“Hello, Mary, this is Sharon Sylvester, head of Hickleman’s Human Resource department. I’m calling about your application you faxed us the other day.”
“Oh?” I signaled Margaret to move closer to the cell phone so she could hear what the woman had to say too.
Sharon Sylvester went on. “You haven’t changed your mind about our advertised position, have you?”
“No, no. I just didn’t expect to hear from anyone this soon.”
“You probably wouldn’t have,” she politely stated, “but since I can’t go into work today and I had some applications tucked in my briefcase, I thought I’d read through them. I must say I’m very impressed by the thoroughness and neatness of your application. It shows that you care about what you do and are a detailed oriented person.”
I laughed. “That’s me all right. Unfortunately, my family doesn’t appreciate those qualities.”
“Well, we at Hickleman’s most certainly do. Miss Malone, I wonder if you could come by the plant Monday morning for a short interview and a tour of our facilities.”
I displayed a huge grin for Margaret. She pretended to clap.
“Is 10 a.m. too late?” I asked, showing respect for Sharon’s position and in the process gaining more brownie points too.
“No, actually that’s perfect.”
~14~
Day 8
I pounded on the thinly layered bathroom door for the second time in five minutes. “Aunt Zoe, hurry up in there. I don’t want to be late for my interview.”
“You should’ve gotten up earlier like I suggested last night,” she scolded.
I dug my short fingernails into the palms of my hands. Grrr. I hate it when people remind me that if I’d listened to their words of wisdom I wouldn’t be acting like a bear. “Just give me an estimate of how much longer you’ll be in there,” I snapped. I wanted to put my best foot forward for the interview and in order to do that I required the mirror to apply makeup and rehearse the little white lies I’d be telling Sharon Sylvester, Hickleman’s Human Resource gal, in a half an hour.
“Probably about five more minutes. Reed’s coming by in a little bit to take me Christmas shopping and I want my hair to be just so.”
Miffed that it would take her another few minutes to fix her short hairdo, I leaned against the bathroom door and kept my eyes glued to the silver Timex watch decorating my wrist. Five minutes to the second, a loud click announced Aunt Zoe should be exiting the bathroom. Not wanting to knock her flat as she tried to exit the room, I opted to move.
As soon as I backed up, the door swung open and Aunt Zoe’s size five black-booted feet paraded off the bathroom’s Robin’s egg blue tile floor on to the ugly pea soup colored carpet, where with the grace of a spider, she threw back her head and prompted me to react. “Well, what do you think?”
Stunned by the vision in front of me, I was left tongue-tied. I closed my eyes and reopened them hoping what I’d seen had vanished. Sadly it hadn’t. Not even the dimly lit hallway fixture could dispel my aunt’s appearance. I studied her closely. There wasn’t the slightest hint of short fiery-red spiked hair showing atop her roundish head. A black fur hat resembling a Kubanka totally hid it. Even though I had been left speechless, I had to admit the huge hat looked good on her. But she definitely wouldn’t be chosen to replace Lara if they ever did a remake of Doctor Zhivago. “Where did you get that hat?” I finally managed to ask.
Her thick ruby-red lips quickly parted. She dropped her hands. “Edward picked it up for me on one of his many trips to Moscow. I figured it was the perfect day to dig it out of storage. Please tell me it looks all right.”
“Ah, yeah,” I replied with a straight face. “It’s very practical to wear especially on such an extremely cold day. I’m afraid Reed won’t be able to take his eyes off of you.” Nor will anyone else. Real fur hats are so passé. No one wears animal furs anymore unless you want a PETA activist to hunt you down.
Aunt Zoe smiled. “Let’s hope so. I don’t want his eyes roving while he’s with me.”
“Oh, I don’t think you have to worry about Reed. He only has eyes for you.”
My roommate dismissed the comment, despite her cheeks growing rosier. Instead, she investigated the tightness of the elastic band which held up her snug white knit pants. Then she moved on to adjusting her bra straps. Aging gracefully takes great effort. Auntie for instance is at that spot in her life where everything’s shifted south, but she fights to keep it north. “How long do you think you’ll be gone?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” I waltzed into the bathroom with my makeup bag in hand, set it on the top of the toilet tank, opened it, pulled out an eyebrow pencil, and darkened my brows to match my jet-black hair. “It takes a good half hour to drive there. Then the interview and tour will probably eat up another forty-five minutes. Maybe you’ll see me around noon. Should I give you a call before I head home?”
“No, that won’t be necessary. I don’t think I’ll be back that soon from my outing. Knowing Reed he’ll want to eat lunch out.”
I tucked the pencil back in the makeup bag and withdrew a tube of lipstick. “Yup, he probably will. Men are so predictable, aren’t they?”
She nodded. “Have you figured out what fibs you might be able to use at the interview?”
“Ah huh.” I finished swiping the carnation colored lipstick across the upper lip and then proceeded to do the bottom. “I thought I’d practice in front of the mirror.”
Aunt Zoe tapped her foot and gave me a stern look. “You’ve got a real person standing right here who can question you, and you prefer a mirror instead. Sometimes I don’t understand you, niece.”
Ditto. I smiled smugly at my mirror image and tried to think of a plausible explanation for not asking Auntie for help. Thankfully, I didn’t have to come up with one. The ringing of the landline saved the day.
“It’s probably Reed,” Aunt Zoe gushed, as she rushed to the kitchen phone like a mad scientist trying to escape the police. A few seconds later an exuberant voice floated to me from the other end of the hallway. “I’m leaving. Reed is waiting for me in the lobby.”
I poked my head out into the hallway for a second and yelled. “Okay, have fun.”
I HADN’T TAKEN NOTICE of the drive from Northeast Minneapolis to the pickle plant in St. Michael the first time I visited it, too busy calming the kids down. But today I was tooling along, sans passengers, in Fiona on dry streets no less, allowing me to take in sights facing Interstate 94 and beyond without worrying about distractions. Well, okay, there were several really good-looking guys that buzzed by on either side of Fiona that made me forget where I was for a moment or two, but that was it. Honest. When you’re driving 70 m.p.h., you’ve gotta pay attention to the road unless you want to crack up.
Thirty minutes into the drive a sign came into view heralding St. Michael, a bedroom community with a population of 17, 500. I quickly switched lanes and exited off of I-94, reducing the cars speed to the mandated 55 m.p.h. Then I hopped on highway 241 and drove west past businesses such as Marksham Metals, Lucky Pets and Pellco Machines. At this juncture, according to the GPS, I was approximately a half mile south of Oakwood, the turnoff that led to the pickle plant.
As I hung a right onto Oakwood, an orange-flame building housing Tioni’s Pizza Parlor caught my attention. It’s the place Butch had been working at until his recent arrest. The eatery hadn’t joined my long list of restaurants to try until Gertie had mentioned it, but then I usually don’t find myself this far north unless I’m heading to a relative’s cabin in Brainerd.
The thought of pizza made my mouth water and I promised myself I’d stop there on the way home. While I waited for a pizza to go, I’d do a little detective work on the side. Putting out feelers to see what people really thought of Butch will either strengthen my misgivings about his innocence or lessen them.
I didn’t dress flashy for the interview, like my aunt frequently does in her clothing choices, including da
shikis bought in Africa, even though the job I applied for would be on the floor of the plant not in the office. Instead I wore a sensible two-piece navy-blue knit suit, the skirt of which stopped just short of the kneecaps. Having prior knowledge that men outnumbered the women 2 to 1 in this plant, I figured the length of my skirt may impress the interviewer if she was say fifty or older.
It wasn’t until I opened the door to the office section of Hickleman’s that I became concerned the receptionist on duty might recognize me from the day Gertie and I’d chaperoned the kids from Washington Elementary, but I soon discovered I had no reason to worry. The young twenty-something woman gazing up from the front desk definitely wasn’t the receptionist I had seen. The other woman was closer to seventy.
Noticing the name badge attached to the receptionist’s heavy wool sweater, I used it with confidence. “Hello, Melanie. Sharon Sylvester is expecting me.”
“Good-morning,” she said with the enthusiasm of a sloth.
The young thing must be suffering from the Monday morning blahs.
Melanie, glanced at the single sheet of typed-paper sitting in front of her. “Your name please?”
“Mary Malone.”
“Sorry, I can’t seem to find it on this list.”
“Mind if I take a look?” I leaned over her desk, swiftly scanned the sheet, and found it. “Here it is.” I lightly tapped the spot. “It’s the sixth name.”
“Oh, so it is.” Melanie picked up the phone and made a brief interoffice call to Sharon Sylvester. After informing the head of H.R. that I’d arrived, she instructed me where to hang my coat and then ushered me upstairs to the second floor and the enclosed office labeled HUMAN RESOURCES, having passed a smattering of open cubicles and smiley faces along the way.
“Okay, I’ll leave you with Ms. Sylvester,” Melanie said, and then spun around on her two inch heels and made a beeline to the stairs.
Sharon Sylvester, a mousey-looking woman of fifty-odd years, pale in complexion with bleach blonde curled hair down to her shoulders and red button earrings secured close to the ears, offered a genuine smile before she scooted her squeaky office chair nearer her rickety desk, that most likely had seen better days more than twenty years ago, and slipped a slim ringless hand out to me. I took it. “Miss Malone, so nice to meet you.”
“You too.” I took Sharon’s soft flimsy hand in mine for a few seconds and then relaxed my grip.
As soon as I released her hand, she pointed to a brown, thinly padded leather chair that had also seen better days. “Please, have a seat.”
When I first strolled into Sharon’s office I’d assumed she’d offer me a place to put the charcoal-grey wool dress coat I’d worn since the receptionist hadn’t, but she didn’t. So before I sat, I took off the coat and threw it over the back of a spare chair.
Sharon waited till I sat and then shifted her attention to the neat pile of paperwork in the center of her desk. “I see your application states you’ve had some experience with canning. Tell me about that.”
Here goes nothing. I folded my hands on my lap, presenting what’s considered openness. One can never be too sure what people pick up on be it gestures or untruths.
“Well, every summer since I was real little my mother would take me to grandma’s farmhouse to help pick vegetables when they were ready. And then I’d sit at grandma’s big kitchen table, until I was old enough to help, and watch them can tomatoes, cucumbers, carrots, beets, and such.” None of the story was true but it was significant enough for Sharon to verify.
Sharon’s face remained expressionless, not even the slightest hint of a wayward smile. “Which vegetable did you like canning the most?”
“I’d have to say cucumbers. The slices were small enough that I could put a few in my mouth before they got canned and no one missed them.” I stretched my lips to their limit for her benefit, showing how much I enjoyed doing that.
I noted the interviewer’s pupils after my response. They’d grown larger. Usually that’s not a good sign. Hopefully it wasn’t my fib that jarred her.
Sharon stroked her double chin. “I wonder, Miss Malone if you’d be tempted to swipe a few while working here. Many of our line jobs require hands on work with the cucumbers.”
I leaned forward in my chair. “Oh, no, Miss Sylvester, I can assure you I wouldn’t dream of nibbling on anything at the plant.” Once it dawned on me how my statement sounded, I quickly backpedaled. “I mean anything on the work floor. When you check my references, you’ll find I’m an extremely honest person. I don’t even sample veggies or fruit while I’m shopping at a grocery store. I firmly believe in purchasing everything before I taste it.”
She let my explanation go without comment. Glancing further down my application she said. “I see there’s a bit of a gap in here since you worked as a temp for Kelly Services, would you care to explain?”
I raised my clasped hands to my chest. Then I recited a sob story worthy of an Oscar or an Emmy. Only the part about my dad was true. “Two weeks after my father had open heart surgery my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. Being single and the only daughter, I offered to help out.”
Sharon Sylvester squeezed her hands together. “Oh, I’m so sorry. How are they both doing now?”
I bowed my head. “Much better.”
The H.R. woman scraped her chair against the wood floor indicating she was about to stand, which she did. “Well, I certainly appreciate your coming in, Miss Malone. Your references will need to be checked out yet, but as long as you’re here I’d like to show you the facilities. I feel it’s important for an applicant to tour the plant. It gives you a chance to see if the job you’ve applied for is worth pursuing
You’d be surprised how many people change their minds once they see what the job entails.” She turned towards the black metal coat stand a few feet from her desk and grabbed a green lab coat off it.
I stood and smoothed out my skirt. “I’m used to hard work, Miss Sylvester. I’m sure what I see won’t scare me off.”
The game was over. All I could do now was wait to be shown the plant and hope I passed the test.
Sharon remained silent while she rounded the front of her desk, threw on a lab coat, and buttoned it. When finished, she said, “We’ll get safety wear for you on the first floor,” and then she marched me out of her office and led me back the way Melanie and I’d come.
~15~
The wonderful aromas of bread, tomato sauce, pepperoni, and sausage played a mean game with my nose and stomach the minute I strolled in to Tioni’s Pizza Parlor. I’d come here after finishing the interview at eleven, hoping to see the manager, but the only people standing behind the long dark counter were two workers wearing matching flame-orange shirts, a guy and gal, both roughly in their mid-twenties. Their welcoming grins gave me the impression they were delighted to see anyone come walking through the doors to break up their morning monotony while patiently waiting for the arrival of the early lunch crowd onslaught.
I presented a tiny smile for their benefit before wandering into the parlor’s midsection, a basic run-of-the mill bar like interior with dark wood floors, walls and booths.
The slim guy offered a quick nod. Then he slipped off his stool, limped over to the brick oven, opened one of the doors, and took out a pizza. The strong tantalizing smells released in the air almost knocked me senseless.
Ready to devour anything put in front of me now, including a bear, I gazed at the humongous order menu hanging on the wall.
A squeaky voice coming from the woman soon interrupted my decision making. “Are you here to pick up pizzas?” she asked as her thin-as-a-rail frame, bounced off the sturdy wood stool she sat on. “They’ll be ready in two seconds.”
I rested a hand on my thick hip. “No. I’m here to place an order,” I said before I turned my back on her and scoped out the place. “Is Butch going to be around today?” I inquired.
The guy by the ovens shot the young woman a warning look over his shoulder
that seemed to imply not to say too much.
She caught the message and smacked her gum. “Do you know Butch very well?”
“Oh, yeah,” I lied. “We grew up in the same neighborhood. I just recently moved to this area so I thought I’d check out the pizzas here, and say hi.”
“I’m sorry,” she carefully stated, “but I’m afraid you missed him.”
I shook my head. “Darn. Just my luck he’s not working today.”
The woman swiped a quick look at her work partner. Probably wondering what she could safely say next. Unfortunately, he was too busy cutting the large pizza he’d taken out of the oven to take an interest in either of us. She faced me again, flipped her long straight bangs to one side, and signaled she was going to jot something down. Then she plucked a pen and notepad off the counter. “So, that’s a small personal pizza with sausage and mushrooms, right?” she asked.
I had no clue what she was up to. But since I usually select those exact toppings for my pizza, I agreed to the order. “And a large Coke to go with it, please,” I added.
“Sure. To go or eat here?” she quizzed.
I noticed she stressed GO. Taking the hint, I replied, “To go I guess.”
“Okay. It’ll be ready in twenty minutes.” She slipped her hand under the counter. When she brought it back up, it held a large paper cup with the pizza parlor’s logo on it. “Here you go. The pop is at the back wall.” She pointed behind me.
“Thanks.” I tried to take the cup from her, but she wouldn’t let go. “Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot to pay you. How much do I owe?”
“Just a sec.” Then she rang the order up. “That’ll be seven dollars and ninety-five cents.”
While I took my time digging through my faux Coach purse I’d picked up at Goodwill, the gal scribbled a hasty note and shoved it across the counter. Meet me out back after you get your order. I’ll tell him I need a smoke break. Then she took my money, strolled over to her co-worker, and gave him my order.
Death of the Pickle King Page 8