Part One Recap: Something More, Chptrs 1-4

CHAPTER 1: SOMETHING MORE

Ulysses Mann merged into traffic to begin his daily commute to downtown L.A. Still dark, the lights from oncoming cars stung his eyes. He re-focused on the taillights that strung before him like a twisting red dragon.

He shivered. The air charging through the vents created a white noise and was as yet ineffectual against the early morning chill. He adjusted the heat on the dashboard then struggled to pull open the strip on the plastic cap of the container of coffee. He brought the cup to his lips and sipped.

“Damn.”

He tapped his scalded tongue against the roof of his mouth. The night before, he’d forgotten to set the coffee maker and resorted to the MacDonald’s drive-through instead of taking time to make his own.

Getting to the freeway on time was the first step to a successful day. He didn’t worry about being late to the office. He was a supervisor after all and had some leeway. His concern was taking his place in the line of cars oozing through the city before their numbers overloaded the system and deteriorated into a frustrating sequence of stops and starts.

As long as the commute flowed, no matter how slowly, he imagined the network of freeways, connectors and on-ramps as being like the veins and arteries of one sprawling body with white and red blood cells coursing to sustain its vital organs.

But when cars multiplied, squeezing into a framework unable to expand, accidents happened and tempers flared--- the body under attack. Whenever he found himself in the mother of all lines, he considered his standing in the world.

Ulysses Mann hadn’t been alive then but was now familiar with the image of hapless refugees lined up for the last helicopter out of Saigon, epitomizing the U.S. retreat from Vietnam. Four years later, he was one year old but would not remember the OPEC oil embargo, forcing Americans into long gas lines. But he did recall, at eleven years, watching on TV as people danced atop the Berlin Wall and tore away chunks of concrete. He struggled to understand, but did appreciate that people were lining up, waiting to get out. On 9/11, he was twenty-three and marveled at a sky empty of aircraft for the first time in his life.

About that time he decided to head back to college to finish his accounting degree. Ready money from working full-time at a restaurant had lured him away but after awhile friends, girls and parties seemed echoes from the past.

Married now and with a mortgage on a small house, he felt engaged in the present and strove for a prosperous future. Though his hopes of working for one of the big accounting firms hadn’t come to pass, he had risen after five years to Billing Supervisor at Dedalus Insurance and was confident he would go higher. Meanwhile, with two incomes he and his wife Penny could save to start a family. Everything flowed and had seemed right. If there were something more he’d ask it’d be for a shorter commute--- and designated parking.

A lot offered an Early Bird special as long as he arrived before nine and left before seven. After parking, he walked a few blocks past homeless, looking cold and dazed and dragging flattened cardboard boxes. Then he entered his building where he could relax, believing, as he did then, that his sensibilities wouldn’t be challenged inside.

Upper management and select others were afforded paid parking beneath the building. People, such as CEO Stephen Joyce II, Sales Manager Jeremy Port, and the Salesman of the Quarter, Peres Aguilar, parked without concern for weather and took elevators to their offices, never having to set foot on the street if they didn’t care to. A network of elevated walkways linked a cluster of buildings with venues to work, meet and eat. Ulysses considered the perk a measure of acceptance within the company and something, much more than convenience, he had longed for.

Founded in 1971 by Stephen Joyce the elder, Dedalus was a medium-sized company offering property and casualty insurance to business and wealthy individuals. Its operations consisted of sales, claims and information technology. Sales was the glamour department, bringing in cash in the form of premiums and establishing the high water mark for profits. Claims was the ill-favored sibling, whose payouts reduced profit. Information technology was the neglected stepchild, providing the infrastructure to get things done but receiving little credit. Billing was in IT.

Ulysses hoped to transfer to Sales but struggled against being typecast as “support”. No matter his efforts ---knowing the business of the company and his job, networking with the right people and dressing the part--- he always fell short. Creases in the slacks of the top salesmen were sharper, their humor wittier and their significance greater than anything he could muster.

Peres Aguilar was the exemplar. Wherever he entered a room, all eyes shined on him, whether from adoration or envy, lending a glow, and adding to his aura. He was a star, and Ulysses felt the pressure of his presence when he lobbied Jeremy Port. “I’ll keep you in mind,” he’d say, unwilling to commit and likely measuring him up against Aguilar.

It fared no better with Stephen Joyce who, two years before, had replaced his namesake father and began a campaign to bring new blood into the company. He valued loyalty, which meant forgetting the foibles of the intemperate young executive. New blood had the advantage of not knowing. Ulysses could not forget and considered him vengeful and rapacious. He was fated, it seemed, to be considered old while still young and to desire advancement in a company atop which stood a man ready to lop off his head.

He kept a look out for other opportunities, but for the while things flowed and when things flowed…. He worked hard and strived for the credit he deserved; and with credit would come riches. So he had thought.

That day promised to be routine: monitor reports detailing dollars billed and received, field phone calls from angry clients who believed their bills too high ---never too low--- and confer with attorneys over delinquent accounts. The only thing out of the ordinary was a new hire starting that morning. Helen Roy interviewed some weeks before and he made the offer after getting the okay from Personnel.

Billing had a staff of twenty, nearly two-thirds women, who stared into computer monitors, tracking accounts and handling problems. Their ages ranged from young to middle age. Most saw their position as a starting point before the next step, especially the single ones who knew they couldn’t survive on the salary. Those who stayed longest usually had a spouse working another job.

Some thought they could advance in the company. He’d seen it twice ---curiosity about the business, eagerness to meet people in other departments and a general catch-me-while-you-can attitude. Both women ended up leaving the company, having failed to break into male-dominated Sales. Stacy, a pert petite blonde, didn’t feel she’d get the respect she deserved; while Felicia, dark and sensuous, got too close to the man who would be CEO. When she broke it off, she realized she’d ruined her chance.

He felt bad about Felicia, believing he could have shielded her. But would she have responded to his chivalry, and was he as high-minded as all that? It bothered him that an ulterior motive might have lurked somewhere. He was sure, though, that his job wasn’t any easier when the higher ups interfered with his staff.

Stacy and Felicia were the exceptions. Most settled into the position, finding refuge in a functional role unlikely to have dramatic impact, the grayness of support staff, the anchor weighing Ulysses down.

He hadn’t put Helen Roy in a category yet. He estimated she was in her mid-twenties and unmarried. She’d gone to a good university. Overqualified, he expected she’d be gone before two years, the average length of service in his group. In the interview, she’d been exact in her responses, without expanding, and projected an air of not really caring about the position, which, oddly, made him want to give it to her. He remembered feeling there was something more he wasn’t seeing. Reserved, he concluded, but easy to train.

Pulling into the parking lot, he found a space near the cashier’s kiosk and shut off the engine. Stepping out the door in shirtsleeves and tie, he raised clenched fits to the sky, stretching his five foot nine inch frame. He shook a head of dark brown hair, ridding himself of the monotony of the drive. After adjusting his glasses, he reached into the car for his jacket, which completed his dark gray suit. With briefcase and coffee in hand, he started for the office.

The cup was three-quarters full and the coffee lukewarm. He extended his arm in an underhand motion to toss it into a trash bin. But, catching the eye of a homeless man, he handed it to him instead and smiled sheepishly. Then he walked away, tapping his tongue against the roof of his mouth to check if the hurt was still there. It was.

*

“Good morning, Mr. Mann.”

Ulysses looked up from his desk to scrutinize the young woman standing before him. A halo of light brown hair surrounded a prominent brow, sensuous lips on a mouth that might be considered large and almond-shaped brown eyes glowing with intellectual light. He couldn’t place her.

"Mr. Mann, it’s Helen Roy.”

He stood and extended his hand, though inwardly he recoiled, his mind racing to complete an image he should know. She laughed and he realized he’d been squinting.

“I'll show you your workstation.”

Rotating an assortment of papers before her, he convinced himself that she was indeed the woman he had interviewed. Small details took hold; that she’d been slightly taller than he and that her calm assurance compelled him to present for her rather than the other way around. She was the same person, but he marveled at the differences: eyeliner, lipstick, hairstyle and dress. Instead of the gray business suit, her dress was of a light shimmering fabric that, draped over her crossed leg, appeared like a fragment of blue sky. Her hair, before being pulled back and restrained, flowed, catching and playing with the light.

He felt someone at his elbow.

“Yul, want me to show her around?”

He nodded his assent and arranged to meet Helen again to discuss performance goals and objectives. He watched them walk away and thought, “One year, if that”.

Lola McIntyre, the longest serving member in the Billing Unit, liked to escort new people through the company. It gave her a chance to size them up, determine whether to like them then share her opinion with her friends.

“Oh, they’re going to love you,” she said, beaming at Helen like a child with a new toy. “The men will,” she added when she didn’t take the bait.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Lola gave a hearty laugh, coarse from years of smoking. “Oh, I think you do.”

Lola quickened her pace, her expansive hips shifting under her dress. Helen lengthened her stride, easily keeping up with the shorter woman. She was amused by the looks of the people they passed. They would be her co-workers, she assumed, but were, as yet, strangers. Instead of introducing her, Lola seemed intent on something in particular.

Through the room she led, around the corner and into another, before pushing off in a different direction. “That was Claims,” she called over her shoulder. They took the elevator to the floor above, then entered another large room. After looking around, she announced, “This is Sales”.

Whereas Claims had been crowded with desks and people and IT had been the same but with the buzzing and clicking of plastic CPUs and printers, Sales gave the impression of space. The desks were fewer and the aisles broader.

Heads popped up as if someone had turned on a light. Helen felt their eyes, while Lola smiled broadly, pleased with the effect. Soon, a straggling line of salesmen began to form and Lola made the introductions. But when Stephen Joyce, who’d been conferring on the far side of the floor, approached the line dissipated like a mist.

Joyce was proud of knowing and controlling everything in his company. After assuming the CEO mantle, he attempted a paternal air but the aggression that made him top seller and a bare-knuckled manager still predominated. He was tall and robust and his hair was shaped into a spiky crew cut.

He extended his hand before he arrived, his eyes fixed on Helen’s. Lola introduced them, then stepped back to watch. He took her hand and held it while they spoke.

“Welcome to Dedalus. I hope you’re happy with us.”

Helen smiled. “I’m sure I will be.”

After a few more words, a silence ensued and she tilted a head at her captive hand, which he released. As Lola led her out, he lingered looking, his mind deep within itself. The strong features of his face, so often expressing swagger and certainty, betrayed something more.

“I need a smoke,” Lola said, walking leisurely and steering Helen to a small concrete balcony. The door slammed shut with a dreadful finality, sealing them outside the air-pressured interior and facing two other buildings clustered in a close triangle.

“That’s the Northeast Office Building,” said Lola. “We’re in the Southwest. That’s the Agency Hotel.” She pointed to a building whose tower rose above the two thirty-story office buildings. “The top floors are condos.”

They watched people pass through the glass-enclosed walkways linking the buildings at the 11th floor above them.

“You can get coffee, snacks and sandwiches in the shops near the walkways. And the hotel has good restaurants. Expensive, though.”

“Are the walkways the only way to get to the other buildings?”

“Street-level, of course. The underground garage connects them, too.”

When Lola finished her cigarette, she showed Helen the way back to her workstation, then sought out her friends, eager to tell what she had seen. Helen was content to remain at her desk till lunchtime, study the materials she’d been given and to meet the others in her unit who came by to say hello.

*

Peres Aguilar smiled at his Blackberry and at his buddy’s enthusiasm. He composed an e-mail reply ---Why not in field closing sales?--- then pressed send. He stifled a laugh and shot a smile through the café, capturing the attention of the waitress.

“More coffee?”

He nodded and she brought over the glass pot. As she poured, Peres admired the curling strand of black hair sweat-pasted onto her long neck. She stood upright, pausing to appreciate the nature and quality of the smiling man.

He had thin black hair, shiny slick, that was combed straight back and quivered whenever he moved. His skin, a shade darker than olive, contrasted with the white of his smile and added to its brilliance. His hawk-like nose suggested purpose and the intense black dots that were his eyes unwavering concentration.

Had she asked what he was smiling about, he would have answered in one word: success. He’d come from a client’s offices where he closed a large deal. Now, while waiting on a sandwich, he filled in some paperwork and strategized his next appointment later in the day.

His e-mail was a dig, part jest but largely serious ---he didn’t make Salesman of the Quarter by sitting in the office. He worked his prospect list religiously and found there an element of joy. One deal led to another and his joy intensified, along with his smile. Even if he couldn’t close on an account, his smile told them he’d look forward to seeing them next year. The field was the theater where his successes took place.

Once a week, he went into the office to drop off the data sheets on his sales. Though it took him away from the field, he relished the envy in the eyes of his peers when handing over a stack of paperwork for input. He welcomed praise and liked seeing his name on top of the company sales chart.

He’d been First Place in everything he did and didn’t know any other way. Being first brought honor and wealth to his parents and his wife and to his kid. And always there seemed something more to strive for.

Though he didn’t chase fool’s gold, preferring substance to style, he understood that the trappings of success were as important to the world as accomplishment itself. So they had the big house, the expensive car and enjoyed their vacation trips.

He sometimes pondered what his next move would be. Going higher in the company, taking Jeremy Port’s position, or more? But that had the feeling of following in others’ footsteps. He wanted to be first, maybe starting his own company. For now, he thought he had at least one more step in Dedalaus before striking in a new direction.

That was why he smiled. As for his buddy, he was happy the new girl was “heaven”. But, he thought --- as the waitress buzzed by again --- there are pretty girls everywhere.

*

Ulysses looked at his watch --- a few minutes yet before leaving to get his car. Already dark outside, he’d spent the day without seeing the sun, focused on the work at hand. Everyone from his unit had gone and he was alone with his thoughts.

He thought about Helen whom he’d watched making neat stacks of the paper on her desk in preparation to leave. Then she held a compact mirror to her face, shifting it to capture every inch as if making herself whole, magically, after having been torn apart by the scrutiny of the day.

The chicken or the egg, he thought. Did the interest she excited result from the effort she put into making herself up, or would it be there anyway and was making herself perfect a defense?

His eyes assumed a faraway look, as if seeing beyond the horizon ---to a sandy beach beside a turquoise sea. She danced under the sun, lithe, brown, beautiful, her body shaping communication, as in words he couldn’t understand. Wanting to stay, he needed to leave; but she touched him deeper, drawing him near and he couldn’t pull away...


Helen had turned and caught him watching, a smile on her lips. Ulysses snapped out of his vision, acknowledged her look and sank behind the cubicle wall. Her beauty was both sword and shield.

Already she’d made an impact. Heads popped inside the department door, people who didn’t usually come by taking a look. The grapevine said that she’d met the CEO. He wasn’t pleased. Felicia all over again.

Before a pretense would suffice: co-workers going for dinner and a drink, even as his position in the line of succession was understood. Now he had complete control. No one was comfortable with the idea that the CEO could like or dislike someone and act on the emotion.

Even as he scorned it, Ulysses admired the power Joyce possessed and his willingness to use it. And what about himself? If he, Ulysses, had the power, would he act or was he checked by self-conscious knowledge of the consequences? Those thoughts chased him driving in pursuit of the red taillights headed home.

***

CHAPTER 2: EMPIRE

...The CEO surveys his realm ...


Stephen Joyce left the Sales Department and passed through the halls of the company. Employees smiled and nodded and made way for the CEO who obviously had something weighty on his mind. His gaze, elevated to start by virtue of his height, looked beyond ---possibly to higher profits, expansion and taking the company public. Happy in such prospects for the company and for themselves, they forgave his failure to acknowledge them. Making it easier was his reputation for making those he did acknowledge squirm.

Going by executive suites in the southwest corner, he noted activity through open doors, but didn’t pause, and continued toward the receptionist. Hair swirling like blond ice cream and wearing a pale blue suit with matching bow, she smiled and batted her eyes. But when he didn’t stop, she reached quickly beneath the desk to open the elevator. The doors parted to admit him without his having to break stride. Betsy Murray watched as the elevator swallowed him and wondered, with pressed lips, whether he was mad.

Joyce stood motionless as the elevator made its way up one floor. When the doors opened inside his suite he walked across the silver carpet, highly piled and woven with green laurel wreaths, to his desk. Then, after easing into a high-back leather chair, he gazed through the floor-to-ceiling window over the city towards the west.

He was alone atop the company. Though favoring hands-on management, which to him meant hounding managers in their offices, he invited only a select few into his own. He established the office when he became CEO. The elevator, which he badgered the landlord to allow, served as drawbridge that severed or effected physical ties, and he controlled the switch.

Prominent in the expansive and uncluttered office was a broad oak wood desk. It held perfunctory in- and out- boxes and a set of matching pens, perpetually ready at 45-degrees. Instead of a computer, he employed a mobile Blackberry so as to forestall attendant and inevitable streams of technicians going in and out.

Adjacent to one wall stood a small conference table with four chairs and behind him hung a signed photo of President George W. Bush who smiled and, it seemed, approved, the four-foot wood-carved statue across the room: a cowboy riding a bucking horse and waving his hat to the sky.

Shelves opposite the desk contained hardcover volumes of philosophy and literature, spines unbroken, and two framed photos. In one, his wife, Delfina, smiling and squinting into the sun, hugged their two boys. In the other Stephen Joyce Senior, silver-haired and patrician, faced straight ahead and stood beside Rhea who, looking to him, rested a hand on his chest. He exuded selfless confidence.

Joyce had gotten used to mocking that confidence. He joined Dedalus after graduating with a business degree and since then the chorus playing in his head was “Too complacent, too slow”. He was especially angry that the company was still privately held and advocated reaping a windfall by selling public shares. Instead his father had settled into a country club lifestyle and the camaraderie of fellow executives.

“Patience,” shrewd Rhea advised. She too had grown weary of the routine and hoped to convince Steve, as she called her husband, to take an extended worldwide trip. She pointed out that he didn’t have it so bad in the meantime.

Indeed, throughout his life the name “Stephen Joyce” opened doors and charmed important people, and he didn’t want for the material things like clothes, cars, boats or trips. But as his life advanced ---taking a position in the company, marrying Delfina and having kids--- his father overshadowed his existence and he grew restless and moody.

He developed a reputation for being smart ---and ruthless. With his calculator and business school methods he spotted inefficiencies throughout the company and preached return-on-investment and cost-benefit analysis. That alone would have been useful, but he used the data to scold the old school managers who served as proxies for his father. Yet, the company benefited and his father indulged him.

The managers, compelled to sit at the table with one lesser in rank and heed his advice, didn’t like it or him, but knew they were glimpsing the future. One day he’d be CEO and topple them like a timber company ravishing an old-growth forest.

And in time, with him pushing and Rhea pulling, they convinced the older man. Though still owning a majority and chairing the Board of Directors, he ceded managing control to Stephen The Younger.

Joyce immediately under cut the managers and the pace of the company seemed to quicken as their replacements, young, sharp, mercurial men who shared his emphasis on the short-term, came on board.

Jeremy Port was an exception. Old Blinker as he called him ---after his habit of blinking when nervous--- managed to meet demands for higher sales. Having been Joyce’s mentor, now he was fortunate to manage a record breaking sales staff. As he blinked, the ground beneath him swelled into a golden mountain, and he held on for dear life.

The light flashed soundlessly. He picked up the desk phone and listened. “No, nothing,” he said then stood to put on the jacket to his silver gray suit.

Turning to face the wall, he grasped the edge of a wood panel and swung it open to reveal a door. He passed through into a narrow corridor. That led to wider one connecting to the walkway to the Agency Hotel. He was anonymous to those he encountered as few Dedalus employees had reason to be there at that hour.

Past coffee stand and gift shop, through the small lobby of vacant armchairs, he made his way to the hotel elevators and took the one leading to the upper floor condo.

He used a card key to gain entry. The air was stale, as if nothing that breathed had lived there. He pressed a button and a small engine hummed as it retracted the drapes, admitting light and a vista that imagined the contour of continents. Nothing had been done since Dedalus acquired the lease and the furniture that came with it still suggested the manufacturers’ showroom rather than a human touch. Justified as a venue to entertain VIPs in style, he alone controlled access and its use. He didn't mention it to his father, nor to Delfina.

Duty nagged him. Duty to extend the line of corporate chiefs: his father’s father and his father before him had been heads of companies, and his sons would be groomed to preserve the tradition. After they met in college, his mother pushed for the match. Delfina came from good family, her father being CEO of a Detroit auto parts manufacturer.

“She’ll bear you fine sons,” Rhea had counseled.

And so she had. She played out the role for which she’d been selected. Part of the armament, the executive acquired a wife to help settle his wealth and make of it something real. She tended the home and the boys, happily.

He approached the tinted window. He saw his own reflection and through that the view beyond. In the distance human figures were indistinct, cars were dots that followed predestined paths and jets inched through the sky like pedestrian flies on a glass pane. Absent was the violent intensity of engines and passion for any journey traversing a beginning and an end.

To be CEO was expected and his due, just as the car and that jet were expected to move forward. But lost for having never been sought was any knowledge of what propelled Stephen Joyce the person.

As if in search of meaning, he snatched at the glittery trappings of wealth. Whatever displeased he shunted aside and destroyed when possible. Whatever pleased he held close to compare and contrast with his own nature and, when the fascination faded, to add to his collection and be forgotten until, what counted as reflection, he took the time to inspect his inventory.

He turned around. The suite did not yet please. It should be the gold standard of suites and elicit green-eyed envy in his rivals and the admiration of his allies. He nixed the idea of ordering someone up from the company. Nor did he pursue the thought of an interior decorator, which curled his lip. But he had an idea. He looked at his watch then left to return to Dedalus.

*

At the end of the walkway the elderly white-haired lady paused. With thick shaded glasses and black shawl over a floral print dress, she rested her weight on the cane in her right hand and caught her breath. Out of place amid sleek corporate offices and associates, she might have been visiting a granddaughter or keeping her company on a trip. Now, as her favorite attended to business, she was taking her exercise.

She worried at the approaching stranger. Walking down the center, the looming figure in the silver gray suit crowded the walkway and seemed to scrape the ceiling. Not wanting to challenge his courtesy, she angled the cane to the right, willing her body to follow.

As he passed without seeming to take notice, she studied the strong nose with the minute bump at the ridge, the narrow-set eyes and the small humorless lips. She hurried along, jowls aquiver and her cane goose-stepping ahead, thinking she had strayed too far, but grateful when scary things, like nightmares, passed.

***

CHAPTER 3: COMMAND

…Rhea and Steve discuss past and present…


The Mediterranean sun, reflecting off the villa’s whitewashed walls, promised burning heat later but in the morning warmed the couple on the balcony. Seated at a table having breakfast, their movements, though limited to the task, displayed a kind of grace.

Rhea sipped coffee then spoke.

“You’re restless.”

Steve Joyce rose and glided to the railing and, over the hilly Cretan landscape, gazed at the sea and the string of small white clouds streaming across the sky. His lean body was clad in white cotton slacks and shirt that reflected light. He had silver hair and active blue eyes in a face lined with deep creases. His sunken cheeks gave the impression of having exhaled a mighty gust of wind. He returned to the table.

Rhea’s lavender sundress added color, like a flower in bloom, against the white. She had pewter-colored hair cut below the ears and brown eyebrows over hazel eyes.

“You’ve enjoyed the trip.” Her eyebrows arched, expressing the question absent in her voice. He swung his head and dropped a kiss on her lips.

“You’re right, of course---” she continued, speaking for them both as, after more forty years, she often did. “---We’ll finish the month. It’s too peaceful. We’ll go back, relaxed.”

Halfway through a yearlong trip, they’d walked through the Lake District, strolled Parisian streets amid spring showers and toured Venice, Florence and Rome.

In a whisper she added, “I don’t want you causing mischief.”

“He treats my friends like dogs.”

“They’re recouping their investment.”

“Forced. Honorable men wouldn’t put up with it. Daily reporting! Looking at the numbers more often doesn’t do a thing. Schedule your calls, close deals and service the customer. Basic stuff.”

“That’s the trend.”

“Looking in the mirror, touching up flaws, falling in love with yourself. Many do. But sometimes numbers lie. By intent or for looking at the particular at the expense of the bigger picture.”

“The new people are good.”

“Easily brought to heel.”

“I don’t see a difference.”

“I tell you, schedule calls, close deals and service the client. Wealth grows and everyone benefits. These guys worry how fast. They capture growth in a stat and show it off. A hiccup is cause for celebration. But if it can’t be sustained ---it’s gone. Vanished.”

Rhea rose, walked to the railing and turned. Her straw sunhat cast a shadow over her eyes.

“Stephen’s your son. Take his side.”

He remained silent and she continued.

“You wanted Richard, I know. But he chose the ministry. Stephen followed you. That should mean something.”

“Emphasis on ’Follow’.”

Unsaid but present was awareness that had Stephen not gone into the business, the succession of presidents in the family might have ended. Maintaining continuity was synonymous to preserving prosperity. Born near the start of the second war, they met and married in the early sixties, the flower of the American Century. In quick order, they had Diane, Stephen and Richard.

She returned to the table. “There was Diane…”

His face twitched.

“I’m sorry.”

“She went her own way. I admire that.”

“You couldn’t see her as more than a girl. She got at you, being bad.”

“Not that bad, looking back.”

“She got your attention, but you’d never accept her in the business. Not for lack of love ---you couldn’t imagine it. In rejecting you, she established herself.”

“Times were different---”

“And they pass. Now she’s an artist, a good one.”

“Happy?”

“Yes. You regret not giving her a chance.” Her eyebrows arched for the question and his eyes focused on the distant past.

“I regret she had to fight out of the box I put her in. Not fair but it happens all the time ---labeling people and things according to a point of view. It helps to concentrate on what you think's important---“

“But hides the people underneath. You didn’t put me in a box.”

“You wouldn’t fit.”

“You still carry boxes around?” Her voice was playful.

“I suppose.” They laughed thinking about the time they met, browsing the Museum of Natural History. He was attending Yale and she was newly arrived in New York City. A shadow tickling the far side of recollection signaled the role that chance played in putting them together that day.

“Your folks had me labeled.”

“Not dad ---though Mom thought of you as that poor girl from Kansas.”

“After your money. ‘Girl’, by the way, is polite.”

“After she got used to you, she liked you. I did from the start.”

“Funny. I come around the corner and you standing there, jaw dropped, eyes wide, as in a trance.”

“I didn’t quite know what to make of you. I liked it ---whatever you were. You set to though, right away…”

Her eyebrows arched.

“’Close your mouth’,” you said, “’you look silly’.”

They laughed and she covered his hand with hers.

“I can’t think how it would have been, if I hadn’t seen you ---had been distracted somehow--- and you walked by. I would have continued on my way---“

“---And met someone else.”

“I can’t see it. Life would have been different.”

“You know, I willed it to happen.”

She leaned over to receive another kiss.

They discussed plans to return to L.A. and then decided what to do later in the day. When they finished, Steve stood again at the railing, like a captain of a ship looking out to sea. The sky was clear, the clouds gone like a troop of soldiers departed from the field of battle.

As if speaking, not to Rhea or himself, but to the sea, he said, “I’m Chair of the Board of Directors. I’m still Chair, god damn it!” He inhaled deeply, air inflating his cheeks, and then released it in a gust.

Watching, Rhea spoke. “You weren’t ready to retire.”

***

CHAPTER 4: BALANCE

...various interactions and implications...


Stephen Joyce drummed his fingers on the desk, as if pacing a prisoner to his execution. The Claims Manager appreciated the irony as he delivered the bad news. Claims were up and included a warehouse fire.

Mark Pointer’s tired eyes spoke to decades of pouring over accident reports, shadowy photos and contractual fine print. He was a short compact man with a wrinkled face, fading brown hair and a tight moustache.

He paused for breath. Joyce, who was looking past him at the wall, didn’t interject, so he continued with his report. Used to telling people what they didn’t want to hear, he dispassionately recited numbers and, of what they pertained to, the descriptions. When he finished, he would remain silent. The numbers are what they are and he wouldn’t embellish them with unnecessary final words.

He was well aware that Joyce had him targeted for replacement. He was a holdover. But Claims Manager wasn’t a glamour position that elicited back slaps and high-fives. The slick young men coming into the company had steered clear so far.

Pointer set down the paper, removed his glasses and folded his hands on the desk. The drumming stopped and Joyce lowered his eyes as if taking aim. Rushing blood made his face glow.

“Cause of fire?”

“Still smoldering. We’re waiting on access.”

His face got redder. He was upset, Pointer recognized, because the loss had already appeared on the system. The warehouse owner had contacted the claims adjuster right away and she was obligated to calculate and post an estimate. Over time the actual payout would be higher or lower. But for the present it was a large undigested lump threatening profits.

“Who’s the adjuster?”

“Margie.”

He could have found that out by himself.

“Did you double check her figures?”

Pointer shook his head. They both knew they were standard in-the-ballpark estimates. He pushed his face at him, eyes bulging.

“Do it!”

Pointer was silent, looking straight ahead, not avoiding Joyce’s eyes but not challenging them either. He had his finger on the pulse and had confidence in the people who worked for him. Joyce rose, glaring and domineering, then left. After he cleared the door, a line began to form, of supervisors and adjusters who needed a consult. He put on his glasses, ready to get to work.

Joyce made his way to Billing and stood at the entrance. He scanned the room, then stepped forward to Helen’s desk. He waited a second for her to acknowledge him and, when she didn’t, knocked on the frame of the cubicle wall. Still, she took a measure plus one to turn.

“Are you ready?”

She nodded. He motioned her to come.

*

Ulysses looked up at the knock and Mimosa Liang slid onto the chair beside his desk. She spoke as if in mid-conversation.

“I’m telling you. It doesn’t feel right.”

His mind was focused on the report before him.

“What?”

“The CEO.”

“So?”

“Helen.”

He squinted.

“Mo, what are you talking about?”

“The CEO. Helen. Again!”

Mimosa, with jet-black hair down to her shoulders and black eyes in an open face, had been with the company about a year. Worry lines fretted her forehead. She spoke in a whispered rush of words.

“Every time he comes, I want to hide. I don’t know what he’s thinking!”

He sat patiently to listen to the story again. Over the past weeks, Joyce had been stopping by to speak to Helen. His presence and the power of his position made Mimosa self-conscious. Though he tried to reassure her that she was doing a good job and nobody was spying on her, she worried nonetheless.

But everyone was talking, and reaching different conclusions. Some thought he was spotting new talent to advance in the company. Others, like Mo, that he was learning about their jobs in order to criticize. A third interpretation was that he was looking for a mistress or even a new wife.

The tension excited some, unnerved others. The calmest was Helen herself, who smiled when addressing “Mr. Joyce”. She swiveled her chair towards him, moving either forward or back dependent on how close he stood. Always, she held her head erect with her face slightly tilted up. And though his voice was alternately loud and low, hers was always moderate and clear, a voice that kept secrets even in the open.

When loud, Joyce spoke to generalities ---like how did she find the work or on which account was she working. His low voice suggested something personal and exclusive, causing some, like Lola McIntyre, to emerge from her desk to get closer. But Helen’s answer, in her clear voice, countermanded his low talk and suggested to most there wasn’t anything to hear.

More extraordinary was the way she dismissed him, with a glance at her watch or gesture to her desk. His consternation was obvious, but always she smiled and he departed with something like a forced grin.

She handled Joyce without complaining or a mention otherwise. That suggested confidence, but Felicia had been, too. If seeking advancement, she couldn’t have attracted anyone higher. She appeared to be playing a good hand: he kept coming back. Ulysses hadn’t reached any conclusions. He hoped for the best, but feared the worst.

“What if he comes for me?” Mo protested. “I don’t want to say no to a CEO but…”

He agreed a woman shouldn’t be put in that position. He advised her to tell him if anything in particular happened to her, a familiar recital from the other times they spoke. But, she pounded the desk.

“She went!”

“What?”

“They went ---together!”

He rose from his chair and peered over the wall. Helen’s seat was empty, angled toward the door. He felt hollow in the pit of his stomach.

*

As they left, heads sprung up and eyes followed: Joyce striding across the floor and Helen trailing, as at her leisure, tan legs shapely beneath a frilly hem. Through the hallways, a manufactured silence greeted them, followed in their wake by murmurs and, when out of earshot, a twitter or a laugh. Betsy Murray pressed the button to the elevator and shredded Helen with her eyes.

On entering his suite, Joyce sat behind the desk, but Helen inspected the room. She looked through the window down to the street, like a girl searching for dandelions. At the statue she patted the horse’s hindquarters and then, gazing at the shelves, tapped fingers before the picture of Delfina and the boys. All the while Joyce tracked her movements and checked his impatience. When finally she settled in the chair before him, she gestured around the room and met his eyes straight on.

“It appears I am your captive.”

“Helen,” Joyce began…

*

Ulysses bolted from his cubicle. Workers stood in clusters of twos and threes, some in animated conversation. They watched him, having seen Mimosa rush in. Outside the door, Lola approached and settled in his path, a mischievous look in her eyes. Before he could speak, she said, “She’s with Stephen. His office.”

He maneuvered past her down the hall. He met people agitated for having seen something. But as he progressed, the hallways cleared. His heart pounded. He was running and felt absurd. By the time he reached the reception desk he had slowed to a walk. Betsy looked up. He waved and grinned and touched her desk like a runner’s turnaround point, leaving her to wonder about his odd manner.

Already up, he decided to go for coffee. He took the elevator to the street. Along the way, he thought about what to say to Helen.

*

A brooding cloud settled over him. Time passed. Slowly. He waited, couldn’t concentrate and jumped at every sound. But when she appeared, everything happened too quickly.

He beckoned her to sit. Seated on the edge of the chair, her face was flushed, as from exercise, and her eyes excited. Her hair, combed high and back at the brow, fell into stylish tangles at the sides surrounding the serene lines of her face.

“Yul, I’m sorry for going away without letting you know. Mr. Joyce talked to me and I want to give you a heads-up. He wants me for a project. PR work. Not all the time. I’m still working here.”

He nodded dumbly, gathering his thoughts. He admired the enthusiasm attending any adventure, but feared what lay ahead.

“Helen---”

Signaled by the tone in his voice, she slid back into the chair, crossed her legs and appraised him. Her eyes settled and deepened. She waited.

“Don’t get too close.”

And waited.

“He can turn on you.”

Still waited, and he rushed to fill the silence.

“People will look at you differently.”

She canted her head. “Will you?”

His face reddened. He shook his head.

“Just ---friend to friend--- be careful.”

When she stood, he jerked his head back and was gratified by her smile.

“See you tomorrow.”

He was alone again with his thoughts. He tried to do right and be right, in the moral sense ---like right attitude towards people, and in the social sense ---right school, job or girl leading to all things good.

But right in one sphere might damage rightness in another: being fired for taking a principled stand might injure the good life he sought. Still, he craved a higher purpose.

Helen, and all she represented, was that purpose. He couldn’t bear the thought of divided time with Joyce. He suspected his motives and was ashamed to associate them with her. He would protect her, even though her eyes told him it wasn’t necessary and he’d have a devil of a time explaining to Penny if he lost his job. He had to admit, he might be a bit in love. That complicated matters, but didn’t trump them, so he vowed.



* End of Part One *


Part Two begins March 6.

The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

Lead In For New Story In January

I composed this lead in. It feels right but could change:

In the Land of Opportunity, Fortunes rise and Fortunes fall but Fortunes are forever and fluid as an ocean swell. In human-scale perception, some gain the heights, others wallow in the troughs and most exist between the two.

Seeking Something More, the ambitious suffer. They fall reaching for the sun, are rent apart glimpsing the divine, are burdened by knowledge of lust, greed and folly.


I'll post the first chapter in January.

Happy Holidays!

Chapters 1 - 9: Room to Choose

Since Riley mentioned it, Mara developed the unconscious habit of looking into the empty room. “Wouldn’t it be great,” he’d said, “if we could find the ideal roommate to help with the rent?”

Mara responded with skepticism, thinking of roommates at the dorm, who behaved like Girls Gone Wild. She wasn’t a prude, but what about quiet passion?

Still, he had a point. Another roommate would free up money. Her parents footed tuition and living expenses, but they had limits. And now, with cutbacks at State, she might have to stay a fifth year to get all her classes. Though she took the occasional job, like the summer internship at the TV station, she didn’t work regularly.

So she agreed and they put up a notice on craigslist, and mentioned it to friends. Last year, she and Riley became roommates when friends linked them up. She discovered he was a serious student, didn’t drink much and didn’t smoke. Plus he was sweet, like a brother. After the events of the summer, their relationship grew tighter. Maybe they’d get lucky and find someone good.

The room was small, which was why they didn’t think of renting it before. Overall the apartment had three bedrooms, two large and the small one, one-and-a-half bathrooms, living room and a large kitchen.

On the fourth of five floors on Pine, the living room overlooked the street and would have had an expansive view down to Market, absent the brick building across the way. Instead, they watched westward cars racing up the one-way street. They used the laundry room in the basement, but went to the laundromat on Bush when they had a lot to wash. Mara parked her yellow VW in the underground garage.

*

Three prospects responded. One was a businesswoman, another a student and the third a young woman vague about what she was doing.

Sheila Very toured the apartment like a real estate agent, though she was an event planner based in Dallas. She wore a blue dress suit, matching high heels and a silky red, white and blue scarf tucked into the collar of a white blouse. A brilliantly white smile was fixed to her face.

Afterwards, they sat at the kitchen table, Mara and Riley opposite her. She appraised them for a moment, then looked to Mara.

“What kind of household do you run?”

The question caught her off-guard. She looked to Riley, then back at Sheila.

“I like structure and order in my home. I won’t be here most the time, but I expect nothing less when I am.”

“It kinda runs itself,” Riley said. “We pick up after ourselves--”

“--And dust and vacuum when it needs it.” Mara added.

Sheila looked doubtful, then, addressing Riley, pointed to her own blonde coiffure.

“Did something happen?”

He rubbed his head, which looked like a fuzzy dandelion flower. “I shaved it over the summer but decided to grow it.” Her smile vanished under closed lips, then reappeared.

“One last thing. This is delicate, but I need to know…” Her index finger pointed back and forth between the two, like a metronome. Riley looked at Mara and she at him. They giggled and she stood.

“I didn’t think so. Now I’m sure.”

She thanked them and showed herself out. The two roommates looked at each other.

“We failed.”

“Thank god!”

*

Peter, who didn’t offer a last name, was a philosophy major at USF. He wore a black hoodie and jeans and ipod earplugs. His black hair dripped over his head, extending to sideburns to the bottom of his ears and a goatee.

“Do you think it’s large enough?” Mara asked when she showed the room. He nodded, though he seemed absorbed in music coming through his earplugs. She couldn’t be sure who he was listening to.

When the three congregated in the kitchen, he darted into his seat as in musical chairs.

“So what do you think?” Riley asked.

“S’okay.” He said, staring first at one then the other.

“Do you have any questions for us?” Mara asked.

He shook his head.

“We’ll let you know after we interview the others.”

He nodded. They were escorting him out when he turned to ask how many people responded.

“Five.” Riley said.

He thought a moment, then left. As they heard his footsteps descending the carpeted stairwell, she turned to Riley.

“You lied.”

“A white one.”

“What if the last one doesn’t work out?”

“She can’t be worse.”

Recalling the e-mail from the third prospect, Mara wasn’t so sure. She was a twenty year old woman who was a student in Southern California with a full-time job in San Francisco. The contradiction made her head hurt.

*

But Sherry Wood was a pleasant surprise. Unlike the confusing e-mail, Mara found her straightforward. She was plump, stood a few inches taller than she, with long blonde hair, earnest brown eyes and a tentative smile. She showed up wearing black slacks and a pink sweater, and carrying an overnight bag. She saw them glance at the bag and laughed.

“I just got in from the airport. Please don’t think I’d impose.”

Her manner put them at ease and, as they got to know her, they thought she might be the one. Riley, though, noticed she avoided his eyes.

She told them she was going to the UC in Riverside but that she was taking off a year, and, through a connection, got an administrative job at a law firm. When Mara asked why she came to San Francisco, she answered, “It’s far enough and still close.” Noting their puzzled looks, she continued.

“I come from a fundamentalist family and I love my parents dearly. This would have been my junior year and I was going to declare for PolySci, but--”

She glanced at Riley.

“—-There’s a boy. Roger.”

“Your parents don’t approve?” Mara asked.

“They approve too much!”

Roger, she explained, attended her church and was an assistant manager at a supermarket. In the last two years they’d become a couple and marriage was likely. “I love him, and I’m happy—“

“But?”

She sighed. “The world is closing in too fast. I mean I see my mother, so joyful and content. Will I be, too? There’s so much in the world. Our faith parcels it into good and evil, but I have trouble being convinced everything we call evil is evil. Take music and dancing--”

“You don’t dance?” Mara’s eyes bulged.

“I have. I am of the modern world.”

“Don’t you listen to music?”

“Sometimes.”

With a wide grin and a tattletale voice, Riley said, “Mara sings in the kitchen.”

“I don’t mind. I just--“

Mara put her hand over Sherry’s, looking kindly into her distressed eyes. “You don’t need to say more.”

She looked grateful. “I just need to step away.”

Mara and Riley glanced at each other, signaling they’d make the offer, and were about to, when a cloud crossed Sherry’s face.

“There is one thing…”

Her family, while supportive, couldn’t fully grasp what she was going through. Though they agreed to the time away, they might balk if they learned she had a man as a roommate. For the second time, a puzzled look came over them. As Mara began to speak, Sherry asked, “'Riley' can be a girl’s name, can’t it?”

After some discussion, they agreed they wouldn’t let on Riley was a man, if they could help it. Sherry would use her cell to communicate with her parents and give Mara’s cell number as an emergency contact. She would discourage visits by going down south to visit her family.

“It doesn’t feel good, though, starting with a lie.”

“A white lie.” Mara said.

“The white whale of white lies.” Riley riffed, as he and Mara laughed.

Sherry flushed, looking doubtful, but their laughter was infectious. Starting in her belly, it advanced upwards until she joined in, and laughter was bouncing off the walls.


...the new roommate adjusts to city life...


In September, Sherry moved into the room, which held a single bed, night table, lamp, dresser and a closet. She brought only enough to sustain her the year: bedding, clothes she deemed suitable for the cooler climate and a Bible.

Her daily routine meshed with her roommates', since she rose early to be at the office at eight, and Mara and Riley woke up later for mid-morning classes. She relished the independence of the morning hours in the apartment, her own private space.

Then she joined the others in the commute to work. Hers was a twenty-minute downhill walk to Battery. She donned white, carefully scrubbed running shoes and double-checked for the sensible black flats she had packed in the bag slung over her shoulder.

Outside, the days were fresh, cool in the shadows and warm in the glare of the new sun. A multitude of sounds marked the pace of city life and invigorated her steady steps: a cabbie tapping impatiently on a horn, a merchant dragging hollow trash receptacles from the street, the mechanical winding of the cables under Powell, pulling unseen trolleys somewhere on the line.

She picked her building out of the skyline, and thrilled at the illusion of being taller because of the hill. As she approached, its angular structure dwarfed her, as did the façade that framed the revolving doors admitting her.

Work as an office assistant was easy, though the hostile impatience from some attorneys unsettled her. Once, while making copies, she spotted a lone document without a pink copy order. Probably separated from a batch, it looked important, but she couldn’t tell where it belonged. She mentioned it to Lola McIntyre, another OA, who didn’t bother to look. “Someone will come after it.”

She followed her example and kept making copies. Later, one of the attorneys came through. His face grew red as he snatched it up. He looked at Lola, who ignored him, and then at Sherry. He barked, “I need ten copies!”

She jumped, took the document and fumbled as she fed it into the copier. When they came out, he grabbed them and stormed away.

Lola shook her head. “Just blow it off.”

She tried, but it troubled her. Everyone had dash or anger or who-gives-a-fig attitude. Were they acting? She couldn’t tell. But if she behaved that way, she thought her true self would be peering over her shoulder, mocking such foolish talk and deeds.

Then there were clothes. The office trend was smooth lines and basic colors, wool skirts and high heels. Hers tended to blouses with flowery prints and frilly collars, and durable cotton skirts. She didn’t own high heels, which suggested pride, putting oneself on a pedestal, as it were. She went to Macy’s to look for clothes, but gagged at the prices. Everyone’s so rich, she thought.

After quitting work at five, she window-shopped on the way home, enjoying the weather and the crowds. If she didn’t have plans to attend a free concert or a lecture, she spent the night reading. Because of the expense, she didn’t eat out much but shared evening meals two or three times a week with her roommates.

Overall, she thought she made a good transition. Any sense of awkwardness or being different was, she reasoned, part of the experience. When she called her family or Roger, she didn’t dwell on it and, instead, like a travel agent, extolled the beauty of the city.

*

One night, she went to bed at midnight, while Mara and Riley sat in the front room, their quiet conversation filtering through the door. When she turned out the light, the windowless room turned pitch-black, and she fell asleep, until—

She sat bolt upright.

It was quiet. The orange face of the digital clock read 3:20. Falling back into bed, she lay listening. Maybe it was an ambulance. The shrieking sirens used to bother, but after a few weeks, they blended into the night. She began to doze, and in half-sleep, heard knock-knock-knock.

A sound without image, the dream confused her and revved up her heart. Was someone at the door? The sound was close, intimate, something of her own.

Knock-knock-knock persisted and she opened her eyes to the dark room. The sound bounced off the walls. She watched the noise a few moments before realizing the source. She turned on the light, separating logic and sound, then pulled the covers over her head. Upstairs.

Knock-knock-knock tormented, sounding like murder by strangulation. She imagined thick hands pinning a neck, a body leaping in protest to the end of life, a low escaping moan its surrender. Her heart said violence never led to anything good. She thought of calling 911, but how to describe it?

A memory flashed into mind: a freak Southern California lightning storm, the deep rumble of thunder, a young girl racing into a motherly embrace and the comforting heat of her body. There’d be no such comfort here.

So she waited for the knocking to end, minutes seeming hours until she was exhausted. Then unexpectedly, it stopped. But in the silence, tension grew.

Would he leave right away? She prayed he would, well before she had to go to work, precluding a chance encounter in stairwell, elevator or lobby. Sharing close quarters with strangers was uncomfortable, but knowing one was violent would be unthinkable.

Sometimes the bus was so crowded she could smell the sour sweat on a man or a woman’s too sweet perfume or be forced to stand face-to-face with someone. She couldn’t presume anyone a killer but couldn’t rule it out either. In the daylight she didn’t think such thoughts. But this morning, any stranger coming down the stairs might be.

She heard a voice, and then a second one, and a low banter amplified by thin walls and heightened awareness. She ruled out murder, and was embarrassed—- Until fatigue caused her to doze. Later, when the alarm buzzed, she stepped out of bed, weary beyond the boundaries of flesh, blood and bone.

*

She called her mother later that day and was comforted by her voice. She was glad she called, but asked if anything was wrong. “No, just checking in.”

They spoke about relatives and friends and, beyond her mother’s voice, she heard a lawnmower at work, a barking dog and laughing kids, conjuring such pleasant associations, it pained her to be away.

She asked herself, “If that’s where I want to be, why did I leave?” As they continued talking, she was tempted to say, “I’m coming home”.

It would have been easy. But something held her back. After she hung up, she sat in the empty apartment. Mara and Riley wouldn’t be back for another hour, so she started working in the kitchen to make something special for dinner.

As she did, she tried to figure out what it was holding her back from going forward, with family, with Roger, returning to them. She could reach only one conclusion: pride. Pride had compelled her away from her loved ones and into a city of strangers. And stubborn pride kept her from conceding she had made a terrible mistake.


...Mara strives to make a point...


As soon as they met, Mara vowed to introduce Sherry to the larger world. The right attitude was the difference between a rich life and a poor one, she thought. There were two types: “No” and “Yes” people. The No had to be dragged out of a routine existence, protesting all the while: “No, I can’t go. But if I do, I have to be back early.” That attitude was like a wall obstructing the imagination.

She considered herself a Yes. “Yes, let’s surf in the morning and fly to Las Vegas in the afternoon. Yes, let’s catch a show and gamble all night and see that movie when we get back.” Life was a series of connecting activities that, strung together, stretched into a rainbow arching to a pot of gold.

Sherry was rightly challenging the limits someone else had defined and yes she would help. Riley, though, thought she was meddling, causing Mara's eyes to narrow.

So, Mara observed the new roommate with interest and some amusement. Touching base at evening meals, she prompted her to tell what she’d been doing. One night over macaroni and cheese, she described her confusion at an overdue bus that passed without stopping.

“He just pointed behind him.”

“The hitchhiker thumb--reversed,” Riley laughed.

“But why?”

“He’s saying take the bus behind him.”

“There wasn’t one.”

“Typical Muni.” Mara said.

She shared a small victory when she found a smart wool skirt at the second hand. Happily showing it off, she told Mara how much weight she had to lose; she was almost there.

She mentioned going to a church meeting, but complained later that “They wanted to own her time”, and went less often. Mara nodded knowingly.

Once she brought a friend to a meal. Lola was tall, had pale skin, a crop of short cut brown hair and a gold stud in her nose. Her face was like a mask, hiding her emotions. Sometimes differences attract, Mara thought. Sherry confided Lola was going through a difficulty she was helping her through.

Sherry seemed to be making the adjustments all newcomers make, when discovery and acquired knowledge morph into delighted awareness or stoic endurance. All that was fine and good but Mara wanted to do something. Sherry’s upcoming 21st birthday gave her an idea: dinner and dancing. She agreed, but after she returned from celebrating with her family.

*

“I just want to shake her sometimes.”

Riley rested a hand on Mara’s shoulder. Then, standing behind her, he grabbed her other shoulder and started to shake her. The gray-billed cap teetered on her bobbing head.

“Like this?”

“Stop.”

“Does it make anymore sense?”

“Stop, I said.” He sat back down at the kitchen table, a broad smile on his face. Mara looked glum as she pushed the cap back down on her dark hair.

“She liked dinner. So what if she left after the dancing started?”

“She should’ve given it a chance.”

“But it wasn’t the dancing, she said.”

“Yeah, yeah, the atmosphere.”

“Twisting bodies in the dark and a glowing red background. She didn’t feel comfortable.”

“Yes, and will she spend her life running from things that make her uncomfortable?”

*

Early one morning, when Mara rose from bed for a drink of water, she gravitated to the front window to glance outside. When she turned she was startled to see Sherry curled into a ball on the couch and let out a cry.

“Oh!”

Sherry jerked awake, eyes wide with surprise and blinking awareness, pulling the blanket to her chin.

“Sorry,” she stammered, “I know I shouldn’t sleep here—“

Still half asleep, Mara sat beside her to learn what was wrong. At first Sherry leaned away, as if to curl back into a ball, but Mara rubbed her back, telling her she wanted to help. She loosened up and with averted eyes told her about the knocks in the ceiling. Mara stifled an inclination to laugh.

“Show me.”

She followed her into the room. It was quiet. Sherry frowned.

“Wait.” Mara went into the kitchen and returned with a yellow broom.

Speaking in a loud voice that unsettled the morning stillness, she said, “Here’s what you do.”

Moving a chair to the wall, she stepped onto it with bare feet, then jammed the broom handle into the angle between wall and ceiling.

“When they get noisy, knock back---“

She jammed it three times without any response. Sherry’s eyes widened at the boldness.

“---And let them know you’re here!”

Mara marched back to her room, fully satisfied with her demonstration of the right attitude.


...Sherry learns more about Lola...


One day Sherry realized that she and Lola were friends. She would not have predicted it, but as she got to know her, she realized they were on the same journey traveling on different roads.

The expense of lunch in the Financial District brought them together. Sherry had determined early on that she’d have to be frugal. So, every morning she prepared salad, which she carried in a plastic container in her bag. Dessert was usually sliced fruit.

She enjoyed eating at Jackson Square. A small park a few blocks away, it was about two-hundred steps wide in any direction and contained some tall pine trees, a fountain and a hillock of green grass. The pace of the day slowed whenever she entered its confines. Sitting by the fountain, she listened to the musical articulation of falling water and watched the treetops swaying in the wind. She might have been on a mountaintop for the sensations she felt.

While her routine rarely varied, she observed that Lola’s did. After payday, she took lunch at the sandwich shop across from the office, then, half way through the two-week period, disappeared. Her moods followed a similar pattern: happy and animated after payday, sullen and sluggish later on.

One day, she found Lola seated on a bench at the Square, staring into the screen of her cell. She sat without waiting for acknowledgment. Lola looked over and nodded and Sherry prepared her lunch.

After a while, Lola palmed her cell and gazed ahead. Sherry tried to draw her into conversation. When she didn’t pick up on it, she asked if she’d eaten. Lola didn’t want to talk about food, but Sherry offered some salad. When Lola declined, she pushed an apple at her, which she took. She admitted she’d rather sleep in than make lunch and didn’t eat much when money ran out. Sherry learned that was the least of her problems.

“I got into some really bad habits over the summer,” she said, tilting her head up at the sky. “The days were so long, it seemed you got off work early because there was so much time before dark.

“I’d meet friends at a place we went to and we talked and laughed over drinks. One drink led to more and, sometimes, when I tried to remember the night before, I counted drinks instead of time. Of course when the money ran out, it was time to go. Unless someone else was paying…

“As the days grew longer, they got drunker, too. And the nights! When I stepped outside, every light was winking. If I wasn’t just going home, and had money and friends, those winking lights were so alluring. Well, the lights weren’t the only things winking.”

Lola looked over to Sherry who’d stopped eating and was holding her breath.

“Have you ever been drunk?” Sherry shook her head.

“Sometimes you get to a point where every word sounds funny and every thought you think sounds funny. Everyone’s drunk and agreeing with each other, making everything funnier.

“When the group breaks apart, you’re still in that drunk funny agreeable mood and that’s when the winking is so seductive.”

“Winking?”

“Boys. Sometimes I can’t remember agreeing to it—- but it’s one thing to wake up beside someone you know and quite another when it’s a stranger.

“When I can reach over and touch him as he sleeps, and I don’t know his name or remember where we met, lying there, hoping I remember before he wakes, hoping he’s nice.”

“You have to stop!”

“I know.”

“What if he’s not nice? What if he’s—“

“Jack the Ripper. Yeah, I thought about it.”

Sherry sat on the edge of the bench, turning to face Lola squarely. As she did she felt she was filling a mold someone else had occupied.

“What steps have you taken?”

Lola crossed her arms and looked away, sliding down in the bench. Sherry held her position five counts before speaking.

“You have to think hard about what’s right, then draw a line. There you build a wall. On one side are the things you keep. Everything else, you toss over.”

Sherry started bringing extra salad and making a point of inviting Lola to lunch. At first, she resisted but then joined in, contributing to the meals by bringing things like bread or chocolate. Encouraged, but mindful of her diet, Sherry nibbled judiciously at the offerings.

She learned that Lola came from Red Bluff, about two hundred miles north of the city, where her parents and a younger brother lived. She had no religious beliefs, which disturbed her.

Sherry became Lola’s companion, directing her to less destructive pursuits, like the low cost activities she’d discovered. She took her up on a few, but shied from church meetings and lectures. Their lunches were the routine. They even met on weekends. That’s when she realized they’d become friends.

*

Lola was on her mind when she went home to celebrate her 21st. She’d taken a first big step by deciding not to drink. She believed her presence made a difference and worried about a relapse, but maybe that was pride; maybe Lola would be all right. She wanted to tell her mother about Lola, but wouldn’t share everything.

Her birthday was a festive event. Not only had immediate family been there, but streams of aunts and uncles, nephews and nieces and Roger. She felt the warm, happy emotions she’d anticipated.

She hadn’t expected, though, comments about her physical appearance. She had lost weight and dressed differently, mostly because her old clothes were looser. She was paler, too, she was told. It amused her, because everyone acted as if she’d accomplished something. All the while, she thought how much more she was changed inside.

Roger hovered on the edges. She could read the anxiety on his face. He thought he might be losing her. For her part, she worried he was unhappy. She calmed and unnerved him when she kissed him on the lips. The younger people whooped and he blushed. She reveled in her boldness, though felt, from somewhere, her mother’s eyes.

After the party broke up, she and her mother were alone and she felt the weight of what must stay unsaid. She thought her mother sensed it, too, and realized that for all her honesty she hardly spoke of unpleasant things, and didn’t dwell on them when she did. She liked to cite good moral examples in the world, leaving a lot unsaid in between. Their eyes searched each other for clues. But when she asked about her roommates a crush of unhappiness descended.

“Are the girls treating you well?”

“Girls?”

“Mara and Riley.”

Her eyes darted left then down. Again, she wanted to fess up. But a confession would put everything into doubt. Unhappy at the wall between them, she answered.

“They’re fine.”


...the new friends consider what's missing...


Lola didn’t think it’d be a problem. But when quitting time came Thursday, she felt the empty space where Sherry had been. She was the only one she told about not drinking and so served as constant reminder and excuse. When friends said to meet at Stephen’s Place, she’d say she was going to dinner or a movie with Sherry. They wouldn’t question when you had something else. Neither would she.

But Sherry flew out Wednesday and was to return late Sunday and she didn’t have any place she needed to be. Her mouth felt dry as her mind raced. This was, she realized, her first true test alone.

Once, twice and three times she considered dropping by Stephen’s, because having one wouldn’t be the same as being drunk. But it wasn’t not drinking, either. She picked up her pace, walking quickly, hoping to tire herself. The March weather helped. Gray clouds and gusty winds chilled her and she wanted to be warm. She could turn on the heater as soon as she got home, she thought as incentive. But she couldn’t help thinking, while crossing Taylor, where she’d end up if she went right and who’d be there. She kept walking straight to her apartment.

A small studio on Polk, it overlooked the busy street of shops, restaurants and bars. None of her friends drank there, but the loud boisterous two a.m. talk outside sounded familiar. She shut the blinds and turned on the TV and tried not to think, because when she did anxiety for the next few days competed with thoughts of the summer ahead.

Since she stopped drinking there’d been more money and more time. The money was like a miracle. She could afford to eat out, make a dent in her credit card bill and still have something left. The extra time was more a burden, because it proved she hadn’t been doing much besides working, going out and sleeping. Was that a life?

Friday, she woke early and felt rested. Sherry sent a text message to boost her spirits. “Be Strong,” it read. She repeated the words throughout the day. It wasn’t hard to be strong on payday when she was happy. She joined a group for sandwiches at lunch. Everyone had plans for the weekend. Hers was to “Be Strong”.

Early that evening, Sherry called and suggested a movie. Maybe tomorrow, she told her, not wanting to go out alone at night when she might be in a dangerous mood. She tried reading a book but the antics in a Friends rerun captured her attention before drifting off to sleep.

She woke early the next day and, anxious to do something, quickly dressed to go for coffee and a walk. Sherry’s text that day read “Stay Strong!” She asked about the movie and mentioned her birthday party was that day. Lola wished her the best.

Not finding a movie she liked, she spent the day walking and testing the adage that San Francisco had more bars than laundromats. (It was true). Saturday night was like the night before and she was growing restless.

The next day Sherry’s message read “Forever Strong”. If forever were as long as the last few days, she was in trouble because Sunday was a repeat of Saturday. Monday found her glad to go to work, a very strange sensation indeed.

*

Soon after returning from Riverside, Sherry witnessed a fire not far from Lola’s apartment. Orange and yellow flames engulfed the building and lit the dark night, searing her mind and leaving an impression days afterward. Thick python-like hoses extended from fire hydrants and trucks and streets were wet with water. As firefighters sought to contain the blaze a crowd of onlookers gawked, like people watching the sun set on the ocean horizon. Some, though, reveled as at a bonfire.

She recalled there’d been a mom-and-pop grocery, dry cleaners and other shops on the street level and apartments on the upper ones. A group of people, faces filled with terror, clustered nearby. Some were barefoot and wore jeans, shorts or whatever else they had on before escaping. One trembling woman clutched a calico cat as though it were the only thing she had in the world.

Those people lost their home, Sherry thought, through no choice of their own. She felt blessed for never having been put in such need.

She went out of her way to go by the fallen structure, which smoldered for days. Contractors erected a chain link fence and where strollers once glanced through doors and windows there was nothing but debris. What had been home and business to so many was now an empty space. The contrast fascinated her and she felt guilty. Was she like those revelers, thrilled despite the pain to others?

One day when passing she studied the bare foundation whose concrete insets and buttresses were like the contours of a giant cookie cutter. When she raised her gaze to the building behind, with walls like skin newly exposed to the sun and windows climbing one over the other to the top, a movement caught her eye.

A white cloth fluttered right to left across a pane, starting at the top and progressing to the bottom, removing film and restoring clarity. A woman’s face popped into the frame and looked in all directions before disappearing.

There was a spring in her step when Sherry walked home.


...Mara crosses a line...


When she woke in the middle of the night, she thought she’d been dreaming. When she realized what it was, she became annoyed. When it persisted, she got mad.

She wasn’t some newcomer frightened by frisky goings-on. No, not Mara Ware. She knew what had to be done. Still, she didn’t feel like getting out of bed. She lay listening, hoping it would stop; not for lack of conviction but because she was so goddamn tired. When it continued, she cursed under her breath, pushed off the covers and hit the floor running.

Clad in t-shirt and panties and with eyes half closed, she passed through the hallway into the kitchen in search of the broom. It lay against the wall in the corner where her subconscious mind led. She wrapped fingers around the tool nearly as tall as she and escorted it back to her room

Leaping onto the bed and timing her jabs with the upward spring of the mattress, she thrust the fully extended handle three times against the ceiling, like a Jason attacking the underbelly of a dragon. She was putting arms to rest when thwack-thwack-thwack sounded in reply. She thrust the handle angrily but, the mattress having settled, managed only a feeble scratch.

Just then, Riley popped his head inside the door. “What’s wrong?”
Letting go the broom, it clattered against the closing door. “Get the hell out of here!”

She overslept that morning and would have missed class if Riley hadn’t woken her. As she drove them across town, she explained.

They knew Sherry hadn’t complained lately, looked rested and hadn’t been, from what they could tell, sleeping in the front room. The apartment above had the same floor plan, but they didn’t know who lived there. Did they change rooms, passing the problem to Mara, or did new tenants move in? The only sure thing was, despite being in the building for more than a year, they didn’t know much about their neighbors.

They had brief encounters at the mailbox: older men asking friendly but personal questions; young men, zoned out on music or drugs, eyes open but emotions closed to the world; and women, mostly older, who worked in offices downtown. They hadn’t met any students like themselves and were content to maintain their privacy and not get involved, except to stare at anybody scooting in behind them through the secure lobby door.

But Old Joe, the on-site manager, knew everyone. He lived on the ground floor, did routine maintenance and showed apartments. They could ask him.

Weeks went by without any disturbance and Mara didn’t think more of it. But early one morning, it happened again and she went through the cycle of awareness, annoyance and getting mad and she realized she was, as if watching herself in a mirror. Again, she knew what had to be done, again got the broom and again delivered three resounding thuds to the ceiling. This time there was no reply.

Later that day, she wrote a note: “Be considerate of your neighbors. Keep the noise down in the early morning hours!” She didn’t sign it. They disturbed everyone, she reasoned, and should consider the note from everybody they bothered. But, more, she worried about someone crazy coming to the door. She put the note in an envelope and wedged it in the crack between door and frame upstairs.

She saw Old Joe outside a few days later, pushing a heavy bristled broom across the pavement: Shhh, shhh, shhh. Trim, with gray hair and thick glasses, he stopped to listen, his foot propped on the broom, hands atop the handle, looking like a farmer talking crops.

He responded, “walls are thin… people complain… no, not about her… that’s how it is…” He said to let him know if she’s still having problems but he couldn’t do much unless she were totally out of line. Her name was Trish; worked a day job in an office, a night one as a waitress and was half way through a one-year lease.

Confrontation was an option, but it didn’t make sense to go up on any random day to complain. She could pretend ignorance. It’d been a few days so maybe, just maybe, the note did the job.

When it happened again, her anger, pursuing a well-worn path, exploded into action. She leaped out of bed, wrapped a light coat around her and stormed upstairs. There she pounded the door, shouting, “Quit making noise!”

She bruised the wood door and the white haze stillness under soft lights in early morning hours. When her ears began to ring, she knew she crossed a line to become someone with something to work out, someone people hoped would move along, like a muttering bag lady burdened with loads that only grew.

Looking down the hallway, she thought it her private asylum, sterile, empty, her voice the only sound. Somewhere behind peepholes people watched --- unless they didn’t. Wanting a response but unhappy at what it’d be, she slunk away.

She returned to a dark room and fell asleep. When she woke later that morning, she wasn’t sure; it might have been a dream.


...Roger pays a visit...


When she heard the voice through the intercom, Sherry thought someone had rung the wrong apartment. But when he said “Roger” she knew he had it right and instantly felt like someone found out at last. Alarmed, Riley asked if he should go to his room.

“No. I’ll bring him up.”

Riley and Lola waited as she went downstairs to admit him. When she saw him through the beveled glass in the lobby door, she thought how strange he looked, like a puzzle piece from the wrong box.

She didn’t have to ask. Her parents were curious, too, and kept informed through the family friend who got her the job. They knew she went to work and lived nearby. But it irked her that he didn’t tell her he was coming. Not that it was a big deal. Not anymore.

She pulled open the accordion gate to the elevator and, as they stood cramped in the small space, scrutinized her boyfriend. He had a crew cut and sunburned face and wore jeans and a long sleeved shirt buttoned to the neck. He looked tired. She was glad she’d changed after work into jeans and a gray sweatshirt. She pulled her blonde hair into a ponytail.

She led through the apartment door and into the front room. Riley and Lola turned toward them and she made the introductions. Riley stood, extending his hand.

“Riley?”

“Mara is my other housemate.”

Roger crossed his arms and Riley took back his hand.

He growled, “Is Mara a man, too?”

Lola laughed and covered it in a fit of coughs.

“She’ll be home soon.”

“Do your parents know?”

Sherry shook her head.

He didn’t think so. Ever since Sherry announced she was going away, a shadow stalked him. The whole thing struck him as odd. People went away all the time: to college, new jobs, the military, and on yearlong missions from church. But her trip wasn’t any of those. He believed when something doesn’t fit, you pound on it till it does. But no matter how he shaped it, it didn’t make sense.

He couldn’t persuade her from going, and her parents were all right with it. Though she called and e-mailed, he didn’t feel he was getting the full picture. And when she came back for her birthday, the changes surprised him and raised more questions. He wanted to see for himself, so he took a few days off work and drove to San Francisco.

He looked at Sherry, dropped his gaze into his hands and then scanned the ceiling. He looked at her again.

“You lied. It’s not like you.”

“I wasn’t completely honest.”

Riley flushed red, feeling like the punch line to a bad joke.

“Riley, I’m sorry.”

He stood and pointed at Roger. “You didn’t do anything. No matter what he thinks.”

Roger stood and thrust out his chest, hands at his hips. Sherry rose, too, and embraced the glowering man.

Lola, who’d been sitting on the edge of her seat, leaped up, grabbed Riley’s arm and followed him into the kitchen.

“They together?”

Sherry shook her head.

Just then Mara came into the apartment. Seeing Sherry embracing a man she didn’t know and Riley and Lola huddled together, she quickly assessed the situation. When Sherry introduced them, Mara brought her hand to his stone face and gave his cheek a playful slap.

“Lighten up.”

The apartment seemed all of a sudden like a very small space. Wanting to be alone with Roger, she took his hand and led him to her room.

It looked much like it did after she first moved in: single bed, dresser, chair and nightstand. She avoided collecting things, aware the year would pass quickly. One addition, though, was a picture of the silver moon shining through the gray towers of the Bay Bridge. She’d clipped it from the newspaper and taped it to the mirror on her dresser above the framed pictures of her parents and Roger.

She guided him to her bed and overcame the resistance of his arm pulling away. She sat him down, undid the laces on his running shoes and took them off. Then, she pushed him back so he lay on top of the covers, face toward the ceiling, and took her place beside him.

In the soft glow of lamplight, their breathing leveled off and wordless thoughts of past, present and future filled the room. He brought his arm across her shoulder and she nestled her head on his chest and, sharing a mutual heat, they fell asleep.

She woke in the middle of the night and observed the sleeping figure beside her. She wondered what he was dreaming and was glad she knew his name. When he stirred and opened his eyes, he saw her smiling.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

*

Roger wanted to get an early start because he had to get back to work, so Sherry was making him breakfast in the early morning privacy she’d come to expect. She imagined it as a gift she could share and was happy. But it also recalled her mother making meals for the family, and she was sad. She was hundreds of miles away, and Roger would drive away and be far, too. She teetered between the two emotions as she scrambled eggs and Roger looked outside the window.

Having private space was important, but being able to share it, she realized, was important, too. She had her privacy, in a modest way, in her room. But until Roger’s visit, she’d never shared it. The thought made her feel empty.

At home the lines of what was hers were never as distinct as in the apartment. Her parents restrained themselves from entering without her permission, but they still had the right. Maybe that chaffed unconsciously and compelled her on her journey. But now she saw it differently.

She served the meal and Roger took his place at the table, his hair lopsided from the pillow and his eyes still sleepy.

“Do you want to shower?”

“I’ll wash my face.”

He didn’t want to get too comfortable. Though encouraged by Sherry’s reception, he considered himself in foreign territory and didn’t like the idea she liked it there.

He could never get used to living in a box with cars racing on the street below. It was like living on a freeway. He wanted a green lawn and trees outside, not another building.

Things were like she said, except Riley being a man. Mara was bold. When she patted his face like she did, it fit her. She never did talk much about Riley; now he knew why. It bothered him and should bother him still, he told himself. But he could tell there was nothing between them and he wouldn’t make a big deal about it, unless he had to.

Everything he saw --- including her soft brown eyes across the table --- her behavior, her words and the time they spent together the night before, suggested she was true about coming home. He wanted her to say it, but didn’t want to plead.

After they ate and he washed his face, she walked him to his car that was parked a few blocks away on a steep hill. When they arrived, they faced each other.

“You like living in an apartment?”

“Not like in a house.”

She invited him to visit again and then they kissed, each attaching a greater significance to it than might occur to any passerby.


...Sherry prepares a special dinner...


It was the Thursday before the Memorial Day weekend and the roommates gathered for a meal Sherry prepared. Riley helped move the dining table into the front. Sherry struck the shades and opened the windows to evening and neighboring lights. Above a white tablecloth and the table set for four, she lit two candles.

She wanted it to be special because she’d been getting hints the end was near. At work, her boss delivered her six-month appraisal and offered a permanent job. She declined the offer --- which made Lola unhappy.

At home, Riley and Mara were prepping for finals and planning summer trips: Mara to Europe for a few weeks before returning to L.A., and Riley to spend time with family in Kansas and Florida. She didn’t know if they were aware that she’d be leaving by the time they returned to San Francisco. The dinner was her way of marking the occasion.

The scent of food wafted through the apartment. The menu was tomato bisque, beef brisket, red potatoes and asparagus. Dessert was ice cream, vanilla or chocolate, and for drinks, sparkling cider or soda.

Mara and Riley had stayed in the background during much of the preparation, but at eight o’clock they met in the hallway and took the few short steps to present themselves.

“Beautiful!” Mara exclaimed.

A knock at the door diverted Riley who admitted Lola and a flame fluttering draft. She stepped into the room and met the winking of lights, reflected off silverware and the lips of glasses, and through the windows from the street lamps outside.

“Nice.”

Her bracelets jangled as she ran to kiss Sherry. She wore a tight black skirt accentuating her long legs, ankle boots and a silky blouse with a plunging neckline. Thick black mascara and long lashes framed her brown eyes. Sherry had suggested everyone dress up, but she thought Lola might have overdone it.

Riley wore a long-sleeved white shirt and designer jeans; Mara tan slacks, a teal blouse and earrings fashioned like bluish-green globes. Sherry wore her gray skirt and a lavender blouse and a fake pearl necklace. She balanced herself on a new pair of black leather shoes with one-inch heels.

Taking her place, Sherry sat opposite Riley on the end of the table with Mara to her left and Lola on her right.

As soon as she sat, Mara sprung up, pointing to the squat water glasses. “Not those! I’ll get the wine glasses.”

“We’re not having wine,” Sherry said.

Mara collected the glasses and carried them into the kitchen. Sherry fidgeted as she contemplated the substitution.

“You can have cider in a wine glass,” Riley said diplomatically.

Mara set a thin-stemmed wine glass before each person and placed a bottle of red wine next to the cider. Sherry’s contemplation became a frown. The two bottles looked similar but led to different consequences. The wine glasses were more stylish but so was temptation.

Sherry began to ladle out the soup when Lola added, “I want wine, too.”

Sherry paused, a bowl in her left hand and the ladle in her right. “You don’t drink.”

Lola nodded, a small smile on her lips.

“Wine with food isn’t drinking.” Mara said, snatching the dish from Sherry.

“Cider’s good, too,” said Riley, his hand hovering over the two bottles. Manners restrained him from filling his glass first, so he lifted the wine and filled Mara’s and was setting the bottle down when Lola held hers up.

Again Sherry paused in mid-action, her eyes willing Lola to change her mind. But she gazed at the red liquid filling her glass. Riley poured and continued to pour when she prompted him. Then he set down the wine and picked up the cider to fill Sherry’s glass and his own.

Lola anticipated the flavor and the warm feeling she’d get as she admired the way the candle flame backlit the rose-colored glass. She was hardly aware that Sherry had stood and reached across her shoulder to set the glass of cider down. She turned to see her go into the kitchen, fetch a water glass and stand by Riley as he filled it.

Now Lola had two glasses, one rose-colored and the other sparkling amber that glowed like incandescent gold. The colors dazzled but she grew uncomfortable; she was being forced to choose. She didn’t want to be disloyal to her friend, but had doubts about total abstinence. And the wine looked so good.

Sherry bowed her head to say grace and when she looked up everyone was still focused on the glasses. “Eat your soup before it gets cold.”

Mara took up her glass.

“Wait!” Riley shouted. “I want to propose a toast.”

Mara took a healthy swallow before anyone could join in. Seeing the surprise on their faces, she said, “There’s plenty of wine.”

Sherry lifted her glass, as did Riley, but Lola was paralyzed, staring at the rose and the amber.

“Is it a pretend toast, if I’m pretend drinking?”

“Not if you’re sincere,” said Riley.

“Toasting is toasting no matter what you drink.”

Annoyed, Mara said, “If she wants wine, she should have wine.”

Resolution flickering across her face, Lola seized the cider. Three glasses of cider were raised, one of wine.

“To Sherry.”

Sherry took it as a small victory, but Mara saw a challenge. She was happy that Sherry seemed more settled in her own skin and watched as she tilted her head in quiet consul with Lola, like a mother to a daughter.

True, Sherry cast doubtful looks at her at times, as if she were an alien; like when she suggested taking trips or going out. Maybe it was the money holding her back, but she suspected Sherry of being provincial and distrustful of anything new.

Yet she was impressed with how she handled her boyfriend and his surprise visit. She didn’t go into detail, only saying it turned out all right. Since then, she projected a confident glow. Mara had to give her credit; she was deeper than she thought.

She’ll go back to Riverside and live her life, but Lola will stay. If she wants to live the life of the city, she should do it without inhibition. She could help.

When they finished the soup, Riley collected the bowls while Sherry brought out the brisket in a serving dish.

Meanwhile, Lola had the sensation she was in a fishbowl: everyone was watching. First Sherry, when she said she wanted wine, which led to their hushed conversation about being strong. Now Mara. Or was it her imagination? Every time Mara took a drink the wine pitched about in her glass like red waves in a stormy sea, then she tipped the glass in her direction before pulling it back to her lips. Her unblinking blue eyes gazed over the glass and, below her ears, the globe earrings spun and dangled. Was she trying to hypnotize her?

She considered the glasses. The cider was three fingers less than the wine now and the earlier anticipation was becoming an urgency. She tried to put it out of her mind by shifting her attention to Riley, who was retaking his seat. She smiled. He smiled back, and she admired his straight white teeth, the sparkle of blue eyes and the blond wave of hair cresting over his brow. She inched her chair closer and whispered.

“Did Sherry tell you? I stopped drinking.”

He shook his head.

“I did.”

Riley nodded cautiously, wary of where the conversation might lead. He didn’t want to tip the balance by choosing sides.

She continued to whisper. “Why aren’t you having wine?”

He shrugged and positioned knife and fork over the brisket. Lola moved even closer, her face nearly over his plate.

“Have you tried this one before?”

He shook his head. “Maybe later.”

Lola reached back for her glass and brought it to him. She inched it to his lips. Afraid it’d drip onto his shirt, he set down his silverware and grasped the globe while she held the stem. He sipped as she maintained the pressure until his panicked eyes said, “Enough”.

Returning the glass to its position beside the cider, she noted that the wine was only a finger higher now.

Sherry pressed her lips into a thin line. Mara grinned mischievously. Riley, blinking with embarrassment, looked into his plate. And Lola, joyfully, brought a forkful of brisket to her mouth.


...the dinner continues...


Her gesture opened the door to possibility. To Riley, she was the friend Sherry brought to dinner, who always wore jeans and a t-shirt and was often sullen and not given to conversation. They joked she was Sherry’s little sister: there because she had to be, but not present in spirit.

He thought she might be pretty, but wasn’t convinced. She tended to hang her head and, even when looking his way, hide her eyes beneath her brows. The gold stud in her nostril intrigued him but he never felt right about asking.

Tonight, she was pushing hard to engage him. Her clothes, demeanor and straight-on look were different. She was pretty. Though tempted to believe she was thinking of him when dressing up, he knew that was silly; and as for her attentions, she’d rather talk to him than be scolded by Sherry at the other end of the table. Still, he was giddy and responsive to her fluttering brown eyes. But as he looked into her face, he saw Mara and Sherry beyond, reading his reactions. He wanted to put them off, especially Mara who was taking a special delight.

Sherry steered the conversation to the meaning the dinner had for her. Though her departure was four months away, she told them, it seemed closer because they’d be gone for half that time. Her words raised awareness that the four might never again sit together at that table, causing a reflective mood to settle momentarily, until pushed aside by more immediate events.

Mara enthusiastically told details about her upcoming trip to Paris and the Rivera, the candle flames seeming to gild the images of those glamorous places. Riley couldn’t match it, but mentioned the wheat on his grandpa’s farm and driving on the beach in Daytona where his parents lived.

“I’m not going anywhere,” scowled Lola, calling Sherry back from thoughts of far-off places. She’d be alone most of the summer.

“Stay here.”

Lola’s eyes lit up as she looked around the table for confirmation.

“Use my room,” Mara offered.

Riley jabbed. “If you want noisy.”

Mara’s face grew fierce with memories of a disturbing night she’d rather forget. She hadn’t told anyone. He couldn’t know. The upstairs neighbor, though, was common knowledge.

Taken aback by her look, he was about to speak when Lola, in a husky voice, asked, “Are you offering yours?”

Mara hooted and he recoiled. Caught up in the excitement, Lola reached for the wine and drank. Only when her insides glowed was she aware of what she’d done, bringing a hand to her mouth. Mara scrutinized her like a mad scientist and Sherry cast down her eyes.

“Oopsee!”

Pretending to ignore the transgression, Sherry said, “Mara’s would be more appropriate. Girls should be in a girl’s room.”

Mara needled. “Riley, do you have anything to be ashamed of?”

“Nothing like that. It’d be nicer. A woman lays her room out differently.”

“That’s it?” Mara probed. “Maybe you think men and women shouldn’t be together. You know what I mean.”

“When they’re married---”

“You had a man in your room,” Lola challenged.

Sherry’s head snapped. No one had questioned her about that night, though she reassured everyone in general terms. But that, she realized, hadn’t stopped people from thinking. What people see, people think about. Sometimes what they don’t see, they think about even more. She didn’t have any second thoughts about taking Roger to her room and objected to Lola’s insinuation that she had crossed a moral line.

“Nothing happened.”

“Nothing?” taunted Mara.

They were ganging up. Lola, whose life choices she tried to influence, acting like a little sister calling out contradictions; and Mara whose do-it-all attitude existed somewhere outside her own world.

“Nothing.”

“Why so happy then?”

“I was glad to see him.”

“You’re too strict,” Lola whined.

Riley, who’d been watching them flank and push Sherry, inserted himself back into the conversation.

“Use my room, if you want.”

Lola hopped in her seat and fluttered her lashes. “See!”

Sherry shrugged and gazed at her thoughtfully. “It doesn’t matter. Compare them and take your pick. Later, if you think you made a mistake, move. At least you have a choice. As for being too strict, I’m not---for me. You’ll have to decide where you want to be, between strict and not strict enough."

Lola nodded. Mara and Riley listened, feeling there was a meaning they didn’t fully comprehend.

They cleared the table to make room for dessert and, as they ate, the reflective mood reasserted itself.

“Once you told me,” Lola said, “‘draw a line’. Do you remember?”

Sherry nodded. “And there you build a wall.”

“What’s it mean?” Asked Riley.

“It means to choose. Keep what’s good on your side, toss what’s bad.”

“I want a catapult,” said Mara.

“I’d like a window,” Sherry said

“And a door,” added Riley.

Looking doubtful, Sherry watched his fingers walk across the table and tap the back of Lola’s hand.

“And I have the key!”

Lola jumped, as if shocked by electricity. Mara clapped. At first Sherry was quiet, but when everyone turned to gauge her reaction, she laughed. Beginning as a rumble in the pit of her stomach, it shook her body, escaping through her mouth. Soon all of them were laughing and stomping the floor.

*

And in September Sherry moved back home to be welcomed by her loved ones. Granted a fresh perspective through the room she had to roam and think, she stepped into her future.

Lola suffered the loss of her close friend but planned to attend her wedding one day. Meanwhile, she raised a mound on the good side of the wall.

Mara and Riley were so content they posted another ad, but turned the candidates away. Somehow, someway, they stepped across a line, which people, walls and spaces help define.


* * *


I will be taking a break from posting stories, though I will continue to write. My next story will begin January 2011. Thanks for reading. You may send me comments using the Post A Comment feature below or by sending an e-mail by going to my profile.

The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

Chapter 9: Choose

...the dinner (begun in Chapter 8) continues...


Her gesture opened the door to possibility. To Riley, she was the friend Sherry brought to dinner, who always wore jeans and a t-shirt and was often sullen and not given to conversation. They joked she was Sherry’s little sister: there because she had to be, but not present in spirit.

He thought she might be pretty, but wasn’t convinced. She tended to hang her head and, even when looking his way, hide her eyes beneath her brows. The gold stud in her nostril intrigued him but he never felt right about asking.

Tonight, she was pushing hard to engage him. Her clothes, demeanor and straight-on look were different. She was pretty. Though tempted to believe she was thinking of him when dressing up, he knew that was silly; and as for her attentions, she’d rather talk to him than be scolded by Sherry at the other end of the table. Still, he was giddy and responsive to her fluttering brown eyes. But as he looked into her face, he saw Mara and Sherry beyond, reading his reactions. He wanted to put them off, especially Mara who was taking a special delight.

Sherry steered the conversation to the meaning the dinner had for her. Though her departure was four months away, she told them, it seemed closer because they’d be gone for half that time. Her words raised awareness that the four might never again sit together at that table, causing a reflective mood to settle momentarily, until pushed aside by more immediate events.

Mara enthusiastically told details about her upcoming trip to Paris and the Rivera, the candle flames seeming to gild the images of those glamorous places. Riley couldn’t match it, but mentioned the wheat on his grandpa’s farm and driving on the beach in Daytona where his parents lived.

“I’m not going anywhere,” scowled Lola, calling Sherry back from thoughts of far-off places. She’d be alone most of the summer.

“Stay here.”

Lola’s eyes lit up as she looked around the table for confirmation.

“Use my room,” Mara offered.

Riley jabbed. “If you want noisy.”

Mara’s face grew fierce with memories of a disturbing night she’d rather forget. She hadn’t told anyone. He couldn’t know. The upstairs neighbor, though, was common knowledge.

Taken aback by her look, he was about to speak when Lola, in a husky voice, asked, “Are you offering yours?”

Mara hooted and he recoiled. Caught up in the excitement, Lola reached for the wine and drank. Only when her insides glowed was she aware of what she’d done, bringing a hand to her mouth. Mara scrutinized her like a mad scientist and Sherry cast down her eyes.

“Oopsee!”

Pretending to ignore the transgression, Sherry said, “Mara’s would be more appropriate. Girls should be in a girl’s room.”

Mara needled. “Riley, do you have anything to be ashamed of?”

“Nothing like that. It’d be nicer. A woman lays her room out differently.”

“That’s it?” Mara probed. “Maybe you think men and women shouldn’t be together. You know what I mean.”

“When they’re married---”

“You had a man in your room,” Lola challenged.

Sherry’s head snapped. No one had questioned her about that night, though she reassured everyone in general terms. But that, she realized, hadn’t stopped people from thinking. What people see, people think about. Sometimes what they don’t see, they think about even more. She didn’t have any second thoughts about taking Roger to her room and objected to Lola’s insinuation that she had crossed a moral line.

“Nothing happened.”

“Nothing?” taunted Mara.

They were ganging up. Lola, whose life choices she tried to influence, acting like a little sister calling out contradictions; and Mara whose do-it-all attitude existed somewhere outside her own world.

“Nothing.”

“Why so happy then?”

“I was glad to see him.”

“You’re too strict,” Lola whined.

Riley, who’d been watching them flank and push Sherry, inserted himself back into the conversation.

“Use my room, if you want.”

Lola hopped in her seat and fluttered her lashes. “See!”

Sherry shrugged and gazed at her thoughtfully. “It doesn’t matter. Compare them and take your pick. Later, if you think you made a mistake, move. At least you have a choice. As for being too strict, I’m not---for me. You’ll have to decide where you want to be, between strict and not strict enough."

Lola nodded. Mara and Riley listened, feeling there was a meaning they didn’t fully comprehend.

They cleared the table to make room for dessert and, as they ate, the reflective mood reasserted itself.

“Once you told me,” Lola said, “‘draw a line’. Do you remember?”

Sherry nodded. “And there you build a wall.”

“What’s it mean?” Asked Riley.

“It means to choose. Keep what’s good on your side, toss what’s bad.”

“I want a catapult,” said Mara.

“I’d like a window,” Sherry said

“And a door,” added Riley.

Looking doubtful, Sherry watched his fingers walk across the table and tap the back of Lola’s hand.

“And I have the key!”

Lola jumped, as if shocked by electricity. Mara clapped. At first Sherry was quiet, but when everyone turned to gauge her reaction, she laughed. Beginning as a rumble in the pit of her stomach, it shook her body, escaping through her mouth. Soon all of them were laughing and stomping the floor.

*

And in September Sherry moved back home to be welcomed by her loved ones. Granted a fresh perspective through the room she had to roam and think, she stepped into her future.

Lola suffered the loss of her close friend but planned to attend her wedding one day. Meanwhile, she raised a mound on the good side of the wall.

Mara and Riley were so content they posted another ad, but turned the candidates away. Somehow, someway, they stepped across a line, which people, walls and spaces help define.


* * *





On October 24, I will aggregate all nine chapters of this story in one post for ease of reading.

I will be taking a break from posting stories, though I will continue to write. My next story will begin January 2011. Thanks for reading. You may send me comments using the Post A Comment feature below or by sending an e-mail by going to my profile.

The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

Chapter 8: Temptation

...Sherry prepares a special dinner...


It was the Thursday before the Memorial Day weekend and the roommates gathered for a meal Sherry prepared. Riley helped move the dining table into the front. Sherry struck the shades and opened the windows to evening and neighboring lights. Above a white tablecloth and the table set for four, she lit two candles.

She wanted it to be special because she’d been getting hints the end was near. At work, her boss delivered her six-month appraisal and offered a permanent job. She declined the offer --- which made Lola unhappy.

At home, Riley and Mara were prepping for finals and planning summer trips: Mara to Europe for a few weeks before returning to L.A., and Riley to spend time with family in Kansas and Florida. She didn’t know if they were aware that she’d be leaving by the time they returned to San Francisco. The dinner was her way of marking the occasion.

The scent of food wafted through the apartment. The menu was tomato bisque, beef brisket, red potatoes and asparagus. Dessert was ice cream, vanilla or chocolate, and for drinks, sparkling cider or soda.

Mara and Riley had stayed in the background during much of the preparation, but at eight o’clock they met in the hallway and took the few short steps to present themselves.

“Beautiful!” Mara exclaimed.

A knock at the door diverted Riley who admitted Lola and a flame fluttering draft. She stepped into the room and met the winking of lights, reflected off silverware and the lips of glasses, and through the windows from the street lamps outside.

“Nice.”

Her bracelets jangled as she ran to kiss Sherry. She wore a tight black skirt accentuating her long legs, ankle boots and a silky blouse with a plunging neckline. Thick black mascara and long lashes framed her brown eyes. Sherry had suggested everyone dress up, but she thought Lola might have overdone it.

Riley wore a long-sleeved white shirt and designer jeans; Mara tan slacks, a teal blouse and earrings fashioned like bluish-green globes. Sherry wore her gray skirt and a lavender blouse and a fake pearl necklace. She balanced herself on a new pair of black leather shoes with one-inch heels.

Taking her place, Sherry sat opposite Riley on the end of the table with Mara to her left and Lola on her right.

As soon as she sat, Mara sprung up, pointing to the squat water glasses. “Not those! I’ll get the wine glasses.”

“We’re not having wine,” Sherry said.

Mara collected the glasses and carried them into the kitchen. Sherry fidgeted as she contemplated the substitution.

“You can have cider in a wine glass,” Riley said diplomatically.

Mara set a thin-stemmed wine glass before each person and placed a bottle of red wine next to the cider. Sherry’s contemplation became a frown. The two bottles looked similar but led to different consequences. The wine glasses were more stylish but so was temptation.

Sherry began to ladle out the soup when Lola added, “I want wine, too.”

Sherry paused, a bowl in her left hand and the ladle in her right. “You don’t drink.”

Lola nodded, a small smile on her lips.

“Wine with food isn’t drinking.” Mara said, snatching the dish from Sherry.

“Cider’s good, too,” said Riley, his hand hovering over the two bottles. Manners restrained him from filling his glass first, so he lifted the wine and filled Mara’s and was setting the bottle down when Lola held hers up.

Again Sherry paused in mid-action, her eyes willing Lola to change her mind. But she gazed at the red liquid filling her glass. Riley poured and continued to pour when she prompted him. Then he set down the wine and picked up the cider to fill Sherry’s glass and his own.

Lola anticipated the flavor and the warm feeling she’d get as she admired the way the candle flame backlit the rose-colored glass. She was hardly aware that Sherry had stood and reached across her shoulder to set the glass of cider down. She turned to see her go into the kitchen, fetch a water glass and stand by Riley as he filled it.

Now Lola had two glasses, one rose-colored and the other sparkling amber that glowed like incandescent gold. The colors dazzled but she grew uncomfortable; she was being forced to choose. She didn’t want to be disloyal to her friend, but had doubts about total abstinence. And the wine looked so good.

Sherry bowed her head to say grace and when she looked up everyone was still focused on the glasses. “Eat your soup before it gets cold.”

Mara took up her glass.

“Wait!” Riley shouted. “I want to propose a toast.”

Mara took a healthy swallow before anyone could join in. Seeing the surprise on their faces, she said, “There’s plenty of wine.”

Sherry lifted her glass, as did Riley, but Lola was paralyzed, staring at the rose and the amber.

“Is it a pretend toast, if I’m pretend drinking?”

“Not if you’re sincere,” said Riley.

“Toasting is toasting no matter what you drink.”

Annoyed, Mara said, “If she wants wine, she should have wine.”

Resolution flickering across her face, Lola seized the cider. Three glasses of cider were raised, one of wine.

“To Sherry.”

Sherry took it as a small victory, but Mara saw a challenge. She was happy that Sherry seemed more settled in her own skin and watched as she tilted her head in quiet consul with Lola, like a mother to a daughter.

True, Sherry cast doubtful looks at her at times, as if she were an alien; like when she suggested taking trips or going out. Maybe it was the money holding her back, but she suspected Sherry of being provincial and distrustful of anything new.

Yet she was impressed with how she handled her boyfriend and his surprise visit. She didn’t go into detail, only saying it turned out all right. Since then, she projected a confident glow. Mara had to give her credit; she was deeper than she thought.

She’ll go back to Riverside and live her life, but Lola will stay. If she wants to live the life of the city, she should do it without inhibition. She could help.

When they finished the soup, Riley collected the bowls while Sherry brought out the brisket in a serving dish.

Meanwhile, Lola had the sensation she was in a fishbowl: everyone was watching. First Sherry, when she said she wanted wine, which led to their hushed conversation about being strong. Now Mara. Or was it her imagination? Every time Mara took a drink the wine pitched about in her glass like red waves in a stormy sea, then she tipped the glass in her direction before pulling it back to her lips. Her unblinking blue eyes gazed over the glass and, below her ears, the globe earrings spun and dangled. Was she trying to hypnotize her?

She considered the glasses. The cider was three fingers less than the wine now and the earlier anticipation was becoming an urgency. She tried to put it out of her mind by shifting her attention to Riley, who was retaking his seat. She smiled. He smiled back, and she admired his straight white teeth, the sparkle of blue eyes and the blond wave of hair cresting over his brow. She inched her chair closer and whispered.

“Did Sherry tell you? I stopped drinking.”

He shook his head.

“I did.”

Riley nodded cautiously, wary of where the conversation might lead. He didn’t want to tip the balance by choosing sides.

She continued to whisper. “Why aren’t you having wine?”

He shrugged and positioned knife and fork over the brisket. Lola moved even closer, her face nearly over his plate.

“Have you tried this one before?”

He shook his head. “Maybe later.”

Lola reached back for her glass and brought it to him. She inched it to his lips. Afraid it’d drip onto his shirt, he set down his silverware and grasped the globe while she held the stem. He sipped as she maintained the pressure until his panicked eyes said, “Enough”.

Returning the glass to its position beside the cider, she noted that the wine was only a finger higher now.

Sherry pressed her lips into a thin line. Mara grinned mischievously. Riley, blinking with embarrassment, looked into his plate. And Lola, joyfully, brought a forkful of brisket to her mouth...




The dinner will continue in the next chapter, which will be posted October 17.

The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.