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Judith bounced her heel against the plastic carpet protector they'd laid down under her chair two years ago. The staccato tapping was a soft cadence in the silence of the dispatch office. It was a long-time nervous habit of hers; something even her boss had tried to get her to stop to no avail -- stand at the dispatch desk for too long, and you'd catch Judith's knee bouncing and hear the rapping. For some reason, people found it disturbing and, eventually, left her alone. Fine. Her parents were strict southern baptists. Daddy came home every evening, kissed her mother, had dinner, and spent an hour or two reading or watching television. He always had two double vodka gimlets at this point, sitting in his chair. When she was eight, she asked Daddy to teach her how to make the drinks for him, and she learned very well. At Christmas, he told her that she would be the only girl mixing his drinks from then on -- she didn't remember any other presents that year, but she remembered that. She loved making the drinks -- the powered sugar dusted out of the container when she opened it, and she would lick it from the back of her hand or suck it off her fingertips as she brought the glass to him. He would pat her on the head and tell her what a good girl she was, and she would sit on the floor in front of the chair, leaning against his leg and watching television if she didn't have homework.
She had been working dispatch for twenty years; it was the first and last job after she left Paul's company. In that time, she'd had eleven office chairs, six desk-and-dispatch phones of increasing complexity, four different computer systems, two different filing systems, and fifteen direct supervisors. When she was ten years old, she was allowed to have a pet, a gray fluffball named Dusty who, as a kitten, would stomp around the carpet on stiff legs, tracking and stalking his own shadow with wide, blue eyes. Dusty liked to kitten-nap on the cushion of Daddy's chair. One night, Dusty was still on the cushion as Daddy was sitting down and narrowly missed being squashed. He'd jumped at just the last second, hopping to the arm of the chair, fur puffed out and his face curled in a hiss. Out of sheer fear and startlement, he'd batted at Daddy's arm and drawn blood through his shirtsleeve. Daddy let out an angry sound and swatted Dusty back into the wall, hard enough to bounce. The kitty didn't die, but the light was gone out of his eyes after that -- even the one that would still follow you when you moved.
She'd driven five cars to work in that time, all Chevrolets. She had lived into three apartments and bought a small house, all approximately the same distance from work. She had been to two friends' weddings, no bachelorette parties, and had been invited to one baby shower, but made excuses and forgot to send a card. She had no pets. She never drank alcohol of any kind. She had never gone on vacation. In college (double major, 4.0 GPA), she'd met a boy her age named David with whom she'd enjoyed a certain immediate and intoxicating chemistry. Three weeks after they first met, she'd drug him on the three-hour drive to her parent's home like a child gripping an adult's hand while trying to run to the next carnival ride. David had thought it amusing that her father touted such hard-line christian views between sips from his vodka gimlet, and had raised an eyebrow in a way that made Judith nervous whenever she got up to fix another drink as soon as Daddy rattled the ice in his glass. That night, after her parents had gone to sleep and before he'd gone to the guest room, David sat with her on her mother's pristine couch and whispered how he would take her away from the quiet insanity of her parent's showcase home. She gave him her first handjob. He gritted his teeth together very loudly when he came. She ended the relationship the next week.
Several of her bosses had tried to get her to take some time off. One by one, they caved in the face of her implacable expression, exemplary work ethic, disapproving tone, and the incessant tapping of her heel. Four years ago, the business had merged with a larger moving company and instituted a 'cash-back' policy for any stored vacation days over sixty. Judith had cashed in only a portion of her surplus time and bought a new car, outright. She met Paul in her senior year, fallen in love, given her virginity to him the night he had proposed and presented a ring, and married him that summer. They both went to work in his father's company in different areas and both excelled (and if Paul did a bit more quickly than Judith, well, he was his father's son, after all). Three years later, two months after Paul's promotion to Assistant VP for Process Improvement, Judith found out she was pregnant and raced to tell her husband who was, it turned out, receiving oral sex (something Judith had never agreed to) from his new boss, a fast-track, go-getting, up-and-comer named Vicky. She paid for the abortion herself, and was virtually dismembered in the divorce proceedings -- not only could she not prove infidelity based solely on her testimony, Paul's lawyers almost managed to get her brought up on perjury and slander charges. She couldn't find work in her field without moving, which she didn't want to do, and had finally gotten the dispatch job (without any prior experience) by virtue of being frighteningly good at remembering facts. Her parents had screamed through the phone at her for wasting her education and a brilliant future (she hadn't told them about go-getter Vicky) and had all but disowned her.
Fifteen days after Roland left his truck and the business behind, which is to say seven days after Mr. Ian Hughes stopped and asked after his whereabouts, Judith walked into the office of her current boss (12 years younger than her -- she'd looked at the file) and informed him that she was taking a leave of absence. Her last call from the dispatch phone was to make reservations at the Land's End Hotel and Resort -- personal business, but she was off the clock. That night, she had grimly packed an overnight bag. The next morning, she had grimly driven to the hotel, grimly checked in, grimly unpacked her suitcase, and grimly begun to stalk the halls of the hotel. This wasn't a vacation; Judith intended to find Roland and spend the next hour ripping him into tiny pieces (verbally, of course) for meddling in other people's business. Goal in mind, she searched Land's End. The girl at the front desk said (with a perfectly straight face that still seemed to be hiding something) that no one with Roland's name had checked into the guest registry within the last two weeks. Judith was going to pursue it, but the man in the tuxedo gave her the heebie-jeebies. He'd been there. Was there. She knew it, somehow. Mid-afternoon, she paused on a stair landing lined with books and filled with the golden light from a dormer window that looked terribly comfortable. No sooner had she sat down than a gray, one-eyed tomcat leapt into her lap. "Oh!" She exclaimed. The cat blinked his one golden eye. "Shoo!" she said. "Get! I don't like cats." The cat blinked again, slowly, and sat. She shoved at him, tentatively. He lay down, decisively. She sighed. He purred. "Fine," she said, looking toward the nearest bookshelves for something to distract herself, pulling down a long thin -- The Bartender’s Guide to Serving Mythical Creatures. Ridiculous thing; the page on vodka gimlets was nothing but diagram sketches of some sort of tiny elf. She started herself awake as the sun set. The cat was still in her lap, resting on top of the pages of the open bartenders guide. She blinked sleep out of her eyes, then glowered at the cat. "Listen, I have things to do, and I know you don't want to --" The cap hopped down, stretched, and stalked, stiff-legged, after his own shadow before turning back to her. For a moment, his eye looked blue. She opened her mouth, shut it. Stood up. The cat headed down the stairs, stopping halfway down to look back up at her. He blinked. She stared. "Fine," she muttered, and followed him. Evening was coming on; she passed several guests on their way to and from their rooms as the cat lead her (she felt ridiculous even thinking that) into a lounge called the Red Brick. The Bartender nodded to the cat when it hopped onto a stool and poured him a saucer of something green. He turned his attention to Judith as she took the next seat over. "Hello," she said, "I was wondering --" "My book!" he interrupted. "My god, where did you find it?" She looked down, only realizing then that she was still carrying the silly Guide. "Oh," she shook her head. "It was on a bookshelf." He nodded. "It usually is. Thank you," he said, extending his hand, which she stared at for a moment before handing the book over. He passed his hand over the cover as though it were a holy relic. "I owe you," he said, his voice solemn and his eyes still on the book. Judith felt as though the air had suddenly grown heavy. "What can I get you?" "I don't --" she stopped, looking at his expression. "I mean..." She sighed. "Vodka Gimlet." He looked up, his eyes clear once again. "The drink?" Really quite a lovely hotel, she thought to herself, looking around the restaurant. Everyone's so nice. She smiled; an unfamiliar expression that seemed to suit her regardless, and winked at the cat sitting across from her at the table. "Too bad you're not taller," she stage-whispered. "I could use a proper date." She'd had number of gimlets on the good graces of Antonio, then let him show her to the restaurant, where he had told the maitre'd (who wasn't nearly as frightening as she'd thought when he was standing next to the receptionist) that "the lady will be putting herself in the chef's hands," which she thought sounded vaguely naughty. She frowned -- tried to remember the last date she'd been on, but before she could sufficiently clear her mind, Dusty jumped down from his seat and padded under the table to rub against her leg. It felt good, and she smiled at the thought of that. Nothing wrong with me, she thought. I've got lots of money stored away, most of my looks, and a cat rubbing my leg. She smirked, to herself as the nibbles were brought. Forget what that miserable son of a bitch did and I might even-- Oh, the food was good. "Better'n sex?" she murmured to herself, dreamy, trailing a fork through the remains of a chocolate confection that disdainfully surpassed any description. "Maybe... maayyyyybe..." Then again... she made a face. How would you know, Judy? Been so damn long, you're probably a virgin again, three times over. You probably don't even remember how any of that -- Her eyes widened, mouth open in a small gasp as a very particular and specific image flooded her mind. She hadn't forgotten. "Everything alright, ma'am?" A very young, very pretty man smiled at her, even white teeth in dark skin and midnight hair. His nametag read Eldren. "Ohhh... don't..." she shook her head. "Don't call me 'ma'am'. Makes me sound old." His smile broadened, dipping his head. "Madame is certainly not old... what should I call you?" Something older, stronger, and more sure filled her head. "It's not what," she said, standing and stepping close to him. "It's when," she murmured. She watched his dark eyes; watched them move to her lips, her body, then back. "Yes?" he said, his voice still almost boyish. "Fifteen minutes." He nodded, still smiling, but somewhat dazed -- fixated, she thought. He turned back toward the kitchen and tripped over a chair like the boy in sixth grade cafeteria who'd had a crush on her. She sauntered toward the door of the restaurant, laughing, little pieces of dying falling away from her like scales. words |
