Hardly Working (27 page)

“Dinah, you look like shit.”

“You don't look so hot yourself.”

“Haven't been getting much sleep lately.”

I gave him a twisted look.

“I don't know what I'm going to do. Cleo and I are in negotiations right now. We might be getting back together.”

“You are?”

“Well, I think…I think…I want to be with her, Dinah.”

“You do?” I was stunned. “Enough to give up fluttering around the world like a hundred-and-eighty-pound butterfly?”

He ran a hand through his messy blond locks. “Yeah.”

“Well, you know, Simon, Cleo's my friend. She doesn't fall in love. Or so she would like to have us believe. But she's really hooked on you. I've never seen her so possessive.”

“She is? You haven't?”

“Yeah. So don't blow it again. Don't cheat on her and don't abandon her.”

Simon seemed more cheerful. “Did you need something, Di?”

“Joey must have some flu drugs around here.”

“Oh, he does, and then some.”

Simon sent me away with a nice supply. I took everything I was allowed to mix together then went back to bed.

I think Jon may have come to my door several times. In a high-fever dream, I remembered hearing knocking and his voice calling my name. But even if I'd had the strength to get up and answer the door, I wouldn't have had the strength to think up something to say to him. Because I didn't know what to say to him. I was afraid to look at him.

Monday (of the following week)

By the end of the first round of sniffles and coughing, I was perky enough to stay propped up on the couch to watch daytime TV and listen to music. But I still wasn't in the mood for visits. I had a hard enough time just reaching for a box of Kleenex.

Ida, my second pair of eyes, called me to keep me filled in. “We are missing you something awful. Ian didn't realize how much you do till you're not here. That'll teach him. Ha! And you should see that office of his. Got the cleaners to let me in. Gonna throw my grandson's bar mitzvah in there. No axings yet. Oh, and I should mention, your best pal Penelope? She is not a happy little girl.”

 

I had just put on “Scarlet Tango.” I'd been finding more and more of Hector's music from his young New York jazz days. I was settling back to listen when somebody knocked on my door. I decided to give in and answer because you never know when there could be a gas leak in the building. Or a fire.

“Yes?” I croaked.

A girl's voice asked, “Dinah Nichols? Are you in there?”

“Yes. Who is it?”

“It's Penelope.”

I would have happily opted for the gas leak. It would have been more fun.

“Penelope who?”

“Longhurst. Penelope Longhurst. Stop pretending you don't know me.”

“Surely not the same Penelope who works at Green World International?”

“Please, can I come in?”

“The same Penelope who doesn't know what she's talking about half the time?”

“I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings with that man-eater comment. I apologize.”

“My feelings? I have no feelings.”

“Please, Dinah, let me come in. I have to talk to you.”

“I can't. I'm a sad, pathetic, desperate woman.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“Only if you crawl on all fours and lick the porch floor all the way.”

Through a faint, wet, wobbly voice, I heard her say, “I'm already down on my knees and I'm really, really sorry. Your porch floor tastes disgusting.”

“What? What was that I heard? Irony? Humility? From Penelope Longhurst?”

That was enough for me.

“C'mon in,” I said.

I opened the door to find Penelope looking humble, ugly almost. Her face was flushed, and her eyes were red and swollen.

We were like a set of matching bookends.

“Penelope.” I sniffed.

“Ask me in,” she said.

“Okay.” I stepped aside and let her pass.

She went straight to the front of my apartment and my
dining room table and slumped down into one of the chairs. She wouldn't look up at me but started digging in her purse and bringing out ugly little balled-up Kleenexes, wiping her running nose, which was already giving Rudolph's famous reindeer nose some hot competition.

I was afraid to ask, but took the plunge anyway. “What's wrong, Penelope?”

A low wail came from her and then the tearful words, “I've been so stupid.”

I wasn't about to contradict her.

“What's happened?”

“I'm hoping you can help me, Dinah.”

“Go cry on Lisa's shoulder. She's good with charity cases.”

“Lisa said I should come to you.”

I stared at Penelope for a long time. I knew what Lisa was doing. She was trying to make peace on earth. With her own two hands. By getting Penelope and me to talk.

I continued to stare and wipe my own dribbling nose.

She said, “I know nothing about these kinds of things.”

“Help you with what?”

“I'm…oh, God…I feel so stupid having to say this to you. I just didn't know who to turn to. You see, I don't really know anyone here….”

“What's the problem?”

“I'm…pregnant.”

She'd stopped crying but this was worse. She seemed small and pinched as if she were about to retreat into herself and then disappear forever.

“Why are you calling on me? I didn't get you knocked up.”

She started to snivel, her shoulders heaving uncontrollably.

Guilt. In case you didn't know, it works on me every time.

“Sorry, Penelope.”

“I just thought…”

“What?”

“I thought you might have more experience in this kind of thing.”

“This kind of thing? What kind of thing? Making babies?”

“Things to do with…sex.”

It was time to pull out my
bronca
and give it a good buffing up. “Well, why would you think that?”

“Just that your…reputation…”

I exploded. “Jesus, Penelope, what is with you? What is all this bullshit about my reputation? Where is all this coming from?”

“Well…” she sniffed, “I was at an ice-breaker just after I arrived. It was for the Young Entrepreneurs…”

“Aaaagh. The Young Entrepreneurs always say they're going to give and then don't. We lost money on them. I want nothing more to do with the Young Entrepreneurs.”

“Anyway… I met this man who said he knew you. Really well. He knew all about you and the different men in your life.”

“The different what in my what?”

“Men in your life.”

“Oh,” I said, coolly, “There are so many of them. Hundreds and hundreds. What was this guy's name?”

“Michael something.”

The penny dropped after a second of flu-fogged consideration.

Mike.

My ex-Mike.

I am not a violent person.

But Mike was D-E-A-D.

I went over and sat down at the dining room table beside her. “Who's the father?”

She looked at me aghast. “You
know
who the father is. How could you?”

“It was a joke…sort of.”

“Ha-ha,” she wailed through fresh tears.

“Ian, eh?”

She nodded.

“He nailed you. He seduced you. You gave in. All your great moral principles went out the window. That's the thing I've wanted to tell you all this time. Life is unpredictable.”

She nodded, wracked by a new bout of sobbing.

“The thing that I have been trying to get through to you, Penelope, is that sex is one of those big unpredictable things. It could happen to anyone. Absolutely anyone. It's an atavistic impulse. It grabs us when we least expect it. That's why we have prevention.”

Full-scale bawling now.

“Have you told him?”

She nodded. Her voice became tiny again. “He doesn't want to know anything about it. When I told him, he gave me this.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a wad of bills then threw it at the wall. “I don't need his freaking money.”

“You can swear all you like, Penelope. It's okay. I won't tell.”

“No, I can't.”

“That's okay. I'll do it for you.”

I then called Ian Trutch every name I could think of, shouting them at the walls and ceiling, for Penelope's sake, because I'm sure it would have killed her to say them herself. I won't repeat them here. The printers would have to use blue ink to render them justice.

“What am I going to do?” she sniffed.

“Jeez, well, the options are limited.” There was a long silence. “Can I ask you an indiscreet question?”

“I suppose…”

“What kind of birth control were you using?”

“The rhythm method.”

I shook my head. “Penelope. There are funded programs for this. It's basic stuff. Sex education, we call it. The earlier you tell people, the better. The rhythm method isn't a method. They call it ‘unplanned parenthood.' They're finding that women can be fertile in any moment. The most unlikely moment. Not to mention the other risks that go with unprotected sex.”

“He told me he loved me. I thought he was the man I was going to marry. I'm stupid, stupid, stupid.”

I felt stupid for both of us. And a little sad. He'd never told me that he loved
me.

There was a long silence. I said softly, “What do you want to do? How far along are you?”

“I took the test as soon as I realized I hadn't had my period. They figure six weeks. I got the results yesterday morning. I told Ian yesterday afternoon, and that was his answer. I was awake all night thinking about what to do.”

“Do you want to keep it?”

“I'm too much of a coward.”

“I had to ask you that. You have to know that it's one of the options. Lots of people keep their babies and things work out all right.”

She shook her head and began to sniff again.

I grabbed the box of Kleenex and offered it to her. “I almost envy you, Penelope. No matter which way you turn it, a baby is life. It's an optimistic thing. A fresh start.”

“That's a nice thing to say, Dinah, and I know you think you're helping. But you're wrong. It's not a fresh start. Really. You think it is but it's tied up to all the problems right from the start. That's what makes it all so hard. It's a life. But the baby is
his.
And I'll always know that it's his. And he'd
know it, too. And it would make me his prisoner, or him mine. I couldn't live with that. I couldn't live with knowing it was his and that he was out there knowing it was his. And who knows? Maybe one day he'd decide he wanted to spend time with his child and start fighting me for it. It hurts too much. I want an abortion and I don't want my parents to know. They'd die of disappointment.”

“No, they might not. They might like the idea of a grandchild.”

Penelope became stern. “Well, I don't and I don't want anybody to talk me out of this. It's my own fault and I have to deal with it by myself.”

“You're not by yourself. We'll get you through this thing.”

“Thanks, Dinah.” She sat staring into space and listening to the music in the background, then murmured, “Scarlet Tango. Hector Ferrer. I love this piece.”

Who was this Penelope Longhurst? I didn't know her at all.

“You know this piece?”

“Yes. It's a shame he hasn't written anything lately.”

“Hector Ferrer is my father.”

“He's not.”

Penelope came to, alive, interested.

“He is. Wait.” I went into the bedroom and found my photo of Alicia Ferrer. “This is his sister, Alicia.”

“She looks like you. Exactly like you. It's uncanny.”

“So how…why?”

Penelope said, “I did part of my thesis in Argentine Spanish. Español Rioplatense. I know Buenos Aires. I've been there. I went with my parents. Everybody knows who the Ferrers are there. I came across their names in my studies. Alicia and Hector were part of a founding family, noble Spanish descent.”

“Listen, Penelope, first we'll get this problem of yours
sorted out, and then…when you feel like it, I'll introduce you to Hector Ferrer.”

But Penelope was still a beat behind. “I can't believe it. You're Hector Ferrer's daughter.”

Sunday

I
made battle plans for my return to work. Occasionally, I interrupted my scheming to go over to the side window and look for signs of life. But Kevin and Jon's place had been dark for a few days and there were no cars in the drive.

Monday

Before anyone else arrived, I closed my office door and pulled out the piece of paper with the number on it, then dialed.

“Vanpfeffer residence,” said a woman's voice.

Bingo. On the first try too. I had the private number thanks to The Vulcan and a few limp promises and cyber
shenanigans. Would have to find a way to wriggle out of that
Star Trek
reunion in Bellingham though.

“Chaz Vanpfeffer, please,” I said.

“One moment please. I'll see if he's in. Who shall I say is calling?”

“Ian Trutch's office.”

“Will you hold the line please?”

I heard footsteps echo and recede and then more footsteps advance. The phone was picked up. A woman's voice, irate, said, “I told you not to call here.”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“Excuse me?” replied the other voice.

“Pardon me. My name is Dinah Nichols. We're trying to arrange a surprise birthday party for Ian Trutch here in March, and we would like to have Mr. Vanpfeffer come if he could possibly find time in his busy schedule to fly out for the party. It will be just fifty or so of Mr. Trutch's closest friends.”

The woman practically cackled. “I'm Mr. Vanpfeffer's wife. And you're really pushing your luck if you can find
three
of his closest friends.”

“Does that mean that Mr. Vanpfeffer will not be attending?”

“Mr. Vanpfeffer would be happy never to set eyes on Mr. Trutch again. Have I made my point?”

I decided it was safe to bring out the biggest weapon in my arsenal.

Honesty.

“Mrs. Vanpfeffer, I want to be perfectly frank with you.”

“Please do.”

“I work at the Green World International office in Vancouver, B.C., and we are looking into Mr. Trutch's past. He's the CEO here at the moment but we're not convinced he's entirely on the up-and-up.”

Mrs. Vanpfeffer cackled again. “I can help you, Dinah. You're speaking to the right person. I never liked that man.
Let me tell you why. His mother was the maid in my husband's household. No father in the picture that anyone knew of. Not that any of that's a problem. Chaz and Ian did grow up together though. They were playmates. But when it came to money, there was a huge rift. Would you like to know how Ian Trutch put himself through Harvard?”

“Yes?”

“Paid escort. Male companion. Gigolo. Whatever you want to call it.”

“Ahhh.”

“He worked his way through my husband's social circles and I believe there was even an incident of blackmail, but it was never pursued officially. Why? What's going on at your office?”

“Have you ever heard of dead peasants insurance?”

“Oh. Oh dear, he's doing that again, is he?”

“He's done it before?”

“When he worked for Chaz. Needless to say, he isn't working for him anymore. When a company takes out those policies, it's supposed to reinvest them in employee benefits. That's the fair way. We did have two deaths that the company should have received funds from, but when we looked into it, we were unable to trace the money. Didn't anybody check Ian Trutch's references?”

“He was appointed by the higher-ups, so we never questioned it. Ian has already been at our branch in the east. He downsized it. And there was a death.”

“What happened?”

“The woman was the type who got stressed out easily. They think she may have had a weak heart. Ian got on her case and wouldn't leave her alone. He kept pressuring her, calling her up on the carpet for her performance. I would say harassing her. She had a heart attack, went into a coma and a week later she had passed away. That's what I've heard, anyway.”

“All I can say is, be very careful. Ian Trutch is legally astute. We couldn't get anything on him but he's not to be trusted.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Vanpfeffer. Thank you very much.”

I hung up and did a few minutes of deep and panicked thinking. Then I went from Ash's office to Lisa's desk to Cleo's desk to Penelope's desk and finally, down to Ida at the switchboard. I asked them all to meet me after work at Notte's Bon Ton.

Everybody except Jake and Ian, that is.

 

We were all assembled, armed with our coffees and cream pastries.

Lisa said, “Before Dinah depresses us completely with one of her miscellaneous news bulletins, I have an announcement to make.” She thrust out her hand and wiggled it. A trinity of diamonds glittered on her ring finger. “I'm engaged. And you're all invited to the wedding.”

We stared at her.

“Who's the lucky man?” asked Ida.

“Roly,” beamed Lisa.

“The Yellow Slicker Guy?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“That's…uh…it's…uh…pretty interesting…” I said. Everyone offered hesitant congratulations.

Lisa, Lisa, Lisa.

Lisa became solemn. “I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I'm nuts. You're saying, Lisa's about to marry a bag man. But you don't know him. He's got money coming from somewhere and to be honest, I don't care where. I don't want my bubble burst. I'm just going to live this thing for as long as it lasts. I love being with him. You haven't talked to him. He's wonderful and he treats me like nobody else has ever treated me. Nobody else has ever asked me to marry them, you know. Men don't exactly pop out of the woodwork every day. Not men who like big blond women over thirty-four. Why shouldn't I be married?”

“Yeah,” said Fran, “why shouldn't she be married, too?
Why shouldn't she suffer just like all the other poor slobs who are stupid enough to get married?”

“Cynic,” muttered Ida.

Cleo was looking at her watch. “I've got to go soon. I want to hear what Dinah has to say.”

“I'm going to be the first to get fired.”

“You what?” Penny looked puzzled. Since it was Penny's first real company meeting, she'd sprung for the goodies.

“I couldn't find Hamish Robertson.”

“He's in Japan. We all saw him.”

“You saw Joey Sessna in makeup on the
Mikado
set. I lent him my laptop.”

Cleo said, “It's true. I helped.”

Penny said, “When they find out, you're gone.”

“It was just to buy time.”

Ash said, “The project is supposed to start in the spring. There is no time.”

“I'm sure I can still get to him.”

Penny warned, “Dinah, Ian's going to find out about this.”

“I want him to. But could I ask you a favor. Could you wait till next week to let the information leak?”

“You want us to leak it?”

“Thanks, guys. Oh, don't look at me like that. I haven't actually murdered anybody…”

Tuesday

It was surreal. And it couldn't have been better timing. Jake was off sick with what I had likely given him. Step One: everybody made a point of finding Ian and stopping him to ask useless questions and offer him misleading information, including me. I hadn't spoken to him since our breakup and I prattled on about Hamish Robertson and how thrilled I was with the donation he was soon to make. Ian was cool but polite.

I still got a little knot of regret in my stomach when I looked at him. It was such a waste. If I had been another type of woman, I might have tried to save him, make him repent. A quizzical look stayed on his face all day. He wasn't completely without instinct. He sensed something was going on but couldn't figure out what it was. Meanwhile, we were all working around the clock to distract him at one end of the office while at the other end (Step Two), we hurried to download every last GWI file to personal laptops and home computers.

Monday

Penelope and I sat in the waiting room of the Vancouver General Hospital.

“Have you ever had one of these?” she asked.

I kept my voice down. “An abortion? No. But a good friend of mine has. She said she kept a copy of
The Talented Mr. Ripley
with her the whole time and it helped her a lot.”

“How was that?”

“The main character's problems seemed so much bigger than hers. He was forever having to dispose of the corpse of somebody he'd just killed, or untangle his web of lies, or be somebody he wasn't.”

“I guess.”

“Murder mysteries with serial killers work well, too.”

“Dinah?”

“Yes?”

“Do you really have to? It's bad enough already.”

“Sorry, Penelope.”

That was when the nurse called her. Penny gave me a look but there was nothing I could say to make it easier.

Two hours later, I accompanied her back to her apartment. It was impressive. Like a turn-of-the-century European salon. Prints everywhere; impressionists, futurists,
pointillists. Lace tablecloth, ornamental washstand and jug, fresh, fresh flowers, and when I went into her kitchen to make coffee and get her some water, I found an actual silver tea service.

I brought her some painkillers and the glass of water, and tucked her into her romantic lacy bed.

She looked like a ten-year-old kid. She burst into tears and said, “I feel like I've just murdered God.”

“It's okay, Penny.”

“No, it's not.”

“It'll be okay. Really, it will. Trust me. Some things just take time. You're young. This will make you wiser. What else can it be good for? Nothing else. It's a trial by fire. And if there's anything you need, you know you're not alone. I'll be right here, rummaging through your drawers, eating you out of house and home, and reading your diary.”

Penelope cracked a smile.

I added, “You know…”

“What?”

“About murdering God? I'm no expert in religious matters but there's one thing I'm fairly sure of.”

Penelope said wearily, “What's that, Dinah?”

“One of the things God does best… I mean, one of his very best vaudeville numbers from a way way back…is getting himself resurrected. The circle of life and all that.”

“Hmm. I suppose.”

I stayed at Penny's place for three days, sleeping on the bed of nails she called her sofa. The hard thing gave me ardent dreams about Jonathan Ballam's magic hands working me over and over again.

Penny went into a deep depression the day after the abortion. One of those messy-haired, unwashed, undressed, nobody loves me and pass the donuts depressions.

“You're too young to get down like this,” I told her. “At least wait until you're my age. Then you'll really have some
thing to be depressed about.” But there was no talking her out of it. My presence there was important, nevertheless. I had to stay on the premises to make sure she didn't put her head in the donut box and try to suffocate herself with the little cellophane window.

Thursday

The moment I had been waiting for had arrived. It was bad enough that I had taken off more sick days to stay with Penny, and now word of my little Hamish Robertson scenario had reached Ian. He paused in my office doorway and said, “Dinah, in my office. Ten minutes.”

I looked around me. I was going to miss the cramped and tacky dive.

Lisa came by after him and in a hushed voice, said, “I just sent a little peace offering I baked up to Ian. It's a cake with a very special filling. I asked him to taste it right away and tell me what he thought because I was going to include it in a vegetarian cookbook and I valued his opinion.”

Her eyes were like two bright blue buttons.

She waited another beat then said, “I iced it with chocolate Ex-Lax.”

“Thanks, Lise. You're a pal.”

As I walked through the main room, Fran sang “The Funeral March.” I was cheerful, carefree almost. There was nowhere to go but up.

Without knocking, I walked into the Shah of Green World's palatial retreat. Ian was behind his enormous desk, looking meaner than I'd ever seen him. Lisa's cake, minus a large slice, sat near his elbow.

It came fast, almost out of the blue. “You're fired. Get your stuff and get out of here.”

“What? No speech? No fancy excuses. No insults couched in metaphor. I'm very disappointed, Ian.”

“Not half as much as I am.”

I was calm although my
bronca
was trying to fight its way to the surface. “You haven't heard the last of me. I know what you're doing.”

“Get out of my—” He looked startled, made a little moaning noise, and without another word, hurried out of the office in the direction of the en suite bathroom.

On my way back through to pack up my things, I gave the thumbs-up to Lisa. “He
was
full of shit, but he'll be better now.”

 

Penny was still at home, depressed.

I was there when Jake called her with the news. “He's fired Cleo and you, Dinah and Lisa. The rest of us still have our jobs.”

When she told me what Jake had said, I ranted, “That's not fair. He can't do that. You guys are the best.”

Tuesday

I enlisted the help of Simon and Joey. I needed fit, young—well, relatively young—bodies.

This morning, I had to order Penny to get out of bed. “You have to help me with this. I can't do these banners by myself.” I had commandeered her nice kitchen table. On pieces of old white bedsheet, sewn together to extend to a length of three meters, I painted, in huge carefully measured and stenciled dark green letters, the words Eco Girls Are Mad. Penny mooned around like an untidy phantom sleepwalker, getting high on the smell of paint and solvent.

Later, we told Penny to stop being depressed because we needed her. The way we needed her gave her a strong sense of mission. She was supposed to distract Ian Trutch. And there was no way he could refuse to meet her. Not after what he'd done.