be in later.” She could sympathize with the secretaries. How did you answer the phone for a man who was grabbing sleep on company time? She anxiously looked at Charlie to see if he would contradict her false portrayal of Birch. But he was busy eating french fries and had no apparent interest in their conversation. Mailroom employees might not be as interested in the executives’ personalities as secretaries were.
She removed her mushroom burger from its roll and began to chop it up into tiny bite-size pieces.
“Someone’s waving at you,” Charlie told her.
Cheryl looked up and there on the level above them was Lucy, leaning against the ledge and waving madly.
“Friend of yours? Single?”
Poor Charlie. He went to night school, lived in a studio apartment, and during their class had never mentioned having a date.
“Yeah. I’ll introduce you sometime.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re awfully calm and casual about this.”
Cheryl didn’t know if Elden was referring to her manner or her dress. In case it was the latter, she said, “I guess I should have worn a suit, but this is a lot more comfortable.” She had worn the lime wedding dress because it had an elastic waist. “I’m to the point of pregnancy where my clothes fit a bit funny.”
She took in his expression: relief. He no longer considered her a competitor. “Bad timing,” he said sympathetically.
“There’s no bad time for babies. Congratulations.”
“Thanks, Charlie.” She would have to introduce him to Lucy. They both had a romantic way of viewing things.
It was not quite 2:30 when they returned, but this time Birch was waiting for them. The secretary escorted Charlie in first.
Cheryl picked up the same magazine and began to flip through its pages. She felt slighted at the high-handedness. She was the only woman: Paul Birch should have talked to her first. There you go again, she scolded herself, finding insult where none was intended.
She remembered an anecdote someone had once told her about Birch. Supposedly he and one of his female analysts were walking down the hall talking. She stepped into the ladies’ room and he, intent on their conversation and oblivious of the gender difference, had walked right in with her. Well, that was probably a huge exaggeration. But still, he probably did not adhere to the ladies-first adage.
The secretary again appeared. “Mr. Elden.”
Cheryl slid back in her chair and got comfortable. Steven Elden would take a while.
But he didn’t. The secretary was back almost immediately to summon Cheryl, then lead her down the short hallway to the end office. Calm down, she warned herself. This is just an exercise. Nothing will come of it. But her body refused to listen and remained on red alert.
He was young! Really young—maybe just a year or two older than herself. There wasn’t even a hint of gray in his dark hair. She had expected him to be about forty. At Software that was young.
He shook her hand and motioned her to the visitor’s chair. There was a coffeepot on his credenza. “Like a cup?”
She knew better than to accept a cup at the hairdresser because it just got in the way. But now she heard herself saying “That would be nice.”
He served them both. “Why did you drop out of college?” he asked, settling into his own chair.
Interviews weren’t supposed to start like this! That magazine for female executives she used to subscribe to always advised chatting until the candidate was relaxed and comfortable. No wonder Elden was out of here in record time. She probably wouldn’t even have a chance to taste her coffee. She had been foolish to accept it. “I didn’t find anything there that I loved to do or was especially good at.”
“Did you ever find anything you loved doing?”
She had regretted saying love instead of like. But when he repeated it, the word sounded strong and appropriate. “Just last month. When I got into that class, it was like a fish discovering water.”
He half smiled, but the intensity of his questions didn’t lessen. “But you were a good secretary?”
“I was responsible, dependable, all that. But I always resented the job.”
“Why?” He regarded her seriously.
Before Richard, his rapt attention would have sent her into a frenzy. She would have spent the entire interview speculating on his marital status. But guys like Birch gave the best part of themselves to their jobs. She would love to work with him; she had no desire to marry him.
“Because I hated being invisible. Delivering coffee at meetings, but having to keep my opinions to myself.”
“Did you?”
“Keep my opinions to myself? Yes, I did.”
“My secretary never does. She scheduled you to come in last because she said you were the only one worth spending time with.” He grinned mischievously. “But I must admit I was intrigued by you before that. You go into that class with absolutely no prior training and come out number one. Sixty percent of that class had already taken courses in a specific language. The bozo that was just in here ahead of you graduated magna cum laude with a B.S. in computer science and had a master’s degree in something or other. And you beat him, too.”
Her face flushed; her hands grew cold. It was just too cruel to think about—she almost had a chance to join the design group. Damn! Why did her luck run this way? Stop, she warned herself. You will still get a job. Nothing flashy or fun like working here. Probably it would be an applications job maintaining the payroll system. Still, she should be grateful and not think about what might have been.
“You are going to have to take some math courses.”
“I’m pregnant, Mr. Birch.”
That stunned him. He rested his head on his arm. She thought he looked almost disappointed. “What will that entail—the pregnancy?”
He was just being polite; he couldn’t really care. “Six weeks off in about six months.”
She could almost hear Richard prompting her: “Go for it. Go for it.”
She really didn’t have anything to lose. “My husband works at home, so I won’t have any child-care problems.”
He was staring morosely out the window. She wasn’t sure if he had heard her. Perhaps she should just politely mumble “I’m sorry to have taken your time” and go.
“What’s he do?” He had been so still, it startled her when he spoke.
“He’s a writer.” It wasn’t a lie. It was just what Richard called being positive: describe everything as favorably as possible. When in a pinch, exaggerate. It would probably happen anyway.
Birch locked his knuckles, continued staring out the window. His behavior frightened her. Maybe she shouldn’t care about not getting this job. Would she even want to work for someone who would suddenly become so remote and cold?
He swiveled around to face her. “I appreciate your honesty. I wanted to hire you. It’s good for all of us to have somebody fresh and excited join us. Training someone keeps us in touch with the basics. But the math—you are going to have to take it sometime. Maybe we can find you a class during the day?”
“I could go to the class on my lunch hour.” She wished she could say, “Oh, this is an easy pregnancy. I could take a night course.” But it would have been a lie. Already she was in bed by ten. Think what another three months would bring!
He shook his head again, troubled, and she was sure he was going to tell her he was sorry.…
/> He scribbled something on a memo sheet and shoved it at her. “Personnel will make you a formal offer. But this is the salary. I’m sorry, but knowing what you told me, I’ve got to bring you in as a level 5 trainee because your training program will take longer. We’ll have you writing out program documentation and matters like that at first. It’s no executive position.”
She stared at what he had scribbled on the paper. It was seven thousand more than she was currently making. “This would be fine.”
“Are you sure? You can’t change your mind three months from now. I’ve heard writers don’t make a lot of money.”
“I’m thrilled with this. My husband will be, too.”
“One last thing. I expect all my people to do a great job, so I don’t pat heads or give out compliments. Your monthly check is our expression of appreciation.”
“I’ll remember that.” They solemnly shook hands, and he reverted to his window-staring.
She let herself out, gave his secretary a grateful wave, and started down the hall. She had a new job ahead of her and so did Richard. If Birch never gave out compliments, then Richard was going to have to buck her up even more than he did already.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Rose was sweating from the exertion of having just walked up the steep hill on Lincoln Avenue. She was also afraid. Gas stations had always terrified her. They were dark foreign places with a language she didn’t understand.
She stood humbly by the service counter for some time before a long-haired boy in a greasy sweatshirt approached and mumbled, “Help you?”
She pointed back in the direction of the hill. “My car died on Lincoln Avenue.”
“The make of the deceased?”
She ignored his mocking smile and said severely, “It’s a blue 1983 Buick Skylark.”
The Way It Happens In Novels Page 19