She'll Take It (19 page)

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Authors: Mary Carter

BOOK: She'll Take It
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Chapter 20
I
would have preferred a Jehovah's Witness. Instead, I find Zach standing outside my door jostling a stack of college catalogues. “Only ten percent of noncollege graduates ever make over fifty thousand dollars a year,” he says when I peer into the hallway.
“Hello, Zach,” I say. “What a nice surprise.” My head is pounding from the vodka and my mouth tastes like pennies.
“Ten percent. And get this—of those that do make over fifty thousand a year, half of those at least have an associates degree.”
“Would you like to come in?”
Zach glances into my apartment like a soldier scanning for land mines. “Is she here?” Corinne doesn't like my brother hanging around my model friends—especially Kim.
“Not yet,” I say. “But she'll probably stumble in any minute in last night's little outfit,” I add just to see him sweat.
“Let's go somewhere, Mel,” he says. “We need to talk.”
I take him to the India House on Second Avenue and get the tongue-lashing of my life over Naan bread and Tandoori chicken. We make it through the buffet line and he waits until I've taken a few bites before he rips into me.
“We think you should be doing better by now, Mel,” he says.
“Who is
we
?” I reply, soothing myself with a mouthful of curried potatoes.
Zach hesitates and twists two colored straws into a modern art sculpture while I wait. “If you must know, all of us. Mom, Richard, Corinne—”
“Corinne? What right does she have to weigh in on my life?”
“She simply agreed you're an intelligent woman who—who—”
“Who what?”
“Who should have, you know, a degree—or a job.”
I grab the straw sculpture out of his pristine hands and throw it on the table. “She doesn't know me! Who the hell does she think she is?” (I like Corinne too, except for the fact that she has bad taste in men.)
“She's my wife,” Zach retorts. “Who the hell do you think she is?” He slams his fist on the table, catapulting his straw sculpture onto the Christmas lights that hang in the India House year-round. I stare at the twisted mass of blinking red and green lights reflecting early Christmas cheer on my brother's salt and pepper head and have visions of stabbing him to death with a fork.
“You have no right to judge me,” I say. “Any of you. Besides, there's nothing wrong with working in a law firm.”
“As an assistant?”
“Something wrong with that?”
“Is that what you really want? Because don't kid yourself with the title—you're just a glorified secretary.”
I start ripping my napkin into little pieces, which is what I always do when I'm stressed. Why can't he just once visit me like I'm a normal human being instead of a beater car in need of a serious tune-up? Why do I have to put up with his constant lectures? My own father doesn't even lecture me like this. Granted, he hardly ever talks to me at all anymore, but I know if he were here he would be a lot nicer than Zach.
“Melanie. I just want you to have a good life. You know that right?”
I soften slightly. Poor Zach, he feels so responsible for everyone. Maybe he is a lousy father replacement, but it's kind of sweet that he tries.
“I have a good life,” I say, forcing a smile. I start shredding the napkin faster and faster and eye the teapot in the center of the table. It's gold with an exotic woman belly dancer etched into it. It's also the perfect size to slip into a large jacket pocket or a purse. Just thinking about it calms me down a bit. I pour more hot water for myself and then for Zach. It will be much easier to steal if it's empty.
“When are you going back to college?” Zach says, sliding the comment into the conversation like a waiter clearing the salad plates.
“Mind your own business,” I say with a sulk.
“Look. I understand you went through a hard time,” Zach says puffing himself out—priming up for the kill.
And this is where I completely lose it. Because he's very close to a button that could cause a catastrophic reaction if pushed. And I don't care who I have to take down with me—that's not going to happen. Holier-than-thou Zach Zeitgar is walking over a land mine.
“You understand what?” I dare him to say. My voice carries with it a clear warning, and Zach looks away without answering. “Let's just change the subject, Zach. Okay?”
And just when I think we've come to an understanding, Zach slips back into the conversation through the back door. “Does Ray know about your stint in the psyche ward?” he says.
I have a new appreciation for deer in headlights. The paralyzing beams, the frozen limbs. He needs no fist slamming, since silence descends like a guilty verdict, casual dinner conversation screeches to a halt, and all eyes in the India House land on me like fleas on an old dog. My fork hovers halfway between my plate and my mouth, my eyes drift up and to the right, and déjà vu washes over me like oily gloves. He doesn't know that Ray and I are no longer dating, but the comment slices me anyway.
“That was a long time ago, Zach,” I say like a ball of yarn unraveling. I shut my eyes, trying to ignore the phantom ache across my left wrist. Elements of the evening tumble through my mind like an old movie.
I'm running in the rain back to my dorm as fast as I can. I yank off my shirt and grab the razor. I don't give myself time to think, I just slice. Blood is gushing out of my wrist so I instinctively grab a hand towel hanging near the sink—a festive bright red towel with a vibrant green Christmas tree—for it was that happy, happy time of year. I press it against my wound while pure terror races through my veins.
What did I do, what did I do, what did I just do?
I stumble into the hallway toward the pay phone, still clutching the razor, dripping a trail of blood. I'm going to call 911. I call Zach instead.
“Don't worry, Zach,” I say, snapping out of the memory, “I'm taking my Prozac.” Actually I had stopped taking it right after I met Ray, but Zach didn't need to know that. Besides, I didn't need it anymore. I was over all of that. Zach bit his bottom lip while I reached for another napkin.
“Look,” Zach says like he's gearing up for a closing argument. “I understand—”
“You don't understand a goddamn thing!” I shout, leaping to my feet. “Not one goddamn thing.”
“You tried to kill yourself!”
(It was a Bic. Double blade. As I said, I made the slice before I could think it through, deep and quick across my left wrist.)
“I'm a different person now, Zach. Why can't you just be happy for me?”
“Because I'm the one you run to when everything falls to pieces.” I push away from the table. “Melanie,” Zach says, “I just want you to be okay.” And he means it, I know he does. But something in me snaps, and rage spews out of my mouth like a shaken soda can. I hate myself but I can't stop. I'm Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I'm the Grinch. I'm Sybil. I'm Satan. I'm every Iraqi on the Most Wanted Deck of Cards. The shame from that evening is invading my body, and it's all because of Zach. He just had to bring that up, didn't he? He just had to wait for this Sunday, the day after I've been dumped by the man I love, and tear me to ribbons. Hot, raging tears fill my eyes and spill down my cheeks.
“I hate you,” I sob.
“Melanie,” Zach says, stung. He's trying to reason with me—he's probably willing to drop the whole subject by now and I should just stop—I know I should stop, but blind rage keeps me going.
“I hate you and your perfect little wife and your perfect fucking kids.” (How, how, how can I say that about my niece and nephew? I love them. What's wrong with me?) “I'm a failure okay? I'm a fucking failure—but at least I'm not you. Even Dad had the good sense to get the hell away from this family.”
“Melanie—”
“Look at you. You're so steeped in your own miserable life that you come after me? I may not be making a hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year, but at least I'm alive. You're a walking zombie. Your whole family is so stiff it's like you've sealed them in Saran Wrap. Your son talks like he's a forty-year-old professor, and little Corinne is so bogged down in ribbons it's a wonder she can even hold her head up.”
“That's enough—”
“And your wife—”
“I said that's enough—”
“Corinne is like a Stepford wife without the nice body.”
“How dare you—”
“Her entire life is catering to you. So why don't you try to change them and
leave me the fuck alone
.”
The waiter sidles up to our table and presents us with the bill. He puts his finger to his mouth and shakes his head indicating I'm to shut up. I'm definitely taking the teapot. Zach pays the bill while I wrestle with my alligator of shame and try to think of a way to take it all back. We go outside and stand in the rain. I can't stop crying.
“I'm sorry,” I whisper.
“Me too,” Zach says, and to my surprise he puts his arms around me and hugs me.
“You have no reason to be sorry,” I say, breaking the hug.
Zach looks at me for a long time. “I'm sorry that—you know—well I don't know. You won't talk to me. But something happened to you. Right? I mean it couldn't have just been the stress of school. You were a good student in high school—so what was it? Come on, Melanie—talk to me.”
I want to stop crying. I want to throw my arms him again. I want to beg him for forgiveness.
“Why?” Zach says again. “Why did you do it?”
“Fuck off!” I say, shutting out the memory. “Just fuck off.” And then (it's always good to know where the limit is) Zach shakes his head and walks out on me without as much as a backward glance.
I rub the teapot underneath my coat as I watch him go—its lingering heat is comforting on my belly and a million wishes float through my mind until one lands softly on the tip of my nose like a butterfly—it's the one I wish for more than anything else but never talk about—the one that lives in the back of my closet, the one partially responsible for driving my fingers to take, take, take—the one that wakes me up at night with an angry cry—it's the one that gets away—the one I don't speak of—the one I want to kill. I rub and rub but the genie never shows, and even the Saints are silent on my long walk home.
Chapter 21
T
his is how I die. Walking along a high bridge eating buttered toast. My purse is ringing. My hands slip violently through my belongings searching for my cell phone. When I finally retrieve it, I squeeze it so hard it slips right through my butterfingers and flies over the bridge. I don't even hesitate. I jump off the bridge after the phone shouting, “Hello, hello, hello? Can you hear me now? Baby, can you hear me?” But instead of an earful of love, I get a mouthful of water as I plunge into the murky depths below. My last thought before my lungs fill with water is that I'll need to change my calling plan to roaming.
Despite Kim and Tommy's best efforts to cheer me up (and fatten me up), I'm still morose over my breakup with Ray and my subsequent fight with Zach. Even though I sent him and Corinne a family pass to the American History Museum and have apologized to him a million times, I still feel horrible about it. Then I told him it was that time of the month, which was a lie, but I think it made us both feel a little bit better about it. And so it's no surprise that when Greg Parks pops his head in the file room to see me the next Monday, I'm not very friendly toward him.
“How about getting out of here for the rest of the afternoon?” he says with a devilish smile.
“What's the catch?” I say sullenly.
“Does it matter?” he replies.
“No. I'll get my purse.”
Greg looks snappy in a tan suit with a light blue shirt. He is carrying a briefcase and has a long black coat thrown over his arm. I'm suddenly extremely self-conscious in my drab brown skirt and cream-colored sweater. Images of Trina's trendy suits flash through my mind. I'll have to do a little clothes shopping next weekend. Did you hear that? I said shopping. And despite my mute telephone, I have maintained my anti-klepto streak. Ha! I was going shopping next week. Shopping. Now all I had to do was visualize walking up to the counter and paying for something like a normal human being. It's not logical, but the thought makes me a little nauseous.
“Are you okay?” Greg says, stepping toward me. I nod and move back. We're on Park Avenue, and Greg is trying to hail a cab. I still don't know where we're going and I don't care. Anything is better than filing. “Bloomingdale's,” Greg says to the driver and I gasp. Greg laughs.
“Shopping?” I say. “We're going shopping?”
It's too early, I tell myself. I can't do it yet. Greg mistakes the anxiety in my voice for excitement and laughs even harder. Even the cab driver joins in, until I give him a dirty look.
“No, we're not going shopping. We're giving a training to the security guards at Bloomingdale's on loss prevention.” I nod while visions of lipstick, scarves, and small purses float through my head.
“Can I ask you a question?” I say after a moment.
“Shoot,” he says.
“Did you get the position on
Side Court TV
?”
Greg laughs, and I can't help but notice how kind nice his eyes are when he smiles. “Margaret running off at the mouth?”
“You could say that.”
“Well I don't know yet, but I think I'm close. They're going to have another cameraman there today. It's between me and a female attorney with much better legs.”
“I wouldn't worry about that,” I say. “They hardly ever show their legs on that show.”
“You're a fan then?” Greg asks.
I feel my face flush. I'd only started watching it after Margaret mentioned that Greg was up for the position. “I watch now and then,” I say casually. “Mostly I'm working on my clocks.”
Greg scoots closer to me. “You know I'd really like to hear more about that,” he says.
Great. Me and my big mouth.
“What do you need me to do today?” I say, changing the subject.
“Nothing too difficult,” Greg says with a wave of his hand. “Pass out handouts, things like that.” I bite my lip, the phrase “nothing too difficult” caught in my throat. “What?” Greg says watching me intensely.
“Nothing,” I say, then swallow and look out the window.
“No,” Greg says. “That was definitely something. Tell me.”
What was with this man? I turn to say something sarcastic, but I'm trapped by his piercing eyes.
“Well,” I say honestly. “I didn't like the “nothing too difficult” bit. I told you—I'm more than just a file clerk. In fact, I could give a training on loss prevention.”
Greg looks at me for a while and then turns and looks out the window. “I'm sorry if you thought I was implying that you couldn't,” he says. “I just don't need much help on this—that's all.”
“Then why am I here?” I demand, regretting it the second it's out of my mouth. Besides the fact that this man is my boss—if I didn't watch it he'd send me right back to the file room. Let's see. File room. Bloomingdale's. File room. Bloomingdale's. A monkey could figure that one out. “I'm sorry,” I say. “I didn't mean it.”
To my surprise Greg laughs again.
“What?” I say, my defenses popping back up.
“You're a horrible liar, Zeitgar,” he says smugly. “I'm sorry? That's just the point! You're not sorry. So why act like it?”
I bite my lip again and scan the floor of the cab for pennies.
He puts his hand on my chin and turns me to face him. “I
like
that about you, Melanie. Haven't you figured that out by now?”
There is a crack in his voice, and our eyes lock way beyond the culturally appropriate three seconds. It's more like ten. I know because I'm holding my breath. I look away first and wonder how much he would like me if he knew the real me. The answer is not at all.
“Welcome back, shoppers,” Greg says to the twelve Bloomingdale's security guards sitting around the sterile conference room. Nobody laughs so I laugh for them. It's a tough crowd. “First of all, let me introduce Bob.” He turns to the cameraman in the corner. “Not to worry, he's here to watch me, not you.” Again nobody laughs. Bob gives a weak little wave. “As you remember,” Greg continues, “last week we covered employee thefts. Everybody's favorite subject, right?” He is greeted with thick, hostile stares. “Well,” he says clearing his throat. “Today we're going to talk about nonemployee thefts. Shoplifters.”
I shiver, but luckily no one seems to notice. The woman to my left removes her glasses, puts them on the table in front of her, and then places her hand over her eyes as if she can't even bear to look at him. “Last week I surveyed the store and found that you could use a few more signs,” Greg lectures. “You need more in the dressing rooms and a few more by the exits as well. Signs, cameras, sensors, mirrors. All very important deterrents. But you—the security guard—can go a long way in preventing a shoplifter. How, you ask?” They hadn't, but politely nobody draws attention to that little fact.
“Talk to each and every person who comes into your area,” Greg lectures. “Make eye contact. Say hello. Pay careful attention to the people who won't look you in the eye. Also look for people with baggy clothes—and people who are loaded down with shopping bags.” Greg is speaking quickly now, as if trying to outrun their boredom. As an actress I could have given him a few tips on jazzing up the presentation, but he made it clear I was just a paper pusher. As if reading my mind, Greg hands me a stack of papers to pass out. I dutifully hand each zombie/security guard a handout.
Ten Secrets Shoplifters Don't Want You To Know
1.
They will rarely make eye contact with you. They want to be in and out without being noticed.
2.
They will often be wearing baggy or layered clothes.
3.
They may try to bring more garments in the fitting rooms than is allowed.
4.
They—
I didn't mean to do it. I swear. I forget I'm sitting at the front of the table where everyone can see me. I forget I am supposed to be Greg's “assistant.” Most of all, I forget that nobody in here is accusing me of being a thief. But somewhere along the line, I start overheating. I can feel pressure building up under my arms and a flush rise to the surface of my face. My hands are shaking slightly, and I am suddenly, inexplicably angry. These stereotypes are ridiculous. And dangerous. Teenagers wear baggy clothes all the time.
Does that mean they were now going to be under automatic suspicion? And what about people who were shy, huh? Just because they don't want to make eye contact they're a thief? Ridiculous. I make eye contact with employees all the time. In fact they were the ones who were usually looking elsewhere. Chatting on the phone, reading, plucking nonexistent lint off the merchandise, gossiping. I could steal twelve tubes of lipstick while looking them in the eye. It was simply a slight of hand. In fact the friendlier I was, the less they would suspect me.
The security guards notice what I'm doing first. It starts when a heavyset woman in the back with curly black hair giggles. She turns and whispers something to the red-headed man sitting next to her, and they both look at me and laugh. Soon the whole table is snickering. At first, Greg beams. He thinks they're finally “getting him.” Then he glances at me, and it's not until Bob zooms in with his camera and Greg's gaze drops to my hands that I realize what I've done. Tiny shreds of paper are scattered on the table in front of me. I am tearing Greg's handout to pieces.
My hands freeze mid-tear as I ponder the best course of action. Everyone is staring. I have to do something. “Confetti!” I shout, throwing it up in the air. Greg's mouth drops open, as do most of security guards' mouths. I jump up. “Are any of you paying attention to this?” I say, circling the table like a shark. “Or do you think you know it all already?” Heads turn and bob in every direction. The employees look wildly around for help like trapped animals.
“Melanie?” Greg says, stepping toward me.
“This man is a genius,” I continue, shooting him a “back off ” look. Bob has taken the camera off the tripod, and he's now following me on foot. It's too late to turn back now.
“I want to ask each and every one of you something, and I want you to be honest.” I pause again and look around. “How many of you are bored to death?” I ask. Silence. Then a few giggles. Finally a woman in the back holds up her hand. “I'm bored,” she admits. I point to her handout. “Then rip it up,” I say.
“Melanie?” Greg tries again.
I ignore him.
“Rip it up?” the woman repeats.
“Yes,” I confirm. “I want anyone who is bored—anyone who has heard this crap a million times—to take their handout and rip it up.”
Some of the guards reach for their handout and hold it at the ready, but nobody makes a tear.
“Now!” I shout. “Do it now.”
“All right!” one man yells, and he begins to rip up his paper.
“That's it,” I encourage. “Tear it to shreds!” Papers start ripping all around the table. We are having our own ticker tape parade. Greg has retreated to the back wall where he is standing with his arms crossed. He's not a happy man, but there is no turning back now. “Throw it. Throw it!” I shout. Paper swirls around us like snowflakes. It's our own winter wonderland, and soon every single handout is ripped to shreds. “So what's the point?” I say when most of the paper has settled down. “Why are we doing this?” Again nobody answers, but this time at least they're listening.
The woman who had covered her eyes is feeling around the table for her glasses. “My glasses,” she says. “Has anyone seen my glasses?”
“Are they under the table?” I ask. She and a fellow coworker look under the table.
“They were sitting right here,” she says. “They're brand new.”
I walk around the table as several of the guards search for the glasses. “Right here?” I ask her, pointing to the table space in front of her. “In plain sight?”
The woman curls her fist and puts it near her mouth. “Yes, they were right here,” she says. “I swear.”
I point to the security guard sitting next to her. “Did you take her glasses?” I demand.
“Of course not,” he says.
I turn on someone else. “How about you,” I say, “you're sitting right across from her. Did you see anyone take her glasses?”
“No,” the large black woman says carefully. “I thought she was wearing them.”
I nod. “Who else thought she was wearing them?” I say. Greg's arms are still crossed defensively against his chest, but like the twelve guards, every fiber of his being is paying attention to me. A few hands shoot up in answer to my question. “Who noticed she wasn't wearing them?” I ask. The woman herself and a man next to her raise their hands. I point to him. “Now why would you notice something like that?” I ask him.

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