A Southern Place (16 page)

“Yes, I guess so, sir,” she said.

“And do you have an explanation for this sudden change in your work ethic?”

Delores was silent, trying to gather her words in a way that might be the most pleasing to Mr. Foster. She didn’t know what he wanted or why he was so interested in her employment record. Even though she was probably the most punctual employee on her shift, it seemed that her one-time indiscretion had become a matter of monstrous importance. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, knowing she was buying time to find the right answer for a question she didn’t understand.

“I’m really sorry, Mr. Foster. I value my job here, and appreciate how—how you didn’t—you didn’t punish me—I mean, l got to keep my job and all, after my brother’s accident. I really want to be a good employee, and I always try to do my best and be on time and follow the rules and—”

“Were you following the rules when you arrived late today?” he asked.

“Well, no sir, it’s just, I overslept—something I never do, and I swear it won’t happen again—”

“Is there a reason you think that the rules have changed for you, Miss Mullinax? Is there a motive behind your thinking that for the first time in your employment of nearly two years that you suddenly believe you can clock in anytime you like?”

“No, sir, I—”

“Will you be clocking
out in the same manner, leaving whenever you feel like it? Do you plan to work every day now, or just on days you particularly want to come in?”

Delores was speechless, embarrassed, and tears welled up behind her eyes, but she willed them to stay in place. She would not break down in front of Mr. Foster, no matter how much he harassed her. She made no reply to his questions, but he continued on as if she had.

“Tell me, Miss Mullinax, exactly what has transpired which caused your new attitude about your job requirements?” He looked back into the folder of papers. “It seems that just last week, when you clocked out on Friday, you were still an exemplary worker. Must’ve been an amazing weekend for you, to change your whole personality in less than four days. What happened, Miss Mullinax, do tell me.” His voice was part mocking, part judgmental, and simply frightening. Delores had never been talked to in such a hurtful manner.

Looking up at Foster’s cold and accusing stare, her face warmed. Surely he couldn’t know about—

“You’re blushing, Miss Mullinax. Certainly a young woman of your—” he paused, “questionable morals isn’t blushing like a schoolgirl over activities you flaunted freely for the whole community to see. From what I understand, you seemed proud of your antics in that night club/honky-tonk, and you didn’t appear to make any effort to conceal who slept in your bed afterwards, either. I’d say your attempt at being a delicate girl-next-door is a joke. Far too little, far too late.”

Delores stood as she felt a tear trickle across her cheek. Wanting to run out the door, out of the building and never come back, she stood stiffly as though her feet were encased in cement. She bit her lip and swallowed hard, afraid if she opened her mouth she would vomit. She didn’t know if she was being fired but almost hoped she was; she never wanted to be near this man, or even near the place where she’d been made to feel so vile and disgusting. More than anything she wanted to leave, but somehow she couldn’t. She stood like a frozen zombie, feeling Foster’s vehemence penetrate her every fiber, her heart and her esophagus burning like fire.

“Sit down, slut,” he said through his teeth. Delores had never been called such a name, and the Delores she had been until just minutes ago knew this was reason enough to leave immediately; yet the new, damaged Delores sat down, as if submitting to the humiliation and punishment she must deserve.

“I’m not through with you, not by a long shot,” he said, standing and walking over to the varnished oak credenza against the wall. He retrieved a glass tumbler from inside the cabinet, lifted the lid of a black leather ice bucket, and dropped ice cubes into his glass. From the three ornate bottles sitting beside the bucket, he chose the one with the clear liquid and poured it over the ice.

Delores had no idea what the liquid was, but since the other two were brown and amber in color, she assumed they were liquor, the clear one probably vodka. However, the rumbling in her belly and the fire in her throat made her long for a drink of water, and seeing the clear glass sweating with cold was mesmerizing. Delores stared at the glass, grateful for the hypnotic attraction that took her anywhere away from being who and where she was. If Mr. Foster noticed, he didn’t show it, downing his drink, refilling it and returning to his desk.

“Delores,” he said as he seated himself. “You like to dance?”

Delores said nothing, concentrating on the melting ice cubes tinkling against the tumbler.

“I asked you a question.” His voice was harsh and percussive.

“I—uh—I guess so—” she stammered, never taking her eyes from the glass.

“Don’t be shy, it’s a little late for that,” he said. “They say you were the featured attraction, barely left the floor all night. Made the girls jealous, and the men wanted to be—in my son’s shoes, so to speak—at least when he took his shoes off that night, for sure.” Mr. Foster sneered at his own joke. “Did you like that, Delores? Do you like to be looked at, noticed, desired?”

Delores made no attempt to answer.

“You’re a decent looking girl,” Foster said “But I have to admit, you surprised me. Quiet, you keep to yourself, and I’ve never seen you dress like a slut, either. ’Course, I’ve only seen you in the sewing room. Still, that’s the way it is sometimes; it’s gals that act like scared rabbits in the day that can rut like rabbits in the night. Does that pretty much sum you up, Delores?”

Delores said nothing, lost in her dream of the cool, clear water and ice on her tongue. She focused on the glass, almost tasting its biting cold against her teeth.

“Well, Delores,” he said. “We need to get a few things straight. You may be a little spitfire in the bedroom, but here, you operate a sewing machine. Shift work. No special privileges—it’s a privilege, not a right—for you to work here in the first place. Understand?”

Still staring at the glass, she nodded.

“Do you want to keep working here, Delores?”

She shifted her gaze from the glass to his face, looking just above the top of his head as not to make actual eye contact, but to appear that she was. She continued to nod.

“Until now you’ve been a good worker. I like to think I’m a fair man. I’d like to keep you here, but you’ll have to abide by my rules. Are you listening, Delores? This is important, that is, if you want to keep your job.”

“Yes, sir,” Delores said, acknowledging his toupee with a small, forced smile.

“I’m not your father, Delores. You’re legal age, you can do what you want to do outside this building. You can shake your little fanny for all southwest Georgia. You can drink like a sailor, party ’til the wee hours, put on a show like a striptease queen. You can bed down with a new fellow every night, or half a dozen at a time if that’s what strikes your fancy. As long as you do your job with the credibility I’ve seen before this week, I have no right or intention to pass judgment on anything you do outside of work hours or this building.”

Delores looked above his eyebrows now, wondering if she had misunderstood this whole conversation. Some of the things he said were mean, but—could he be joking? Maybe this was some kind of rich people humor that she didn’t understand, since she’d never really known any rich people. His voice was beginning to sound lighter, and every time he said something hurtful, he seemed to counteract it with something nice, well, maybe not exactly nice, but at least not hurtful and almost nice. The lilt of his voice, especially when he said “I’m not your father,” reminded her of her own father’s voice: his diction and grammar were different, but the soothing timbre of a wise older man made her feel nurtured and cherished. Delores couldn’t help herself: she looked directly into his steel gray eyes, hoping to see the missing link that would make her understand what he was saying.

“You’re a big girl, Delores,” he said, “and you’re free to be whatever kind of woman that makes you happy.”

Delores smiled; her daddy had said something like that, that he’d always wanted her to be happy.

“But,” Mr. Foster said, “there is one thing that is within my rights to speak of, and it’s something I will not allow. Not at any cost.”

Delores was confused. Maybe he did want to step in for her daddy. Of course, he never could, but it was kind of sweet that he might want to.

“Whatever kind of woman you want to be—a church-going wife and mother, a good-time girl, or an outright whore—you will not be anything
to my son. Not now, not ever.”

Bile formed in her throat as her eyes began to sting, and she crossed her arm over her heaving stomach. She stared back at the glass of near-melted ice, willing herself not to retch. This time, she didn’t think it would work. This time the water did not look soothing, or cool, or satisfactory in any way. Flashing before her eyes was Phil’s glass of seltzer water at the Plantation Club, its unexpected bitter taste, then the sensuous, guilty pleasure she felt when he rubbed the ice cube around the back of her neck. She looked back at Mr. Foster, his hard eyes condemning everything she’d felt in those most intimate of moments, turning all she’d believed as magic into evil and filth. With a quick gasp, Delores held her convulsing midsection with one arm and covered her mouth with the other. Trying to stand, her awkwardness only reseated her, rocking the chair on one leg and almost toppling over.

“Good God,” cried Mr. Foster, jumping out of his seat for the credenza. Lifting the ice bucket, he removed the pristine white hand towel beneath it and handed it to Delores. With a violent heave, she lowered her head, then vomited into the towel as quietly as possible. As she tried again to stand, Foster motioned that she remained seated.

“Don’t need the whole plant knowing your business,” he said, and for just a moment they actually agreed on something. Picking up the phone on his desk, he pressed a lighted button and then spoke.

“Carolyn, can you get me a 7-Up or ginger ale, a couple of clean hand towels, and—” he thought for a minute. “Some crackers or pretzels, if you can get your hands on any. Or some Pepto Bismol. Anything to help a queasy stomach.” He listened for a second and then hung up.

Delores retched again, this time bringing up nothing, but choking on tears and starting a coughing fit. Mr. Foster sat quietly, leaving her alone and pretending to read something in the file of papers until he arose to answer the soft knock at the door.

“Thank you, Carolyn,” he said to his secretary. “And hold all my calls for the next—until further notice.”

“Yes, sir,” Delores heard her say as he closed the door.

Mr. Foster handed Delores a cold, green bottle of 7-Up, an unopened roll of Tums, and a handful of white paper napkins. The bottle was well-chilled and sweating against its outside.

“Thank you,” she mumbled as she took his offerings.

“Drink slow,” he said, “probably the best way to keep it down.” Delores looked up at him, confused.

“My wife had a sensitive stomach,” he said. “The least little thing that would upset her, she’d be running for the bathroom. I should own stock in a ginger ale manufacturer.” For just a moment he looked thoughtful, almost kind, and Delores allowed herself to imagine her boss in a different setting, being someone else altogether. It sounded like he really cared for his wife—were there other children besides Phil? What did they do together, as a family? Did he dress differently, less formal, the way his voice had softened and become less rigid when mentioning his wife’s stomach troubles? In the short time she’d known Phil, he’d never mentioned his family.

Delores took another sip of the ice-cold drink; she could feel its medicinal fizziness as it traveled down her throat and into her belly, which made a grateful but embarrassing growl upon reaching there. She looked up, but Mr. Foster showed no sign of hearing it, and she semi-smiled at his merciful gesture. She gently peeled back the foil on the roll of antacids, popping two into her mouth and carefully folding the foil over the remaining tablets. Biting down into their chalkiness, she followed them with another swallow of 7-Up. After belching silently into a napkin, she drank again. The awful feeling of minutes before was beginning to retreat.

“Feeling better?” he asked, looking up from his work. “Take your time, I’ll wait. We need to have a serious discussion, and I need your full attention. Finish your drink if you need to.” He shuffled through some other things on his desk, and Delores sipped the 7-Up, dreading whatever message awaited, but anxious to get it over with.

“Being such a smart girl,” Foster began, “You may have noticed that my son is not the sharpest tool in the shed.”

Delores knew the expression well, but it didn’t seem like one her boss was likely to use. Especially about his own son. She sat expressionless, waiting for more.

“It took special schools and tutors to get him through grade school, and his college career, already bought and paid for, was cut short by his own thoughtless behavior. But Phillip is my son, and he will have his own place in the family business, however less-than-white-collar that place may turn out to be. Phillip is a Foster, and he will behave as a Foster, despite his occasional backsliding adventures. Are you following me, Delores?”

“I think so, sir,” she said, while in truth, she was not.

“Phil is a good looking kid, and I suppose he’s had his share of free and easy lady friends. Are you with me?” He looked Delores in the eye, like a one-on-one, over-zealous schoolteacher. She nodded.

“He’s never had a serious girlfriend, but when he does, it will be with a young lady who meets the family’s approval.”

Delores’s stomach tightened again, and she tried to unwrap another tablet without calling attention to the fact she was doing so.

“Tell me, Delores, are you aware of how much Oakland has done for your brother and, subsequently, for you, after his unfortunate accident?”

Delores nodded nervously. “Yes, I mean yes sir, and we really appreciate it. Cal couldn’t have been in better hands when he got hurt, and your getting him into the special rehab place is something I’d don’t think we could’ve managed—”

“That’s right,” Foster interrupted. “Neither you nor your brother would have had any idea where or how to get him the rehabilitation he needs. And you may not know this, but there’s a right-to-work law in Georgia, and farm laborers sign on at their own risk. As long as your brother had been involved in farm work, he surely knew better than to get as careless as he did when he caused his misfortune.”

“But it was an accident,” Delores said, never imagining that someone could refer to Cal’s getting hurt as an act of carelessness. She turned up her drink bottle and swallowed; the quick motion caused her to swallow the wrong way, bringing on an embarrassing fit of choking. Mr. Foster looked back at his notes as her eyes watered and she regained control of her breathing. When the coughing ended, he began again.

“I try to take care of my workers in the best way possible, and I never stopped to lay any blame on
why Calvin’s injury occurred, however, I could have. I could have refused any help whatsoever, since Calvin was a seasoned farmer and knew the risks. We’ve been harvesting peanuts for twenty years, and no such accident had happened before. As a matter of fact, his is the only injury of such in the farming history of Dumas County, as far as we could tell. Still, I’ve always been fond of Calvin, and I know you two young folks have had a pretty rough deal in life. I wrote off his medical bills as an extra farm expense. Didn’t make much profit for the season, but it was the right thing to do. Now setting him up at Warm Springs cost a pretty penny as well, but I sincerely hope he can learn himself a trade, since farming is out of the question for him now. But to sum it up, Miss Mullinax, Oakland and I have gone far beyond the call of duty for your brother. Far beyond.”