Beloved Evangeline (2 page)

Their favorite closing statement after this torture is, “Be thankful you
have
a job.” The corporate officers then flee for Miami in their $4,000 suits and Maybach 57s.

Yeah,
thanks
.

I haven’t gotten a raise since the 2008 crash, and the last raise I got before that amounted to—after taxes—$13 per paycheck.

But the truth is, my job has nothing to do with how I’m feeling today. The truth is I feel like crap because
it
happened again a few weeks ago. That’s the real reason for my black mood, and I should’ve known better than to come to work at all.

On that particular Friday, after work, the ocean
called
to me. The sound of the waves, the sand between my toes—the ocean always seems to—temporarily—heal the wounds deep in my soul. And it was working that day. Taking off my heels and rolling up my work slacks, I had walked up and down the beach, soaking up the last rays of warmth from the sun and marveling at the delicate sea spray that’s like nothing else on earth. As I stood admiring the pureness of the blue, my mind was beginning to calm, my thinking becoming clearer. I felt the old wounds becoming less tender. It was at that moment that a man strolled up and began making polite conversation.

I can’t remember his exact words, something pleasant and banal about it being such a nice day, that he used to bring his daughter here, along those lines. I was standing just a few feet from him, smiling and nodding, when it happened.

A gigantic wave, at least fifty feet high, lashed out from the sea in an instant. One moment the man was there, talking politely, and the next moment—he was gone. It was as if the ocean had simply reached out and plucked him from the shore. Aside from a few droplets here and there, I was completely dry.

I gasped, dumbstruck, mouth agape. Although onlookers jumped in and lifeguards combed the sea, the man was never found.

When the police and paramedics arrived, Officer Jansen recognized me immediately.

“
Weren’t you the one on the scene when…”

“
Yes,” I interrupted in annoyance.

“
And the time when…”

“
Yes
.” I interrupted again, gazing out into the sea, “Yes, I was.”

The ordeal left me with a certain unwelcome feeling. Evidence or no, authorities tend to be suspicious of someone like me, someone who’s inexplicably at the scene of one too many strange and deadly accidents. Needless to say, it was a long, difficult night.

With a deep sigh, I pulled a leather-bound notebook from my purse and jotted down a quick letter to my one-time fiancé, Jack Legrand. In this notebook, I have seven years’ worth of stories I’m dying to share with him—but no address to which to send them.

“
Knock, knock,” my boss, Mr. Gregorio Oxley, called from my office doorway as I was absorbed in these thoughts. Luckily, I saw him first and was able to take my iPod earbuds out before he tapped me on the shoulder and nearly scared me to death like he did last time.

“
Here are the revisions from your latest sales trend report. Great work, as usual, but... I’m afraid I’m going to need you to tone down your recommendations just a little bit. Can’t have you drawing too strong of conclusions and making any rash recommendations on public issues that could reflect on the company negatively.” He gave me a sympathetic smile. “You’re a brilliant researcher, Evangeline, just need to work on a more diplomatic presentation.”

I used to get into debates with old Gregorio, but over time, I’ve sort of given up on that, too. Asserting myself in anyway has proven nearly impossible in recent years. Also—in my defense—it’s really hard to argue with him, resembling Leonard Nimoy the way he does (though I used to manage pretty well). On second thought, maybe his voice reminds me more of Peter O’Toole or one of the Carradines?

He once stared at me for a long moment before finally commenting, “You have
a lot
of freckles.” Then he walked away. What was I supposed to say to something like that?

And so today, instead of arguing, I just nodded my head, pulled a very small, extremely pained smile, and inhaled deeply.
Great
. Toning down this report will take even more time from the growing pile I already have. And, the best part is, now I actually have to put some effort into making my work even more
bland
. Gregorio really believes in this company and takes each report with the utmost seriousness. Though I disagree with him about the virtues of our company, I can’t help but admire and respect his convictions—and reluctantly work my ass off so as not to let him down, no matter how badly I may feel.

By the time I managed to buckle down and get some work flowing, I was interrupted again. With just a quick glance beyond my doorway and toward the source of the annoyance, I continued typing feverishly, afraid of losing the only momentum I’d managed to muster the entire day. I simply couldn’t put my earbuds back in. I don’t know if it’s just me or what, but even the extra soft spongy kind start hurting my ears after about an hour. Predictably, the chatter grew louder and louder, until I was able to tune it out no longer.

“
Hey, I got a riddle for you. What do you get from Oxley’s office that stays with you all day?”

“
You’ve got
me
,” was the breathlessly suggestive female answer.

“
Old man stink! I think the spice from his
Old Spice
shriveled up and died about 20 years back.”

This is what passes for humor at my job; cruel jabs at the expense of someone whose back is turned—and who is much too nice to defend himself.

Shrill, borderline hysterical female laughter followed.

I recognized the male voice as belonging to John M., one of four or five of the
Johns
in our office. I think his last name is Maverly, or something similar. He’s one of a growing number of people that I find completely generic. Average looking—so average in fact that I honestly could not tell him apart from two other similar looking fellows who started working here about the same. Then again, maybe I have more in common with him than I give him credit for.

The woman laughing so hard you’d think she was auditioning for a daytime Emmy is Veronica Lynch, a voluptuous, unnatural redhead, who is for some reason psychotically flirtatious. Once at our monthly oh-so-thrilling communal office birthday party, I was talking to my friend Simon when she actually bumped me out of the way with her hip—planting herself directly on top of him. After he’d pushed her off and finished picking up the piece of cake that flew from my hands, he rather curtly suggested she not wear such high heels if she doesn’t know how to walk in them.

Only after I’d read the same sentence 27 times did I realize the ruckus was robbing me of the ability to focus. No matter how pig-headed he is, I adore Gregorio and can’t stand to hear anyone disparaging him. With resignation, I rose and pulled a grim face on the way to the door. The two of them came into view as soon as I rounded my desk. Veronica, with her hand on John’s bicep, flashed me a wicked, I’m-better-than-you glance.

In response, I pulled a jaw-clenched smile. “Hey, John? Gregorio just called, said he could hear you all the way down to his office just now? I dunno what he’s talking about,” said I, giving my earbuds a twirl.

John’s face completely drained of color. Veronica looked similarly horrorstruck.

“
He seemed a little upset—something about a late sales report? Just passing on the message.’’ I shrugged and retreated into my office.

I know, I know, the better person fails to be dragged down in these situations.

I never said I was better.

Disbelief rained down when I finally checked the time. Though it clearly said 5:30, I wasn’t any nearer to finishing. The tedium of being thorough often erodes my will to live. I wake myself up at night with worry about potentially humiliating mistakes I could’ve made. In my current delirium the eight’s were becoming indistinguishable from three’s in my research data, so sadly all the glamour and spectacle would have to be postponed until tomorrow.

I was so excited on the way home that I was actually salivating. I had new music saved for a day such as this. The discovery of new alternative music was about the only adventure I allowed myself these days, so it was an extraordinary delight, something to be savored whenever I’d had a particularly foul day.

As I pulled into my driveway, I noticed a commotion on my across-the-street neighbor’s lawn. Bruce Vaughn, my prematurely crotchety and grizzled neighbor, was shouting animatedly at someone or other I couldn’t see, with his back to me. I had never, ever seen the man leave his property—swear to God. He spends most of his time on his screened in front porch, waiting, spider-like, for prey to fall helpless in his trap. I immediately felt sorry for whoever he had cornered in his yard this time. Despite the sympathy I instinctively felt, however, I was spent and mentally exhausted.

Whoever Mr. Vaughn was unleashing himself on this time probably deserved what they were getting. Everyone should know well enough by now not to provoke or give him any excuse to make a fuss. Besides, it wasn’t my job to protect the entire neighborhood from him. So, though I heard him continue shouting as I got out of the car, I kept my head down and quickly ducked into the house. Maybe it was a bit childish, but I felt I deserved some rest today. It would be nice for once to come home to a peaceful neighborhood without some sort of chaos going down and not have to worry about making these decisions, but no. Every week is pretty much the same.

After briefly considering turning the TV on, just to check the channel guide to see if
Ghost Chasers
was on, I shook my head.
No
. That’s the problem with having an addiction—it never stops calling to you. Luckily for me, I’ve never seen anything on
Ghost Chasers
to convince me of the existence of the supernatural, or I would never be able to resist. Don’t they realize that
I
can’t feel anything when they claim to have been brushed by the paranormal? Without exception on each and every episode, I just don’t see whatever it is they are all excited about—to me it looks like only a shadow or speck of dust. My brother Chris swears he saw an actual specter on some lighthouse episode—I still have no idea what he was talking about. And don’t even get me started on
Ghost Explorers
. Nevertheless, my compulsion forces me to keep checking from time to time, fearful that something more—or less—concrete may appear.

Just as I finished changing into my baby tee and lounging pants, preparing to nestle onto my couch and unwind by enjoying my new album and a cup of tea, I heard Bruce Vaughn shouting, clearly this time, from across the street.

“
... not going anywhere kids until you’ve made this right. I don’t buy this foolish little story about
falling
off your bikes and
accidentally
crashing into my yard.” Mr. Vaughn was employing his most timeworn, bitter-old-man voice today. My entire body tensed. As the sound of the word “kids” repeated over and over in my head, I was drawn, against my will, to the window for a better look.

Mr. Vaughn had worked himself into a quasi-maniacal frenzy. “My prize gardenia is completely destroyed. Gone. Annihilated. Look there—not even a scrap of it left. Don’t think I don’t know this was a deliberate attack on my garden. You really are a couple of little jack-asses, aren’t you? You obviously don’t care about anyone but yourselves. Well, guess what? I don’t give a crap about you jerks, either. So tell you what—I’m gonna sit here, read my paper, and relax while you two restore my garden to its pre-kid cyclone state. Believe me, I got all night.”

I hung my head and closed my eyes, inhaling deeply. This goes against my guidelines, which I very seldom adhere to these days. The first guideline: Don’t reveal your true self to anyone. This is the biggest, single most important rule of all, hence it being number one on my list. If my philosophy is correct, all of the other guidelines are superfluous, really, and can actually be boiled down to just this one. But my life would be all the more meaningless if I didn’t have these rules, my fragile facade to keep up with.

After a lifetime of trial and error, stumbling around repelling those around me or... worse, I deduced a set of rules to keep from drawing undue attention to myself, and keep my secrets.
Who am I kidding?
I thought it sounded more impressive to say I had actually created complex rules by which I lived, but I’m just not into anything so complicated. I opted instead on a broader, more flexible life philosophy. My way of living is to just keep my head down and avoid making eye contact with the world. Maybe then things will be okay. Maybe, just maybe, I can keep the shadows in my past, both distant and recent, from casting any more darkness than they already have.