Run Away Baby (5 page)

Longevity ran in the Greer family. The fact that Randall’s father was ninety and still partying at his Arizona retirement home gave Abby little hope of ever becoming the young widow with the fresh start that she dreamed of.

Sometimes, when she was feeling particularly hopeless, she would play the But-this-is-worse game. She’d scan the news for awful stories, read them, mull them over, and then tell herself, “Your life sucks, but this is worse.”

For instance, a young woman was assaulted, raped, beaten, and left for dead by two assailants on her way back to her dorm. After telling the police just that much, she slipped into a coma. Abby, on the other hand, had spent her evening with Randall and his friends, listening to hours of drunken, slurred work talk at the Bergmans’ annual barbeque.

That was worse, she’d tell herself, meaning being attacked and left for dead.

Or a four-year-old child was killed by the family pit bull, and his parents were forced to euthanize the dog. They buried their child and dog in side-by-side caskets, seventy miles away since the city ordinances wouldn’t allow pets in the cemetery near them. Abby, by comparison, had spent the evening wearing high-heeled rubber boots, and whipping Randall while he blubbered like a baby and begged for more.

The pit bull story, despite Abby’s terrible life, was still far worse.

The But-this-is-worse game helped her keep it all in perspective.

The funny thing was, women in their fifties and sixties were jealous of her. Her life looked great to them. Fab. Divine. The shopping and vacations and being young and beautiful and childless. They couldn’t imagine how she could want for anything. A few of them, the ones who weren’t terribly proud, even said things to her like: “You’ve got it made in the shade!” or “What I wouldn’t give to be you.”

Abby guessed they looked at her and saw someone old like them on the inside, but in a younger package. That’s not exactly what a woman in her twenties was, though, whether or not they remembered that.

Abby was sitting at the front desk of Lorbmeer, Messdiem & Miller, taking rubber bands from the dish on the desk and wrapping them around Danielle’s rubber band ball. She was doing her best to evenly arrange the colors, and to keep the ball a perfect sphere. The maintenance of this ball had begun to take on an irrational level of importance in her life.

When there were no more rubber bands to add to the ball, she evaluated her work, spinning the ball, adjusting bands here and there by a couple of millimeters. She was waiting for the mailman to arrive; with him came mail held in bunches by more rubber bands, along with a heavy dose of flirtation. Against her better judgment, he was growing on her. Awakening something long dead in her. Curiosity, perhaps. The remembrance that the unexpected hadn’t always been bad.

Charlie normally showed up between 12:10 and 12:30. It was 12:47 and she still hadn’t seen him. Danielle would be back anytime. It was a Thursday. If Abby missed him she would have to wait all the way until Tuesday before she had another chance.

The door opened and in walked a mailman she’d never seen before.

“Good day,” he said.

“Where’s our regular mailman?”

“He’s hunting.”

“Hunting?”
Abby asked. In the circles she had traveled in, nobody hunted.

“Yeah, I think he’s out for a few days. Burning up some of his vacation time.”

“Hunting for what?”

“Deer. It’s bow hunting season. Didn’t you know that?”

“No.”

“Charlie goes every year at this time,” said the impostor mailman as set down a bin of mail, not where Charlie normally set it. Abby glanced at the pile and saw not one rubber band. Everything about this guy was making her mad.

“Does he go out in the country?” she asked.

“Well, sure. Did you think he hunted in the city?”

“No. I didn’t think he hunted at all.”

“Do you have anything for me today?”

She handed him a stack of letters.

“Good day,” he said, prepared to go.

“Wait a minute,” she said.

“What is it?”

“I…” She shook her head. “Never mind. I guess I don’t have anything to say.”

“Okay then. Have a good day.”

“You too.”

He left and she sat there, deflating. The room, she realized with an abrupt stab of anger, was freezing cold. Why was the air conditioning kept at sixty-two degrees? Because it’s what the partners liked? The partners who were never around because they were too busy golfing and having meetings at restaurants? Abby got up to find the thermostat and kicked the mail bin as hard as she could. It skidded across the floor a couple of feet.

“Are you okay?” asked Danielle, having returned from lunch. Her tiny tummy was puffing out against her size two pencil skirt.

“I’m fine. Where’s the thermostat? It’s
freezing
in here. I don’t know how the plants don’t all die.”

“We can’t access it. It’s in Mr. Miller’s office, but we’re not supposed to mess with it.” Danielle rubbed her stomach. “I’m so stuffed. Blaaaa.”

“Well then, I guess I’m leaving for the day. Have a good weekend.”

“Oh, that’s right. End of the workweek for you.”

“Yep. Lucky me,” said Abby, going to her office to retrieve her purse. “Lucky, lucky me.”

“Sugartitties, come in here for a minute.”

“What’s up?” Abby asked, joining Randall in the kitchen.

“Where are all the potholders?”

“Maybe they’re still in the dryer?”

“I’ve got a pan of Danishes burning in the oven and no potholders. Go find me one.”

Abby went to the laundry room and retrieved them from the dryer. She brought them back to the kitchen, along with a pile of dishtowels. “Here you go.” She handed two potholders to Randall and put the rest in their kitchen drawer. Then she began folding dishtowels.

“Why does she wash them all at once?” Randall asked.

“I don’t know.”

He opened the oven and removed the pan of storebought Danishes he’d been reheating. “Put the pattern facing out,” he said.

“Sorry.” Abby unfolded the dishtowel she’d just done and tried again.

“Butter them up for me, would you?”

“Sure.” She removed a tub of butter from the refrigerator and put a chunk over each of the four rolls in the pan.

“Help yourself if you’d like one.”

“I’m good,” she said. “But thanks.”

“I don’t appreciate her leaving with a job half-done like that.”

“She doesn’t do that very often. She had to leave a little early yesterday to get her grandson.”

“When she gets here today, you need to talk to her about this. Tell her my Danishes almost burned.”

“I’ll talk to her.”

“Something like that affects a person’s whole day.”

“I know. I’ll talk to her.”

“Do it. Don’t make me call home and deal with it. I’m busy all day. You need to take some responsibility for how things go around here.”

“Got it.”

“Managing Rosa should be your responsibility. You’re the one who sees her on a daily basis. Not me.” Randall took a bite of one of the Danishes. He wasn’t dressed for work yet, so he made no effort to keep the butter from running down his chin and neck.

“Randall, I heard you. She does a pretty good job most of the time. But I heard you. I’ll talk to her.”

“I don’t like your attitude about this. The way you’re sticking up for her. It’s disrespectful to me. If you have to pick sides, you pick my side. Not hers.”

“Sorry. I’m on your side. Not hers.”

“Hand me one of those.”

Abby gave him a dishtowel. He wiped crumbs and butter from his face, and then tucked it in the neck of his t-shirt. “You need a certain level of detachment to be a good manager,” he continued. “If I suspect you’re getting too close with her, it’s going to make me think you’re letting her get away with things.”

He stuffed a second Danish in his mouth. They had cooled off a bit, allowing him to pick up his pace. He inhaled nearly half of it in one bite. His eating habits, like nothing else about him had ever done for her, occasionally mesmerized Abby. Like a seed bursting from the soil and becoming an unfurling, sun-grasping plant in a time-lapse video, or cells splitting beneath a microscope. Or a snake swallowing an entire cow. The purity, force, and focus of his hands and the food and his mouth collaborating like a fascinating machine.

“Give me another,” he said, after he swallowed, holding out his hand.

“She and I will talk today. I promise,” Abby said, handing another towel to him.

“Good girl,” he said. “Good talk.” He took a long swallow of coffee and set the mug down on the kitchen island. Abby continued folding dishtowels. For a couple of minutes the only sound was Randall chewing.

The last dishtowel folded, Abby placed them all in their drawer, arranging them into tidy rows.

“Sugartitties, I didn’t know you had it in you to do such a good job around here,” Randall joked.

“I’m not so useless after all.”

“I’m gonna be late,” Randall said, stuffing the last Danish in his mouth and heading to his bathroom for a shower.

Abby changed into her bikini and dove into the pool so she’d be busy when Randall was leaving. Opening the patio door, saying goodbye – he wouldn’t bother with that unless he had some instructions or criticism for her.

Twenty minutes later she watched his Mercedes gliding down their driveway. Once he was out of view she climbed out and toweled off, and went inside to watch TV. A half hour later Rosa arrived.

“Good morning, Miss Abby,” she said.

“Hi Rosa. You know it’s fine to call me Abby. How are you today?”

“Good.”

“Sit down in here by me for a minute. Let’s talk. You can start your work later.”

“If you’re sure.”

“Of course I’m sure,” Abby said, waiting as Rosa settled in uncomfortably on the chair across from her.

“Is anything wrong?” Rosa asked her.

Abby shook her head. “How’s your grandson?”

“He’s very good. He turns seven next week.”

“Seven already! Is he still into Legos?”

“Is he ever.”

“How’s your daughter doing?”

“She’s good. They think they got it all this time.”

“That’s really wonderful news.”

“But they said that once before, and it came back.”

“I know. I remember.”

“A lot of people are praying.”

Abby nodded. “Me too,” she said. She wished it were true. She’d lost her religion a long, long time ago. Now she only found herself praying in rare moments of her own selfish desperation.

“And you’re good?” Rosa asked, tentatively.

Abby nodded. “Of course.”

The two women shared an awkward moment of silence.

“I’d better get to work,” Rosa said.

“Okay. Nice catching up with you,” Abby said. She unpaused the television, right in time to catch a handbag sale kicking off on the shopping channel.

Rosa nodded. “You too, Miss Abby,” she said, before heading off to clean the bathrooms.

The following Tuesday when Danielle went to lunch and Abby settled into her chair, she discovered a cardboard box beneath Danielle’s desk filled with rubber bands. At first she was thrilled over the prospect of all the work ahead of her. She went searching for the ball, but she couldn’t find it. It was not until she noticed an unusual but familiar orange rubber band in the box that it occurred to her that she was actually looking at the ball, in its dissected form.

Abby set the box in a prominent location on Danielle’s desk and put a Post-it note reading
Did you do this to be mean to me?
on the top of the pile of rubber bands. She decided that she was going to talk to Randall again about quitting. She couldn’t do this any longer.

The front door swung open.

“Abby! Nice to see you up here today,” said Charlie.

“You’re back from your hunting trip,” she said, casually crumpling up her message to Danielle and tossing it in the trashcan.

“Have you been checking up on me?” he teased. He looked pleased that she had been keeping tabs on him.

“The other mailman mentioned it,” she said. Just then Clark Lorbmeer walked through the front door. “Hello,” she said to him.

“Abby! How are you liking it here? Settling in?” asked Clark. He was in the office so little that he didn’t seem to realize she’d been working at his firm for over two months.

“Great,” she said.

“Getting the hang of things around here?”

“I sure am!”

“I see you’re giving Danielle a chance to go out and get some lunch now and then. That’s good of you.”

“It’s no trouble. I don’t mind it.”

Charlie pretended to be enthralled by a picture on the wall.

“Well,” said Clark, “glad you’re fitting in. If you have any questions or you need anything, you come see me. Got that?”

“Sure, Clark. Thank you.”

“And tell Randall I’m going to redeem myself Sunday morning. The last time we were on the course together he got the better of me.”

Abby tried not to cringe. She felt like saying,
Who’s this Randall you speak of?
But she smiled and nodded. Clark winked and closed himself in his office.

“Sorry. I know you have a schedule to keep,” she told Charlie. She pretended to be looking for some outgoing mail, when in fact there was none. She lifted up a stack of file folders, some empty manila envelopes, the Victoria’s Secret catalogs and
Cosmopolitan
magazines Danielle had been looking at.

“I’m not in a hurry,” said Charlie.

“I don’t know where she put the stuff that has to get mailed. I guess it’ll have to go out tomorrow.” Abby looked up at him and he smirked a little. She blushed.

“So…” he said. He looked back at Clark’s closed door and then continued, his voice very low, “I guess you’re involved with someone already?”

“Yeah.”

“Married?”

She nodded.

“Too bad for me. Lucky for someone else.”

She refrained from snorting. Did Randall still think he was lucky? She doubted it. “That’s a nice thing to say,” she told Charlie. In her peripheral vision she was watching Clark Lorbmeer’s door. She could hear him yacking away on the phone in there. Loud. Showy-offy. Importantish. She suddenly wondered if there were cameras on her.

“Well, it’s true,” said Charlie.

Abby shook her head. It was time for him to stop. Time for him to go on his way.

“Can’t you take a compliment?” he asked her.

“Shhh,” she whispered, looking pointedly at Clark’s closed office door.

“I’d think a girl like you would be used to it. Someone beautiful like you. Aren’t you used to it?” he whispered.

“Stop,” she whispered back. She was now at a point in her life where she had to wonder if guys liked her. The days of being the hottest girl alive had fizzled years ago. She wasn’t sure if it was because she was usually surrounded by middle-aged men who feared her husband, or because she’d simply lost her prettiness.

It sometimes surprised her when she got ready for a party and saw Charlize Theron (the twenty-something, gorgeous version of her) staring back in the mirror. She’d look at her reflection and think, ‘Oh, you’re still here? Why haven’t you taken off for someplace better? I was expecting to see Peppermint Patty or a pile of gray sludge. So anyway, nice to see you again.’

“If you’re not going to talk to me, then I guess I might as well get going,” said Charlie.

“It’s just… I can’t do this,” she said.

“Sure. I understand. See you around.”