Cheating to Survive (Fix It or Get Out) (12 page)

Jean spent the night chatting and promoting herself. She boasted about the hot gourmet treats, never mentioning how the cooks in the kitchen prepared them all. She bragged about the cold hors d’oeuvres, failing to acknowledge the hard work from the salad room staff.

Jean accompanied the CEO to the table where Heather parked herself. Her eyes bulged at Heather, hinting that she’d better behave. Her fluorescent blue eye shadow and blood red lipstick reminded Heather of a fat lady in the circus.

“This is what I call…roasted…vegetable…cornucopia.” Jean glided her bloated hand over the display.

“I thought Tyrell brought that recipe in from home. He made it for his family for Thanksgiving last year.”

Jean seared Heather with torches of fire that cast from her eyes. Heather threw an exaggerated smile back toward the CEO.

“Here we have an arrangement of lovely spring rolls that I– ”

“Yes, Anna from the kitchen prepared these. Delicious. Have you tried one?” Heather picked one up with her gloved hand and the CEO gladly accepted. “Fresh mangoes, grilled shrimp and this wonderful Thai sauce Anna created entirely by herself.”

The CEO took a bite and closed his eyes as the flavors exploded on his tongue. “Oh yes, delicious indeed.”

Jean hip-checked Heather and slid between the two of them. “Well these fried artichoke hearts were my idea.” She scowled at Heather without the CEO noticing.

“I don’t eat fried foods.” He grimaced.

Jean clutched her dress and tugged it down. Her anger inflated like her ass. “Heather, I clearly told you that when the plates are only two thirds full they need replenishing. You’re not following instructions.” Jean lifted up a plate of blackberry and blue cheese stuffed mushrooms and handed them to her.

“Actually, this plate had thirty mushrooms on it and now it has twenty one. I’m watching it very closely.” Heather’s fake smile streaked across her face showing off her newly polished teeth.

“Very well, then. Shall we move onto another table?” Jean guided the CEO to an abandoned back table.

Heather caught Tyrell in the corner of her eye. He skipped up and down like he was peddling a bike, then flipped his hands out as if pointing two guns at her. She shrugged her shoulders not quite understanding.

He glanced at Jean whose back was to them. Jean lifted up a platter of eggplant salad toasts that Catherine had suggested. Tyrell glided over to Heather and tried to hide behind the food display. They both ducked down a few inches lower than the tallest pier.

“What are you doing? She’ll kill you. Get back to your station.”

“I’m on a break,” he joked.

“Break? There are no breaks. Knock it off.”

“I can handle myself. I’m the man.”

“A dead man is more like it.”

“Is there a problem, Tyrell?” Jean appeared from around the corner. “I expect more from Heather but you...” she examined him from top to bottom. “…you don’t have a college degree, what could you possibly understand? You’re lucky you passed high school, or did you?” She strutted away before anyone could speak.

Heather put her arm on his shoulder. “Tyrell, I’m so sorry. She’s just evil, you know that.”

Tyrell sucked in his lips and inhaled through his nose. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“Why didn’t you say anything? She can’t talk to you like that.”

“I need the job, ya know. It’s alright, she ain’t nothing.”

****

Heather crawled back into her home after eight hours of work and an additional four hours of catering and clean-up. Some Friday night. If one more person shouted TGIF in front of her, she planned to deck them. Her pajamas called to her when she stepped onto the foyer rug.

Laurel, Gia and Rori tackled Heather with bear hugs. Lance stood behind them, dressed to pick up prostitutes. He donned a flaming red shirt that was unbuttoned almost to his belly button. A thick gold chain, ancient and shrieking “1990,” circled his neck. His thick mass of greying chest hairs made her gag.

“What are you wearing?” she asked.

“I’m going out. Since none of you planned a party to celebrate my promotion, I’m meeting friends for dinner.”

“Tonight? I just got home.”

“Once again, it’s all about you.” He snatched his car keys and disappeared through the door.

At 3 a.m., the phone rang. Heather waited for Lance to answer it but as usual, he ignored any intrusion of his sleep. She scrambled over him to get the phone, only Lance was not there. His pillow cold and propped against the headboard.

“Hello,” she choked out.

“Heather? It’s Jenn Marconi, Doug’s wife.”

“Who?”

“Doug. He works with Lance at the law firm.”

“Oh, okay, um, yeah?” Heather sat up in bed and rubbed the crunchiness out of her eyes.

“They were in an accident. Car accident. They’re all at Beachmill Hospital near you.”

“Oh my God, are they okay?”

“Doug and Steve are all right, they’re releasing them. Stan is getting some x-rays but Lance, well, they said he’s banged up pretty bad.”

“Are you there now?” Heather leaped out of bed and then grabbed a pair of sweats.

“On my way. Should be there in five minutes.”

“I’m leaving now too.”

Heather tiptoed into Laurel’s room, told her what she knew and that she’d be back before the other two woke.

She sprinted into the hospital’s ER and ran down the hallway knowing this was her fault. Punishment for sleeping with Salvatri. How could she be so foolish to think she would get away with it without any repercussions? Her children fatherless, all because she needed to get laid. She would pay for it now, but please, not her daughters.

A woman with sandy-blonde hair stepped into her path. “Heather? Heather Milanesi?”

“Yes, Jenn?”

“Sorry to meet this way. They need to keep Lance overnight. He was fine but then—”

“What happened? He said he was just going out to dinner. I was exhausted and fell asleep.”

“Well it appears they were on their way home from the strip club when this young girl ran a red light and—”

“Strip club?”

“Yes, the one on North Harbor Turnpike. The Filthy Flamingo
.
The girl supposedly ran the light and slammed into the front end. The driver’s side, and Lance was driving. He said his shoulder and neck were bothering him.”

“His shoulder?” Heather’s sarcastic tone could not be controlled. “And neck?”

Heather’s fear turned to anger, her guilt turned to satisfaction. Glad she cheated on his filthy flamingo ass. And there she was feeling sorry for him. Sex had always revolved around him anyway, no kissing, no foreplay. Just a quickie from his morning hard on. It had been years since they had sex. She refused to indulge him after Rori was born.

Was this his first time there? Had he received a lap dance? Did he fuck any of them?

She whipped the curtain back that surrounded his bed and found him asleep, or hopefully dead. She peered over and heard him breathing. Damn. She asked the nurse for his belongings and then opened his wallet to find seventeen one-dollar bills and six five-dollar bills. Heather wondered how many he gave away.

The ER doctor approached and greeted Heather.

“We’re waiting for test results but it appears he may have a tear in the cartilage of his shoulder. Better known as a SLAP tear.”

She’d like to slap Lance, forget his tear. He’d probably whine about it for weeks now, lie on the couch with a blanket and ask for his meals to be brought to him. He’d better think again. This meant war.

Heather took Lance’s wallet and clothes and then slipped out of the hospital. Let him sleep off his shoulder injury. His mother could drive him home tomorrow in his hospital gown.

Chapter 17
Catherine

Emily sailed and flounced across the room during her ballet recital’s dress rehearsal. The light pink costume and fluffy tulle skirt carried a thin black striping along its edges, giving it depth when she leaped through the air.

The music strummed and rose until Catherine’s heart sprang from its cage. The final note resounded and the beautiful swans held their pose. Catherine’s hands reddened from their loud hammerings but she continued until Emily curtseyed for her.

Madison peered out the window searching for her mother, excused herself and then retreated to the hallway near Catherine. Madison scanned the crowded hallway but when her target could not be located, she approached Catherine. “Have you seen my mommy? Did she see me dance?”

Odessa had escaped out of the parking lot practically running Catherine over on the way in. She wanted to lie and tell her she did, but knew the truth would get back to Madison.

“I’m not sure, honey, I think she may have left.”

Madison sniffled and then charged towards the bathroom. She hid there for the remainder of the class.

The stampede of butterflies marked the end of class and Catherine helped Emily remove her frosted-rose ensemble, swapping it with a white sweat suit.

Madison inched out of the bathroom in the midst of girls racing about. She collapsed near a closet that held abandoned coat hangers and sat on the dust and grime covered floor.

Hoards of mothers and daughters exited the dance studio but Catherine stalled her departure despite Emily tugging on her shirt numerous times. She strolled over to Madison, a forgotten child that crumpled into a ball, her head buried in her knees as if in a cocoon. Catherine squatted and swept her hand over the child’s hair-sprayed locks and down her back. Madison quivered as if hiding her sobs.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Odessa screeched. “How dare you.” She pushed Catherine aside and then jerked Madison off the floor by her arm. Madison’s confused expression volleyed back and forth off the two of them. Odessa inspected Madison. “Did she hit you? Did she push you to the ground?”

The three of them stood in silence, dazed. None of them knew what to say except Odessa. “If her costume is ruined you’ll pay for this, you hear? How dare you touch my child. Come on Madison, stay away from her.”

Odessa dragged her by the arm preventing Madison from removing her pristine slippers. The child struggled to keep up. Catherine blinked, for that was all she could do.

Emily clutched her mother’s hand. “What happened, mommy?”

The familiar tongue-lashing fossilized Catherine.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Because she never does.

****

“I received a complaint from this patient.” Jean shoved a scrap of paper with a name and room number toward Catherine. “He said that since admission he hasn’t received what he ordered on his menu.” She bawled up her fist and slammed it on top of her desk. “Can you explain yourself?”

“I don’t have anything to do with the menus. That’s the diet clerk’s job.”

Jean rammed her finger less than two inches from Catherine’s face. “Are you saying you have no idea what happens on your floor? Your floor is
your
responsibility.”

“I do, but they handle the menus.”

“You’re fuckin’ incompetent. I don’t want to hear complaints from anyone, is that clear?” Jean plopped back in her chair and removed her Easy Spirit shoes, a gift from the entire Nutrition Department for her birthday. An obvious ploy to get her to ease up on them. It didn’t work. She flung the shoes to the right of her desk, the odor immediate.

“Yes, but…”

“But what? What? Do you have anything to say for yourself? Anything at all?” Jean’s nostrils expanded. “Patients should not be complaining about food. If they are, it’s your fault.”

Catherine’s hands wrestled in her lap. She’d hyperventilate, but it’s an impossibility when you stop breathing altogether. She spent every second of the day in her patients’ rooms coddling them. She loved her job and treated the patient’s as if they were her own family. It never seemed enough. How much more could she do for them?

“Are you listening to me? Answer me!”

Unable to speak, she receded until she could no longer hear Jean. Muffled rants disappeared altogether as Jean’s chins bounced up and down upon one another. She needed to leave.

On the verge of losing it, Catherine slid herself out of the chair and exited the office. She never replied, unsure if words still propelled from Jean’s vile mouth. Was she still yelling? Rising from her chair to come after her? It would take time for her to put her shoes on though. Shoes that stretched and flattened to fit her pizza-for-one looking feet.

She wandered down the hall and to the front lobby, ignored the stairwell and pushed the elevator button instead. She waited, and waited, not realizing it was under repair. A security guard pointed to the
Under Construction
sign. She plodded to the stairwell and grasped the door handle. Before she went through, her eyes caught sight of Heather and Victoria on the lobby sofas crouched behind a magazine display. Third time this week she caught them sneaking off to talk, excluding her.

Chapter 18
Victoria

Victoria emerged from her car and found Ed in the garage opening and closing the drawers to his giant tool chest. Each drawer banged louder than the next.

“Hello,” Victoria said, “how was your day?”

Ed slammed the bottom drawer shut. He rose, accidentally smacked his head on the top of the tool chest, then wrenched himself toward Victoria. “How do ya think it’s going? No work for two months. I’m bored out of my fucking mind.”

He had a point, but Victoria ran out of things to talk to him about. Their conversations deteriorated over the years, but these past few months crippled them.

When they first dated, their daily phone conversations captivated her. Each time the kitchen phone chimed, she hoped to hear Ed’s voice. With each new adventure in her life, he seemed to pull away, showed no interest in her endeavors and his lack of friends and hobbies left little for her to inquire about.

After decades of him careening from one job to another, she grew weary of paying all the bills, working multiple jobs and taking care of the house and children by herself. The years passed and she felt more alone while he blended in with the sofa. Just a handy man screwing in a light bulb here and there.