"Can't you just spank me and we'll get back to work?"
John blinked slowly at his lanky young subordinate before telling her, "Sarah, I don't know how I should respond to that."
"Well, I do. I don't see why not. You've given everyone else around here a second chance. Or a third, or more, seems like."
"Yes, well, I didn't..."
"Spank them first?"
"Sarah, maybe you should stop saying that. If you want another chance, you've got it. But not another chance to do this again. You put yourself in danger – serious danger," he recounted, stopping rather than elaborating further. "No project, no schedule is worth that, ever. That level of risk is unacceptable." The way he bit off that word conveyed a level of disapproval she had never imagined.
"But with this on my record, my career is over," Sarah argued. This can't be happening, she thought to herself. Four years she'd tried to ask him, bring it up somehow, and it doesn't even register; twenty-five years she'd waited to ask someone, find someone she could ask. Now she just wanted to crawl into a hole and hide. Except that he'd probably find her. If he even bothered to look. "I'll be stuck at this level forever."
"I can't help that," John explained dispassionately.
"You could if you didn't put it in my file," she snapped. But that would be wrong, he's thinking, she told herself. How could she be asking him to do something like that – something outside the rules? He was the guy who lived for the rules. Rules and ratios, pressures and temperatures, carefully controlled reactions. Just like her. So he should understand, right? Wrong. As usual. Correction. As always. Why would she expect an uncontrolled reaction?
"Sarah, I can't." End of story, his voice said.
Not even for me? she wanted to ask – except that she knew the answer - and didn't want to hear him say it. "Why not?" Having already thoroughly humiliated herself, like she seemed to every time she opened her mouth, she was now angry as well – angry and disappointed. In herself. "I've given you an option," she reminded him. If I cry, she promised, I'll shoot myself.
"But not one I can exercise," John rebutted, regarding her flared nostrils and clenched teeth with rising but hidden alarm. Usually by this point she had withdrawn, disengaged, and the subject of personal interaction remained closed until her next, infrequent outburst.
"You still haven't told me why not," Sarah pressed. Seeing his discomfort, now she wanted to punish him, keep him on the subject that so obviously distressed him.
"Because you work for me," he stated simply, rationally, and definitively.
"So you're saying I should transfer," she retorted easily, being by nature contrary.
"Because you work here," John expanded conclusively as his phone vibrated, diffusing the situation. His relief was infinite.
Except that Sarah reached it first, covering the buzzing device with her hand. His hand slapped down on hers, nearly crushing it in his tense grip.
"Sarah!?!" he growled in amazement and horror. The "rule" was that they always answered their phones. Something might have happened.
"Don't you see the irony in this?" she spit at him. "You can't spank me because I work here. If you don't I have to quit. What, you think you can spank me then?" The vibrating had stopped, except for the vein along his jaw.
"Then there would be no reason for me to," his ever-rational voice explained as he struggled to regain his composure. "Then you'd just be another stranger on the street."
As soon as he said it John realized his mistake, with no idea how to recover. Sarah didn't just start to cry, she doubled over in her chair as if from physical pain. He let go of her hand. His phone buzzed again to signal that a voice mail, presumably from the missed call, had been recorded. With a Herculean effort he ignored it.
All his life John had been more comfortable in silence than conversation. Music was okay, perhaps, it was just – other people. But this was not a comfortable silence. His mouth gaped as he tried to best phrase the words "I'm sorry."
Sarah didn't even look up, turning before rising and moving to the door where she held it ajar. "I'll be resigning," she informed her supervisor levelly. "Stranger."
John rose suddenly. "Sarah, close that door," he barked. Though startled she didn't comply, electing merely to stop and cock her head, listening.
"Leave if you want," John accepted, "but I have something to say to you. Before you go."
Sarah closed the door quietly and returned to her chair, standing with her hand on its back.
"Sarah, I brought you into this job," John reminded her. "I trained you. I – I taught you. I haven't asked you for anything except what the job demands. You owe me one favor."
"That's just bullshit," Sarah stated baldly. An eerie calm had come over her. "A minute ago I was a stranger – or at least I will be a minute from now. I had a job, and you needed me. I knew plenty when I got here and I couldn't have helped learning, wherever I had ended up. I'm much better at my job now and yes, you've been a huge part of that. But I've also given this job everything I have and you seem to think because maybe it's my job that means you don't ever have to say thank you or show any appreciation at all. Because you haven't. I've worked so much overtime that I haven't had to use a vacation day since I got here four years ago – I've taken it all on comp time. Yes, you've always tried to be fair and you've always done whatever you thought was best for me and I appreciate that so thank you. And if you want a favor all you have to do is ask – all you've ever had to do is ask. But I've earned my way every day I've been here." She paused for an unsteady breath as John watched from a state of shock. "I don't owe you anything." As she reached to push her lank auburn hair away from her face her tears continued to slowly slip down her cheeks and she let them. Without the four years of frustration inside of her she felt strangely hollow.
"Sarah, I'm your boss. I know how much vacation time you have – I'm supposed to. If you want to resign, I can't stop you," John conceded.
"No, you can't," Sarah agreed, holding her breath.
"I'd like you to take that vacation now. When you find another job, you can turn in your resignation then. If you change your mind, you just come back to work, and none of this ever happened."
Sarah stood frozen. I want to die, she thought. No, she corrected herself, I want to cease to exist. To have never existed. Or maybe I never have.
"Sarah?" John asked the silent woman, "I want you to do this as a personal favor to me." No reply. "Please."
"I'm leaving now," was all she could say.
*****
For four years Sarah had been there every day, or nearly so. When she spoke of taking comp days she'd referred to a few scattered instances when she'd maxed out on overtime. John, being exempt, had not needed to even do that. She was as much a part of his day as dinner – in fact, a bigger and more consistent part than dinner, which they had so often shared, skipped, or worked through. And John was not one to like change. He supposed he'd have to replace her but chose not to think about it – he could replace her, probably, in some fashion, on his staff but not in his life. Maybe it wouldn't come to that. And maybe they needed some time apart. It was probably better for both of them.
But she also had four years' accumulated vacation – twelve weeks, John thought, as he filled out a timecard to process her paycheck in absentia. And there was no way for him to know if she was ever coming back, no way to know if she'd even honor their agreement – his request, actually – and inform him if she really resigned. He wondered what he'd put nine weeks from now – unpaid leave? Short-term disability? Not really disability – Sarah was certainly able enough. And it might be inaccurate to call it "short-term." So, was she coming back? He didn't know. He didn't know if she'd found a new job. She was presumably alive – no one had reported finding her body, he thought grimly - but he didn't know if she'd moved or so much as left her apartment in the past three weeks. Technically, he was her supervisor – still – and he should know these things. It was his job. And that, he told himself, is how to make a rationalization.
Sarah had said that he'd always done "what he thought" was best for her and he had, he hoped. Of course, in the past it had been very easy to decide, even in a split-second. Now, three weeks had given him no insight. The staff had suffered little because he, who wasn't sleeping anyway, had carried her load; but how long could that go on? His own performance was starting to slip and every deferrable task was piled up around him, doubling the height of the administrative corral that encircled his desktop.
*****
"Hi, I'm John H___, Mr. Stevens?" he introduced himself to the super, a hunched man who would be overworked by little work at all. "I wonder if you can help me. I'm looking for Sarah M___ but she doesn't seem to be in her apartment. Have you happened to see her around lately?"
"I don't think I can tell you that," the unit manager advised him, locking the door behind himself as he left the complex office. "Who are you?" Though appearing to not normally be a very attentive person, he studied John's face as if preparing to reproduce it for a police sketch-artist.
"I'm her boss," John explained firmly, choosing logic over persuasion, as always.
"If you were her boss I'd think you'd know where she is," the cagey Mr. Stevens challenged.
"And why would that be? Do you mean because she's on vacation?" John suddenly remembered that she might no longer live there – very unlike him to forget such a thing, or to forget to check the mailbox for her name. Apparently he'd taken a day off just in time. "Can you just tell me if she's been around?"
"Do you know or don't you? If she's on vacation, what are you doing here? I've never seen my boss on my vacation, I'm glad to say, and I surely don't ever intend to."
"An emergency's come up at work," John patiently explained, "and I need to see if she is available to help." That statement was true enough, John assured himself – they'd been running a person low and the situation was about to get critical. And here he was, not at work, putting himself further behind. "She'd be paid overtime."
"I should be so lucky. She's not here," Mr. Stevens finally admitted, "She's gone."
Once, long ago, John had tried to play pee-wee football. At an early practice, before pads were issued, he'd taken a shoulder in the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. Today made twice.
"On vacation, just as you say," the super continued.
Okay, John thought to himself, feeling a sudden touch of vertigo. She's gone but on vacation. "Do you know if she's coming back?" he asked. The insistence with which he asked startled the man.
"She didn't confide in me," he answered, regarding the unusual question and hesitating slightly.
John waited in silence, but not patiently. "Yes?" he finally prompted.
"Her rent's paid, her car's here, I can tell you that," Stevens continued.
John's relief was so enormous that he felt light-headed – oddly, sort of like he had when he thought she might be gone for good. Of course, he should have checked for her car himself. Maybe he should take tomorrow off as well.
"What might it be worth to you?" the super implied clearly.
"Ahaaa," John breathed, grabbing quickly for his wallet, then pausing in dismay. "All I seem to have is a twenty." The idea that Sarah's apartment manager would sell her personal information revolted him but since the man would John found himself a willing, if change-deprived, customer.
"That'll do," Mr. Stevens agreed, taking the bill from John's unresisting fingers. "Ms. M," as he referred to her, "said that if a man comes asking and gives me money, to tell him to talk to Tracy in one-fourteen."
"And is she here?" John pressed, hoping that he wouldn't have to go to an ATM to track "Tracy" down.
"Tracy's at work, gets back about five, five-thirty. I don't have her cell, or I'd give it to you."
Free? John resisted asking. "Then I suppose I should come back around then," he concluded. "One more thing, just because I'm curious - did Sarah say how much money I was supposed to give you?"
"Any amount," the manager cheerfully replied. "Coulda been a quarter. 'Cept you didn't have a quarter."
*****
Four-thirty saw the over-dressed John sunning himself in a pool chair, his eyes glued to the door of apartment one-fourteen. With Mr. Stevens' blessing he felt no need to be surreptitious, and he pulled the bill of his cap down only to avoid the lowering sun. He had a selection of bills in his wallet and even a quarter in his pocket so he felt ready, in that sense. As far as talking he had no idea what to say – if it came down to that, he would just have to hope for the best.
It's Wednesday night, he reminded himself after most of an hour. Unless she goes grocery shopping, she should be home in fifteen minutes – assuming the super was accurate as to times, which he doubted. Even so, better than Friday night or even Thursday, when some people go out after work. Taco Tuesday? He didn't know of any Wednesday happy-hours, but then, he wouldn't. Had he needed to, he would have asked Sarah. He was not a patient man. He didn't like waiting. He should have brought something to do, except that he hadn't wanted to be distracted. Maybe he needed to be distracted more often.
At quarter to six a young woman approached the door of 114. John, not wanting to frighten her, resisted his impulse to jump up and address her before she got inside. Mindful of this, he waited until the door closed before going over himself, but upon ringing the door buzzer, no one answered. The apartment didn't look that big, it seemed like she must have heard it, so after a long thirty seconds he buzzed again, again without result. He retreated and leaned against the pool fence, counting to himself in his effort to delay his next attempt as the two passing minutes twisted his nerves into cables.
"Oh there you are," the pretty blonde exclaimed as she opened the door. She was about Sarah's age but petite and friendly, and still dressed for an office. "I'm so sorry, I just had to run in and, well, you know..."
"You were expecting me?" John asked her. Something about her pricked at his memory – had he ever seen her with Sarah? He didn't really associate Sarah with anyone outside of work.
"Well I saw you out by the pool and I figured you were here to see me, but when you didn't get up, I thought if I hurried it'd be okay."
"You are Tracy, right?"
"Yes – did you want to come in?"
"I could, if you'd like," John agreed, still a little mystified.
"Sarah's told me your name but I've forgotten it, I'm afraid. I'm so sorry," Tracy apologized.
"John H___. So you know me?"
"Well, I know you're Sarah's boss, I've seen you around – I pick her up sometimes when her car's in the shop, you know? You didn't think I invite a strange man right in, did you?"
"Well, you did this one," John said, trying to make it sound light.
"I didn't mean strange in that way," Tracy teased ambiguously with a bright smile. "Would you like something to drink, or should I just tell Sarah you came by?"
"So she's okay, and you're in touch with her?" John asked a little too insistently.
"Oh yes," she assured him.
"And can you tell me where she is?"
"Oh no," she replied with equal brightness.
"Do you need money?" John asked suddenly.
"What? No, why?"
"I just thought Sarah may have told you I'd offer you money," John tried to explain, feeling somewhat foolish. Starting to feel very foolish. Here he was, a – let's face it – middle-aged man on a wild-goose-chase after a young woman who should find herself a nice husband and have a family like she would want.
"She only said 'probably,'" Tracy laughed. "No, she just said to call her."
"Wonderful. May I have her number? She doesn't seem to be answering her cell phone – at least not the one from her work."
"No, no, I mean she said for me to call her. And I will."
"Well thank you," John said sincerely – he had long learned to recognize a steadfast position when someone took one. "Soon, I hope?" He wanted to kick himself, but he hadn't been able to resist asking.
"Soon as we're done here – can't have you peeking," she smiled. "Did you want to leave your card? I'll call you at the office tomorrow."
"This is it, here," he said, producing it from an inside pocket with a magician's flourish and pointing. "My personal and cell numbers are on there, too – you can call me immediately."
"Thanks."
"No, thank you. Tell Sarah I said...." With no idea what to say next, he floundered. "Tell Sarah I said 'hi.'"
"Or maybe just that you stopped by," Tracy suggested.
*****
Thursday morning John had been at his desk for two hours when Tracy's call came through.
"Mr. H___? Sarah says she'll be back and why don't you come by Saturday around ten?" Tracy reported, and the grin in her voice carried easily across the wires. John felt foolish again and tried to think of exactly how he looked yesterday at the apartment complex. Tired, he had to conclude. Meaning old. He'd slept well last night for once, maybe that would change, he thought hopefully. He looked balefully around his office. He could still work Saturday afternoon.
"Tracy?" he asked. "Did she say anything else?"
"Well actually, she said come by Saturday at ten o'clock straight up. If that matters to you."
"It matters," John told her quietly. Sarah would always be on his wavelength, and she had wanted to remind him of it. His face crackled as he tried to smile for the first time in nearly four weeks.
*****
It had been a distracted forty-nine hours John had spent since Tracy's call, distracted enough that three people each asked him if things were alright at home before realizing their obvious mistake. Ten o'clock was an odd time for people who rise at four; too long after breakfast, a little too early for lunch. John wondered if he should have brought a snack – Sarah'd been gone, she'd have nothing in the house. Or flowers, maybe. No, wait – he was obviously not thinking clearly at all – he didn't even know what the purpose of his visit was, let alone where it was going – or even what "it" was.
Unlike Tracy, Sarah opened the door before he even buzzed, having heard his tread as he climbed the outside stairs. She flashed a dazzling smile - imperfect, uncorrected, uniquely Sarah.
"John! Welcome," her voice wrapped around him, though he recognized the note as unnatural. "Long time, stranger," she kidded awkwardly, and John smiled just as awkwardly.
"Sarah – you look so..."
"Tanned?" she prompted, pressing the door closed, leaning back against it. Terrific. Beautiful. Young and in full blossom. Rested, happy, glowing.
"Healthy," John settled on. Yes, she was tan – that explains why her teeth look so white, he realized, but the smile was still unfamiliar. "It's really good to see you."
"Yes, I heard you wanted to. Wesley and Rick both on vacation next week, is that it?"
"Oh, have you been talking to them?" John asked, feeling a pang of – jealousy? Being left out? People with a secret he wasn't in on? Kindergarten memories threatened.
"Naw, I just knew their schedules. So how much did you have to pay the super?" she teased.
"Twenty," John admitted, feeling a flood of embarrassment. He'd let the money go pretty easily and may have been prepared to pay more, if need be.
"Dollars?" she said, incredulous, "Ouch – sorry. What, you didn't have anything smaller?" One glance at John's expression confirmed this. "I told him not to rob you."
"So, Sarah – you look good," John said carefully. "Getting plenty of rest," – she nodded at this – "and plenty of sun, I can see." As the straps of her tank shifted he saw no gradation in the tone anywhere, not even below the neckline, as far as he could tell. He wondered how she looked under those cargo pants, until he caught himself.
"Oh yeah, this vacation's been great," Sarah bragged. "Just what I need." "Need," she said – not "needed," though at least she didn't say "so far."
"And paid, too – so not strapped for cash," John pointed out.
"Oh, nowhere close. Everyone's so glad to see me, I've spent nothing – just like when I was working. No, I've got a lot stashed away already – not that I need to tell you." True, John thought, with his modest needs and extensive savings he no longer needed to work – and was Sarah saying that she didn't either? Of course, he'd be bored out of his mind...
"September 16th. Four weeks," John counted, "You must be getting bored."
"Are you kidding? No way," she laughed, her phrasing reminding him of the gap in their ages. And he had never been able to use slang or current expressions of any kind – even the most common phrases sounded ridiculous coming from him. "I've got some classes, they're kickin' my butt."
"Classes? Just recently?" he asked, surprised. His position had been slipping away but intellectual stimulation was the pillar he'd rested it on. He'd always figured another job might take her away but work would have had to have kept her too busy for a school schedule.
"On line. Any place, any time. Grad classes, lakeside – just me, a laptop, and a cellular network card. Aromatic and Ring Hydrocarbons, Phase Behavior, and sunscreen."
"Well, good to hear you've been using protection – from the sun, I mean," John explained himself quickly. "So you've really got no reason to come back," he ventured.
"Maybe in a year or two, unless you really need me," she contended. It almost came out the way she wanted, which was casually, but she was listening attentively for his response.
John glanced around the compact living room. Two shelves of the bookcase were empty; three cardboard boxes sat full of books on the floor. Getting ready to move, perhaps. Something was wrong with his ears, he had a sensation of falling. "Sarah, we do need you," he told her.
"We?"
"Our operation. Our entire operation. Not just next week, all the time."
"And you?" her voice had gotten progressively more articulated - the honey had been as short-lived as he had expected, replaced by her native precision – and now she clearly intended to pin him down. "Do you need me, John?"
She remained in the corner against the door like a mounted butterfly. John half-turned and drifted the room, looking for words in the personality-deficient walls. "I don't need you," he said a bit too loudly, his back to her. Turning around he saw that she had her lips pressed together, tightly. "I want you. I'd like to have you back. I'll get along without you, if I have to – not very well, perhaps, but I will. But in terms of me, I want you to come back." That, he felt, was a true fact.
Sarah blushed deeply while tears pricked her eyes. I haven't cried since I left, she thought, not since September 16th. She let out a breath she'd been holding for years. "Do you, John?" she asked, wanting to hear more. "Do you want me to come back?"
"Sarah, I miss you. Without you I'm all alone there. Oh, plenty of people can do the work, but – well, none of them are you. If you don't mind me saying it, we're a lot alike."
"I don't mind you saying it," Sarah said softly, turning her face to the wall to hide her tears. Unnecessarily, since John was looking away as well. "And my file?" she challenged. "Is there a letter in my file?"
"Not exactly. The incident you're referring to is on a post-it note on my desk."
"So if I resign?" she asked carefully, nonetheless causing John's head to snap around, startled.
"It goes in the waste-basket," he avowed.
"And if I come back?" she demanded, and enjoyed the sense of relief she could read on John's face.
"It goes in the waste-basket," he repeated. "Same waste-basket, even."
"Then why does it need to be there at all?"
It was John's turn to blush. "It serves as a reminder," he pronounced severely, "that there are – unresolved issues between us."
"You need a reminder?" Sarah whispered, but he had no trouble hearing her.
"No," he spoke softly into her ear, "I want a reminder."
Sarah grasped him carefully, slowly turning the two of them around, putting John's back to the wall. He didn't resist. And then with a step she was gone, moving to the center of the room, between the coffee table and the low couch.
"In that case there's only one other issue left to be resolved," she declared.
"Sarah..." John growled warningly but with rising panic.
"If the answer was still no you wouldn't be here. Now get over here," Sarah commanded. "You asked me for a favor and I granted it. Now I'm asking you for one and you'll do the same. It took four weeks – over four weeks – for you to get here. This doesn't need to take all day." She watched John approach warily, pleased with his awareness that he couldn't talk his way out of it. "Though," she continued with a giggle, "It always could – if you'd like." Then, firm again, she insisted, "But we're going to get started right away."
John grasped Sarah's arms, lightly. Even barefoot she was tall enough to only need to tip her head slightly. John kissed her, slowly – carefully, precisely. Perfectly.
"Sit down!" she commanded again, reaching for the waist of her pants.
"Sarah, this would change everything between us," John protested softly as Sarah leaned back slightly. Instinctively John followed, until she stopped suddenly, causing them to collide. John pulled his body back sharply. His calves were against the edge of the couch and with a sharp push he was seated. An olive curtain suddenly dropped and his eyes were on level with the narrow strips securing Sarah's thong. He saw no evidence that she had been wearing it while sunbathing.
John leaned forward, resting his forehead on Sarah's hip, his nose practically on her thigh, soft despite how lean she was. "Sarah, I don't have to do this," he said, quietly.
"The hell you don't," Sarah retorted. "Push your knees out, give me some room." It was hard for him to argue with a limber young lady whose firm, narrow – well, "bottom," John supposed he should call it – rose so invitingly over his right thigh, practically under his right palm.
"John?" Sarah asked from floor-level, repeatedly trying to flick her hair out of her eyes. "Do I ever annoy you?"
"Annoy me?" John replied. Exhaust, entice, worry, distress, invigorate, inspire. Accompany, perhaps? "Not really," he admitted.
"Never?" she challenged, incredulous. "How about when I put myself in mortal danger?"
The words literally made John see red. "I don't want to think about that," he said. "At least, not right now."
Sarah gave a little shiver from that implication while demanding, "Then you'd better think of something else."
John licked his lips for the twentieth time in the last sixty seconds. Sarah's tank had ridden halfway up her back, displaying the tattoo at the base of her spine. Its curves accentuated the feminine shape of her angular frame, her waist smaller, her hips nicely wider than he had ever realized.
"How about..." John suggested slowly, "When you decide to sunbathe nude?"
"Hey no fair – there was no one else – ow! – around! – ow! really! yeow! hey! slow – ow! down! – ok! ow! bad idea! ow! sorry! ow! no, really! owwww!
(The End?)
John blinked slowly at his lanky young subordinate before telling her, "Sarah, I don't know how I should respond to that."
"Well, I do. I don't see why not. You've given everyone else around here a second chance. Or a third, or more, seems like."
"Yes, well, I didn't..."
"Spank them first?"
"Sarah, maybe you should stop saying that. If you want another chance, you've got it. But not another chance to do this again. You put yourself in danger – serious danger," he recounted, stopping rather than elaborating further. "No project, no schedule is worth that, ever. That level of risk is unacceptable." The way he bit off that word conveyed a level of disapproval she had never imagined.
"But with this on my record, my career is over," Sarah argued. This can't be happening, she thought to herself. Four years she'd tried to ask him, bring it up somehow, and it doesn't even register; twenty-five years she'd waited to ask someone, find someone she could ask. Now she just wanted to crawl into a hole and hide. Except that he'd probably find her. If he even bothered to look. "I'll be stuck at this level forever."
"I can't help that," John explained dispassionately.
"You could if you didn't put it in my file," she snapped. But that would be wrong, he's thinking, she told herself. How could she be asking him to do something like that – something outside the rules? He was the guy who lived for the rules. Rules and ratios, pressures and temperatures, carefully controlled reactions. Just like her. So he should understand, right? Wrong. As usual. Correction. As always. Why would she expect an uncontrolled reaction?
"Sarah, I can't." End of story, his voice said.
Not even for me? she wanted to ask – except that she knew the answer - and didn't want to hear him say it. "Why not?" Having already thoroughly humiliated herself, like she seemed to every time she opened her mouth, she was now angry as well – angry and disappointed. In herself. "I've given you an option," she reminded him. If I cry, she promised, I'll shoot myself.
"But not one I can exercise," John rebutted, regarding her flared nostrils and clenched teeth with rising but hidden alarm. Usually by this point she had withdrawn, disengaged, and the subject of personal interaction remained closed until her next, infrequent outburst.
"You still haven't told me why not," Sarah pressed. Seeing his discomfort, now she wanted to punish him, keep him on the subject that so obviously distressed him.
"Because you work for me," he stated simply, rationally, and definitively.
"So you're saying I should transfer," she retorted easily, being by nature contrary.
"Because you work here," John expanded conclusively as his phone vibrated, diffusing the situation. His relief was infinite.
Except that Sarah reached it first, covering the buzzing device with her hand. His hand slapped down on hers, nearly crushing it in his tense grip.
"Sarah!?!" he growled in amazement and horror. The "rule" was that they always answered their phones. Something might have happened.
"Don't you see the irony in this?" she spit at him. "You can't spank me because I work here. If you don't I have to quit. What, you think you can spank me then?" The vibrating had stopped, except for the vein along his jaw.
"Then there would be no reason for me to," his ever-rational voice explained as he struggled to regain his composure. "Then you'd just be another stranger on the street."
As soon as he said it John realized his mistake, with no idea how to recover. Sarah didn't just start to cry, she doubled over in her chair as if from physical pain. He let go of her hand. His phone buzzed again to signal that a voice mail, presumably from the missed call, had been recorded. With a Herculean effort he ignored it.
All his life John had been more comfortable in silence than conversation. Music was okay, perhaps, it was just – other people. But this was not a comfortable silence. His mouth gaped as he tried to best phrase the words "I'm sorry."
Sarah didn't even look up, turning before rising and moving to the door where she held it ajar. "I'll be resigning," she informed her supervisor levelly. "Stranger."
John rose suddenly. "Sarah, close that door," he barked. Though startled she didn't comply, electing merely to stop and cock her head, listening.
"Leave if you want," John accepted, "but I have something to say to you. Before you go."
Sarah closed the door quietly and returned to her chair, standing with her hand on its back.
"Sarah, I brought you into this job," John reminded her. "I trained you. I – I taught you. I haven't asked you for anything except what the job demands. You owe me one favor."
"That's just bullshit," Sarah stated baldly. An eerie calm had come over her. "A minute ago I was a stranger – or at least I will be a minute from now. I had a job, and you needed me. I knew plenty when I got here and I couldn't have helped learning, wherever I had ended up. I'm much better at my job now and yes, you've been a huge part of that. But I've also given this job everything I have and you seem to think because maybe it's my job that means you don't ever have to say thank you or show any appreciation at all. Because you haven't. I've worked so much overtime that I haven't had to use a vacation day since I got here four years ago – I've taken it all on comp time. Yes, you've always tried to be fair and you've always done whatever you thought was best for me and I appreciate that so thank you. And if you want a favor all you have to do is ask – all you've ever had to do is ask. But I've earned my way every day I've been here." She paused for an unsteady breath as John watched from a state of shock. "I don't owe you anything." As she reached to push her lank auburn hair away from her face her tears continued to slowly slip down her cheeks and she let them. Without the four years of frustration inside of her she felt strangely hollow.
"Sarah, I'm your boss. I know how much vacation time you have – I'm supposed to. If you want to resign, I can't stop you," John conceded.
"No, you can't," Sarah agreed, holding her breath.
"I'd like you to take that vacation now. When you find another job, you can turn in your resignation then. If you change your mind, you just come back to work, and none of this ever happened."
Sarah stood frozen. I want to die, she thought. No, she corrected herself, I want to cease to exist. To have never existed. Or maybe I never have.
"Sarah?" John asked the silent woman, "I want you to do this as a personal favor to me." No reply. "Please."
"I'm leaving now," was all she could say.
*****
For four years Sarah had been there every day, or nearly so. When she spoke of taking comp days she'd referred to a few scattered instances when she'd maxed out on overtime. John, being exempt, had not needed to even do that. She was as much a part of his day as dinner – in fact, a bigger and more consistent part than dinner, which they had so often shared, skipped, or worked through. And John was not one to like change. He supposed he'd have to replace her but chose not to think about it – he could replace her, probably, in some fashion, on his staff but not in his life. Maybe it wouldn't come to that. And maybe they needed some time apart. It was probably better for both of them.
But she also had four years' accumulated vacation – twelve weeks, John thought, as he filled out a timecard to process her paycheck in absentia. And there was no way for him to know if she was ever coming back, no way to know if she'd even honor their agreement – his request, actually – and inform him if she really resigned. He wondered what he'd put nine weeks from now – unpaid leave? Short-term disability? Not really disability – Sarah was certainly able enough. And it might be inaccurate to call it "short-term." So, was she coming back? He didn't know. He didn't know if she'd found a new job. She was presumably alive – no one had reported finding her body, he thought grimly - but he didn't know if she'd moved or so much as left her apartment in the past three weeks. Technically, he was her supervisor – still – and he should know these things. It was his job. And that, he told himself, is how to make a rationalization.
Sarah had said that he'd always done "what he thought" was best for her and he had, he hoped. Of course, in the past it had been very easy to decide, even in a split-second. Now, three weeks had given him no insight. The staff had suffered little because he, who wasn't sleeping anyway, had carried her load; but how long could that go on? His own performance was starting to slip and every deferrable task was piled up around him, doubling the height of the administrative corral that encircled his desktop.
*****
"Hi, I'm John H___, Mr. Stevens?" he introduced himself to the super, a hunched man who would be overworked by little work at all. "I wonder if you can help me. I'm looking for Sarah M___ but she doesn't seem to be in her apartment. Have you happened to see her around lately?"
"I don't think I can tell you that," the unit manager advised him, locking the door behind himself as he left the complex office. "Who are you?" Though appearing to not normally be a very attentive person, he studied John's face as if preparing to reproduce it for a police sketch-artist.
"I'm her boss," John explained firmly, choosing logic over persuasion, as always.
"If you were her boss I'd think you'd know where she is," the cagey Mr. Stevens challenged.
"And why would that be? Do you mean because she's on vacation?" John suddenly remembered that she might no longer live there – very unlike him to forget such a thing, or to forget to check the mailbox for her name. Apparently he'd taken a day off just in time. "Can you just tell me if she's been around?"
"Do you know or don't you? If she's on vacation, what are you doing here? I've never seen my boss on my vacation, I'm glad to say, and I surely don't ever intend to."
"An emergency's come up at work," John patiently explained, "and I need to see if she is available to help." That statement was true enough, John assured himself – they'd been running a person low and the situation was about to get critical. And here he was, not at work, putting himself further behind. "She'd be paid overtime."
"I should be so lucky. She's not here," Mr. Stevens finally admitted, "She's gone."
Once, long ago, John had tried to play pee-wee football. At an early practice, before pads were issued, he'd taken a shoulder in the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. Today made twice.
"On vacation, just as you say," the super continued.
Okay, John thought to himself, feeling a sudden touch of vertigo. She's gone but on vacation. "Do you know if she's coming back?" he asked. The insistence with which he asked startled the man.
"She didn't confide in me," he answered, regarding the unusual question and hesitating slightly.
John waited in silence, but not patiently. "Yes?" he finally prompted.
"Her rent's paid, her car's here, I can tell you that," Stevens continued.
John's relief was so enormous that he felt light-headed – oddly, sort of like he had when he thought she might be gone for good. Of course, he should have checked for her car himself. Maybe he should take tomorrow off as well.
"What might it be worth to you?" the super implied clearly.
"Ahaaa," John breathed, grabbing quickly for his wallet, then pausing in dismay. "All I seem to have is a twenty." The idea that Sarah's apartment manager would sell her personal information revolted him but since the man would John found himself a willing, if change-deprived, customer.
"That'll do," Mr. Stevens agreed, taking the bill from John's unresisting fingers. "Ms. M," as he referred to her, "said that if a man comes asking and gives me money, to tell him to talk to Tracy in one-fourteen."
"And is she here?" John pressed, hoping that he wouldn't have to go to an ATM to track "Tracy" down.
"Tracy's at work, gets back about five, five-thirty. I don't have her cell, or I'd give it to you."
Free? John resisted asking. "Then I suppose I should come back around then," he concluded. "One more thing, just because I'm curious - did Sarah say how much money I was supposed to give you?"
"Any amount," the manager cheerfully replied. "Coulda been a quarter. 'Cept you didn't have a quarter."
*****
Four-thirty saw the over-dressed John sunning himself in a pool chair, his eyes glued to the door of apartment one-fourteen. With Mr. Stevens' blessing he felt no need to be surreptitious, and he pulled the bill of his cap down only to avoid the lowering sun. He had a selection of bills in his wallet and even a quarter in his pocket so he felt ready, in that sense. As far as talking he had no idea what to say – if it came down to that, he would just have to hope for the best.
It's Wednesday night, he reminded himself after most of an hour. Unless she goes grocery shopping, she should be home in fifteen minutes – assuming the super was accurate as to times, which he doubted. Even so, better than Friday night or even Thursday, when some people go out after work. Taco Tuesday? He didn't know of any Wednesday happy-hours, but then, he wouldn't. Had he needed to, he would have asked Sarah. He was not a patient man. He didn't like waiting. He should have brought something to do, except that he hadn't wanted to be distracted. Maybe he needed to be distracted more often.
At quarter to six a young woman approached the door of 114. John, not wanting to frighten her, resisted his impulse to jump up and address her before she got inside. Mindful of this, he waited until the door closed before going over himself, but upon ringing the door buzzer, no one answered. The apartment didn't look that big, it seemed like she must have heard it, so after a long thirty seconds he buzzed again, again without result. He retreated and leaned against the pool fence, counting to himself in his effort to delay his next attempt as the two passing minutes twisted his nerves into cables.
"Oh there you are," the pretty blonde exclaimed as she opened the door. She was about Sarah's age but petite and friendly, and still dressed for an office. "I'm so sorry, I just had to run in and, well, you know..."
"You were expecting me?" John asked her. Something about her pricked at his memory – had he ever seen her with Sarah? He didn't really associate Sarah with anyone outside of work.
"Well I saw you out by the pool and I figured you were here to see me, but when you didn't get up, I thought if I hurried it'd be okay."
"You are Tracy, right?"
"Yes – did you want to come in?"
"I could, if you'd like," John agreed, still a little mystified.
"Sarah's told me your name but I've forgotten it, I'm afraid. I'm so sorry," Tracy apologized.
"John H___. So you know me?"
"Well, I know you're Sarah's boss, I've seen you around – I pick her up sometimes when her car's in the shop, you know? You didn't think I invite a strange man right in, did you?"
"Well, you did this one," John said, trying to make it sound light.
"I didn't mean strange in that way," Tracy teased ambiguously with a bright smile. "Would you like something to drink, or should I just tell Sarah you came by?"
"So she's okay, and you're in touch with her?" John asked a little too insistently.
"Oh yes," she assured him.
"And can you tell me where she is?"
"Oh no," she replied with equal brightness.
"Do you need money?" John asked suddenly.
"What? No, why?"
"I just thought Sarah may have told you I'd offer you money," John tried to explain, feeling somewhat foolish. Starting to feel very foolish. Here he was, a – let's face it – middle-aged man on a wild-goose-chase after a young woman who should find herself a nice husband and have a family like she would want.
"She only said 'probably,'" Tracy laughed. "No, she just said to call her."
"Wonderful. May I have her number? She doesn't seem to be answering her cell phone – at least not the one from her work."
"No, no, I mean she said for me to call her. And I will."
"Well thank you," John said sincerely – he had long learned to recognize a steadfast position when someone took one. "Soon, I hope?" He wanted to kick himself, but he hadn't been able to resist asking.
"Soon as we're done here – can't have you peeking," she smiled. "Did you want to leave your card? I'll call you at the office tomorrow."
"This is it, here," he said, producing it from an inside pocket with a magician's flourish and pointing. "My personal and cell numbers are on there, too – you can call me immediately."
"Thanks."
"No, thank you. Tell Sarah I said...." With no idea what to say next, he floundered. "Tell Sarah I said 'hi.'"
"Or maybe just that you stopped by," Tracy suggested.
*****
Thursday morning John had been at his desk for two hours when Tracy's call came through.
"Mr. H___? Sarah says she'll be back and why don't you come by Saturday around ten?" Tracy reported, and the grin in her voice carried easily across the wires. John felt foolish again and tried to think of exactly how he looked yesterday at the apartment complex. Tired, he had to conclude. Meaning old. He'd slept well last night for once, maybe that would change, he thought hopefully. He looked balefully around his office. He could still work Saturday afternoon.
"Tracy?" he asked. "Did she say anything else?"
"Well actually, she said come by Saturday at ten o'clock straight up. If that matters to you."
"It matters," John told her quietly. Sarah would always be on his wavelength, and she had wanted to remind him of it. His face crackled as he tried to smile for the first time in nearly four weeks.
*****
It had been a distracted forty-nine hours John had spent since Tracy's call, distracted enough that three people each asked him if things were alright at home before realizing their obvious mistake. Ten o'clock was an odd time for people who rise at four; too long after breakfast, a little too early for lunch. John wondered if he should have brought a snack – Sarah'd been gone, she'd have nothing in the house. Or flowers, maybe. No, wait – he was obviously not thinking clearly at all – he didn't even know what the purpose of his visit was, let alone where it was going – or even what "it" was.
Unlike Tracy, Sarah opened the door before he even buzzed, having heard his tread as he climbed the outside stairs. She flashed a dazzling smile - imperfect, uncorrected, uniquely Sarah.
"John! Welcome," her voice wrapped around him, though he recognized the note as unnatural. "Long time, stranger," she kidded awkwardly, and John smiled just as awkwardly.
"Sarah – you look so..."
"Tanned?" she prompted, pressing the door closed, leaning back against it. Terrific. Beautiful. Young and in full blossom. Rested, happy, glowing.
"Healthy," John settled on. Yes, she was tan – that explains why her teeth look so white, he realized, but the smile was still unfamiliar. "It's really good to see you."
"Yes, I heard you wanted to. Wesley and Rick both on vacation next week, is that it?"
"Oh, have you been talking to them?" John asked, feeling a pang of – jealousy? Being left out? People with a secret he wasn't in on? Kindergarten memories threatened.
"Naw, I just knew their schedules. So how much did you have to pay the super?" she teased.
"Twenty," John admitted, feeling a flood of embarrassment. He'd let the money go pretty easily and may have been prepared to pay more, if need be.
"Dollars?" she said, incredulous, "Ouch – sorry. What, you didn't have anything smaller?" One glance at John's expression confirmed this. "I told him not to rob you."
"So, Sarah – you look good," John said carefully. "Getting plenty of rest," – she nodded at this – "and plenty of sun, I can see." As the straps of her tank shifted he saw no gradation in the tone anywhere, not even below the neckline, as far as he could tell. He wondered how she looked under those cargo pants, until he caught himself.
"Oh yeah, this vacation's been great," Sarah bragged. "Just what I need." "Need," she said – not "needed," though at least she didn't say "so far."
"And paid, too – so not strapped for cash," John pointed out.
"Oh, nowhere close. Everyone's so glad to see me, I've spent nothing – just like when I was working. No, I've got a lot stashed away already – not that I need to tell you." True, John thought, with his modest needs and extensive savings he no longer needed to work – and was Sarah saying that she didn't either? Of course, he'd be bored out of his mind...
"September 16th. Four weeks," John counted, "You must be getting bored."
"Are you kidding? No way," she laughed, her phrasing reminding him of the gap in their ages. And he had never been able to use slang or current expressions of any kind – even the most common phrases sounded ridiculous coming from him. "I've got some classes, they're kickin' my butt."
"Classes? Just recently?" he asked, surprised. His position had been slipping away but intellectual stimulation was the pillar he'd rested it on. He'd always figured another job might take her away but work would have had to have kept her too busy for a school schedule.
"On line. Any place, any time. Grad classes, lakeside – just me, a laptop, and a cellular network card. Aromatic and Ring Hydrocarbons, Phase Behavior, and sunscreen."
"Well, good to hear you've been using protection – from the sun, I mean," John explained himself quickly. "So you've really got no reason to come back," he ventured.
"Maybe in a year or two, unless you really need me," she contended. It almost came out the way she wanted, which was casually, but she was listening attentively for his response.
John glanced around the compact living room. Two shelves of the bookcase were empty; three cardboard boxes sat full of books on the floor. Getting ready to move, perhaps. Something was wrong with his ears, he had a sensation of falling. "Sarah, we do need you," he told her.
"We?"
"Our operation. Our entire operation. Not just next week, all the time."
"And you?" her voice had gotten progressively more articulated - the honey had been as short-lived as he had expected, replaced by her native precision – and now she clearly intended to pin him down. "Do you need me, John?"
She remained in the corner against the door like a mounted butterfly. John half-turned and drifted the room, looking for words in the personality-deficient walls. "I don't need you," he said a bit too loudly, his back to her. Turning around he saw that she had her lips pressed together, tightly. "I want you. I'd like to have you back. I'll get along without you, if I have to – not very well, perhaps, but I will. But in terms of me, I want you to come back." That, he felt, was a true fact.
Sarah blushed deeply while tears pricked her eyes. I haven't cried since I left, she thought, not since September 16th. She let out a breath she'd been holding for years. "Do you, John?" she asked, wanting to hear more. "Do you want me to come back?"
"Sarah, I miss you. Without you I'm all alone there. Oh, plenty of people can do the work, but – well, none of them are you. If you don't mind me saying it, we're a lot alike."
"I don't mind you saying it," Sarah said softly, turning her face to the wall to hide her tears. Unnecessarily, since John was looking away as well. "And my file?" she challenged. "Is there a letter in my file?"
"Not exactly. The incident you're referring to is on a post-it note on my desk."
"So if I resign?" she asked carefully, nonetheless causing John's head to snap around, startled.
"It goes in the waste-basket," he avowed.
"And if I come back?" she demanded, and enjoyed the sense of relief she could read on John's face.
"It goes in the waste-basket," he repeated. "Same waste-basket, even."
"Then why does it need to be there at all?"
It was John's turn to blush. "It serves as a reminder," he pronounced severely, "that there are – unresolved issues between us."
"You need a reminder?" Sarah whispered, but he had no trouble hearing her.
"No," he spoke softly into her ear, "I want a reminder."
Sarah grasped him carefully, slowly turning the two of them around, putting John's back to the wall. He didn't resist. And then with a step she was gone, moving to the center of the room, between the coffee table and the low couch.
"In that case there's only one other issue left to be resolved," she declared.
"Sarah..." John growled warningly but with rising panic.
"If the answer was still no you wouldn't be here. Now get over here," Sarah commanded. "You asked me for a favor and I granted it. Now I'm asking you for one and you'll do the same. It took four weeks – over four weeks – for you to get here. This doesn't need to take all day." She watched John approach warily, pleased with his awareness that he couldn't talk his way out of it. "Though," she continued with a giggle, "It always could – if you'd like." Then, firm again, she insisted, "But we're going to get started right away."
John grasped Sarah's arms, lightly. Even barefoot she was tall enough to only need to tip her head slightly. John kissed her, slowly – carefully, precisely. Perfectly.
"Sit down!" she commanded again, reaching for the waist of her pants.
"Sarah, this would change everything between us," John protested softly as Sarah leaned back slightly. Instinctively John followed, until she stopped suddenly, causing them to collide. John pulled his body back sharply. His calves were against the edge of the couch and with a sharp push he was seated. An olive curtain suddenly dropped and his eyes were on level with the narrow strips securing Sarah's thong. He saw no evidence that she had been wearing it while sunbathing.
John leaned forward, resting his forehead on Sarah's hip, his nose practically on her thigh, soft despite how lean she was. "Sarah, I don't have to do this," he said, quietly.
"The hell you don't," Sarah retorted. "Push your knees out, give me some room." It was hard for him to argue with a limber young lady whose firm, narrow – well, "bottom," John supposed he should call it – rose so invitingly over his right thigh, practically under his right palm.
"John?" Sarah asked from floor-level, repeatedly trying to flick her hair out of her eyes. "Do I ever annoy you?"
"Annoy me?" John replied. Exhaust, entice, worry, distress, invigorate, inspire. Accompany, perhaps? "Not really," he admitted.
"Never?" she challenged, incredulous. "How about when I put myself in mortal danger?"
The words literally made John see red. "I don't want to think about that," he said. "At least, not right now."
Sarah gave a little shiver from that implication while demanding, "Then you'd better think of something else."
John licked his lips for the twentieth time in the last sixty seconds. Sarah's tank had ridden halfway up her back, displaying the tattoo at the base of her spine. Its curves accentuated the feminine shape of her angular frame, her waist smaller, her hips nicely wider than he had ever realized.
"How about..." John suggested slowly, "When you decide to sunbathe nude?"
"Hey no fair – there was no one else – ow! – around! – ow! really! yeow! hey! slow – ow! down! – ok! ow! bad idea! ow! sorry! ow! no, really! owwww!
(The End?)
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