Blind Squirrels Page 3

  “Can’t it wait?” I was trying to put off the inevitable. “I need to review the payroll data.”

  “No, it can’t. You were late coming back from lunch. Do you care to explain?”

  I gave Nancy a smirk. “It was only ten minutes. I worked until seven last night, and I came in at seven-thirty this morning.”

  “It doesn’t make me – I mean the department – look good.”

  Brad walked up behind her. “You were right the first time, Nan.”

  “I’ve asked you to quit calling me that. Besides this is none of your business.” Nancy didn’t like me, but she despised Brad.

  “Why don’t you fire her? Then I’ll quit, too. Let’s see how long this company will stay in business without its IT team.” Brad was up to his old tricks. “We’ll get a job somewhere else making twice as much as this place pays us. Go on – do us a favor. Fire her.”

  “I’m not going to fire anyone. I just want Katrina to realize that she’s taking advantage of her salaried paycheck. If she punched a clock, she would be milking it for every minute.” Nancy thought she was so smart.

  “If I was punching a clock, I would get time and a half for all the hours I work before eight and after five. Or I would sleep late and be home on time every day.” Brad made it easy for me to stand up for myself. I think that’s one reason I liked him so much.

  “Let’s cut out the jokes and remember that this is a workplace, folks. I don’t like being the bad guy...,”

  “Sure you do,” Brad interrupted.

  Nancy ignored his barb, “...but I am the IT manager. I have to make sure my people follow the rules. I’m not going to dock you or anything, Katrina. This is just a warning.” With that said, Nancy slithered back down the hall to her office.

  “Now that the Wicked Witch is gone, why were you late, Kat?” Concern filled Brad’s voice. He was imagining a ten car pileup or an explosion that shook downtown.

  “I just stayed in Hurricane Gardens too long. Have you been over there yet? That garden is really beautiful.” Hurricane Gardens was in the center of downtown Foster’s Bank. The gardens were the result of an effort to revitalize a long neglected and distressed section of town.

  “I keep promising to go, but I never make it. It’s probably for the best. A rosebush would probably rip my leg open, causing an infection that would lead to gangrene and the amputation of my leg. You know how my luck runs.”

  “You are just so pitiful. I’m amazed you ever get out of bed in the morning.” I couldn’t help laughing a little.

  “You are so right, Kat. Sometimes, I just want to hide under the covers. But then I think – whoa, you could suffocate under there. It always seems that danger lurks around every corner – whether it’s at home or somewhere else. So, I might as well take a chance and come to work. After all, once I get here, it’s hard for even me to imagine a mishap while sitting at my computer all day. We have a reasonably safe – if slightly boring – job.”

  I didn’t want to burst his bubble, so I kept quiet as I imagined an electrical problem that electrocuted Brad at his desk. He had enough to worry about.

  “Anyway,” I continued, “he showed up at the garden again. He left well before I did, but I got caught up in a daydream.”

  “I can’t believe that you are still moony over some guy you knew in high school. Were your daydreams of marriage or just an affair?” I never knew if my tales of Max bored Brad or if he just liked to tease me.

  “The truth is, I was thinking about the day I met him...” Even now, it would be easy to let myself slip back to that day.

  “Now that’s a story I’ve heard a thousand times. Suppose I was you for a moment. When that stupid little geek asked Max if I was his girlfriend, my first reaction wouldn’t have been embarrassment. I would have grabbed Max’s arm and said, ‘Why yes, I am his girl.’” Brad was using his falsetto voice, and he sounded more like the stereotypical lisping homosexual than a young girl.

  “Why? I’m dying to know why.” I wasn’t really, but Brad expected me to play along.

  “Because I would have known then and there if Max abhorred me. I wouldn’t have gone twenty some odd years wondering if I missed out on the love of my life. You can bet that I wouldn’t have wasted more than five minutes wondering that anyway. More importantly, I’d wonder if I could have had a date with Johnny. From your description, he was always the one any self-respecting teenage girl would have wanted.” Brad always rooted for Johnny but that was because he didn’t know Johnny the way I did.

  “You just don’t know the whole story,” I said. “I’ve never finished that story.”

  “So tell me. I really want to know what is so great about Max. He must be something. He kept you single all these years – except for that brief entanglement with Beefcake, or whatever his name was.” Brad was referring to my brief marriage to Ben Bellanova. That was another story altogether.

  “I can’t tell you now. Fancy Nancy will be back down here soon to see what we are gabbing about. Some other time.” Nancy didn’t mind spending several hours flirting with her boss or doing her nails or talking to one of her friends on the phone, but she watched Brad and I like a hawk. We sorely missed the pre-Nancy days when Mel Shaker had been our boss. He was a good sport and a hard worker. Nancy was neither.

  “Well, I’m not busy for dinner. Why don’t you cook us up something tasty, and I’ll show up around seven? First we’ll eat, and then we’ll talk. I’m anxious to hear how the story ends.” Brad would do anything for a home cooked meal, and – besides Olivia or Donna – there were few people I’d rather cook for.

  “Sure. I guess that’s okay. I don’t want to bore you, though.” Did the story of Max really interest Brad?

  “You aren’t going to bore me. There’s no one else I’d rather talk to, and I do want to understand why you’ve carried this flame for Max for all these years. It’ll be better than anything on TV. Especially if you cook spaghetti. I’ll bring the wine and the garlic bread.” Brad had never flattered me this way before.

  “Are you sure it’s safe to eat my cooking? Are you sure I clean my utensils properly? Is my meat fresh? Oh – by the way, be sure to get a real wine this time. I’m not particularly crazy about Cold Duck.” No matter what, I had to tease Brad about his paranoia. One day all of his worrying was going to kill him. Maybe one day I would suggest that.

  “Okay, okay. Boone’s Farm it is. Strawberry should go fine with spaghetti. As for your cleanliness, I’ll take my chances. Now I’d better get back to work. Slave-driver Martin will soon be making the rounds.” Brad headed back across the hall. For once he’d managed to come into my office without starting a speech about ignorant customers or even more ignorant coworkers. In Brad’s eyes, he and I were the only intelligent people in the company.

  I thought about Max for a moment and about the approaching evening with Brad. Then I turned back to my work. I really needed to review the payroll data before I went home.

  Dinner with Brad was one laugh after another. As he slurped his way through a mound of spaghetti while waxing eternally on the misfortunes that could befall unsuspecting diners, I could barely quit laughing long enough to eat. And he hadn’t been kidding about the Boone’s Farm. It wasn’t great – more like disgusting – but it served to lighten Brad’s usual morose frame of mind and to set the mood for the rest of the evening.

  After dinner, Brad and I curled up on my couch with a glass of Boone’s Farm and my ninth grade yearbook. First, I pointed out Olivia, Aurelia, and me, and then I moved on to Max and Johnny. Brad made faces at all of them. “I know this was the seventies, but all of you just look so – so – trendy.”

  “Don’t you mean ‘hip’? It was the seventies, remember?”

  “Oh – exactly. You were a bunch of hip cats, that’s for sure.” The sarcasm in his voice was more delectable than the pink stuff in my glass.

  Brad flipped some pages and came face to face with Monsieur Guest. “This has to be that delightful F
rench teacher of yours. I can see where your Captain Kangaroo reference comes in, but, to me, he’s more of a Sergeant Schultz. I can picture him right now in that German uniform. Can’t you see it? He seems too much of a bungler to be the good Captain.”

  I’d never thought of it before, but Brad was right. I could see Monsieur Guest’s bushy mustache and his rigid stance – all reminiscent of the incompetent character from Hogan’s Heroes. And didn’t we students always sneak around behind the old man’s back, often leaving him feeling foolish and looking oafish? I was suddenly envious of Brad’s insight.

  Since Donna played a part in the story I was about to tell, I produced a picture of her – also from 1975 –from my wallet so Brad would know all the characters.

  Donna was short and a bit chubby. She was of Korean descent, but she had been adopted as a baby by a nice Irish Catholic family. In the ninth grade, she wore her straight black hair in a pageboy cut that was very complementary to her creamy white skin. Her cute little nose and sensual lips were noteworthy, but her eyes were her focal point. They were dazzling milk chocolate in color and in the same alluring shape as cat’s eyes. Her eyelashes were long, thick, and as black as night. Donna was also very enchanting. She was funny and clever and everyone loved being around her. Many a young man had lost his heart to her beauty and her charms.

  She entranced Brad right away. “Why haven’t I ever met any of your friends?” Donna was the one he was really talking about.

  “She’s married,” I explained.

  “Of course she is.” Brad poured himself another glass of pink stuff. “Okay, I know all the players. Let’s hear this story of yours.”

  I took a deep breath, and then I began traveling back in time again.

  Chapter 4

  I picked up the phone to call Donna. For the next hour, I told her about Max, Johnny, and Travis, and then she told me that her day had been completely boring. She told me that I was so lucky because I only had one sibling. Donna had three – two brothers and a sister. The worst part – to Donna anyway – was having an older sister with her in high school. Apparently, Colleen – the older sister – had impaired Donna’s ability to make friends. I told her that given time Colleen would find something better to do and would leave Donna alone. Donna paused indicating that she didn’t believe me. At three o’clock we hung up. Her mom was due home at three-fifteen, and Donna couldn’t talk on the phone when her mom was around.

  Donna’s mom was like that. She was a tough disciplinarian. Donna and her younger brothers, Thomas and Mark, were deathly afraid of Mrs. Daley. Only Colleen stood up to their mom and showed no fear. She had Mrs. Daley wrapped around her finger, and, being the oldest, she would take no gruff from the old lady. She never disrespected her, but she did expect Mrs. Daley to treat her with respect as well. And she got it, at least most of the time. Mrs. Daley frightened me just as much as she frightened her kids. She had a ferocious temper, especially when she had been drinking, and that was quite often.

  Mr. Daley, on the other hand, was sweet and pleasant. He spent most of his time at either his construction business or at home in the kitchen. He loved to cook, and Mrs. Daley was happy to have him make all the family meals. His specialty was Shepherd’s Pie, and it was a favorite of all the Daley children. Mr. Daley often invited me to dine with them when he made this wonderful meal. I did love the meal as much as his own children, but I rarely took him up on his offer. Sharing a meal with Mrs. Daley was just too scary for me.

  After my conversation with Donna, I started planning my future. Whenever I did this, I went outside and talked it over with my dog, Lassie. Lassie (a gorgeous collie, what else?) was my true best friend. Lassie never told my secrets, and she never criticized. We rolled on the soft green grass together, and I told Lassie all about Max. Of course she favored the union. Lassie always took my side in these matters.

  My mother got home around five-fifteen. I hinted a little to her about Max, but working all day at Brenda’s Boutique, a beauty salon that she managed, left her tired and cranky. Mom didn’t make much money, but she liked getting away from home. She had no desire to be a hair stylist; she was much more oriented towards clerical work – and she liked being the boss. As she prepared dinner – fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, and biscuits – I noticed how old she looked. I’d never thought of her this way before, but now I noticed the crinkles on her face and the gray in her hair. Mom was forty-four and now that seemed so old. Still, she looked younger than some of my friends’ mothers – women who were younger than she was. She often told me that the one good thing about being fat was how it fanned out your wrinkles and made you look younger. I guessed that she was right, although I never thought my mom was very fat. At one time, she had been thin, sleek, and beautiful. Now she had a pudgy belly and large breasts – sometimes it was hard to find where one stopped and the other started. Once, wavy blond hair had cascaded down her back. These days, her hair was short, auburn, and permed. She still had a gentle, remarkable face – punctuated by large blue eyes and a winning smile and peppered by light freckles and several moles. She wore oversized rimmed glasses, and her face creased around her nose and mouth when she smiled. Yes, she was still beautiful. Not wanting to disturb her, I decided Max could wait for another day.

  My daddy came home shortly after Mom. He worked at Spencer’s Carpets as a salesman. He made decent money selling carpet to businesses and individuals, and he believed that he worked ten times harder than Mom did. Maybe he did, but I doubted it. He seemed to have too much of a good time. After suddenly noticing my mother’s aging, I decided to give Daddy a once over. He still looked the same as always – he carried his age better than Mom, and he wasn’t even fat. Daddy was an incredibly handsome man. Of course, his jet black hair was receding a little, but what remained was still curly and thick. He wore his hair in a short military cut – a style acquired during his Navy days. Another memento of those days was the tattoos Daddy had on each arm. One was an anchor along with the letters “U.S.N.”; the other was a dagger through a rose. Daddy had small blue eyes and they became tiny slits whenever he laughed or smiled – and that was often. He had a straight rounded nose that turned slightly up on the end. His wide smile broke into laugh lines and dimples. Daddy was thin and short, and his skin was dark brown – suggesting his Cherokee Indian heritage. His most unattractive feature was a rather large black mole on his right cheek. Even that blemish couldn’t undermine his charm. In every way, he was the perfect daddy.

  Daddy sat down in his favorite chair and turned on the TV. He’d be there for the remainder of the night, except during dinner. Dinner was the one time the entire family got together and actually spent time together. Sometimes it was pleasant, but often it wasn’t.

  With no one to talk to, I retreated to my room. I walked past my dresser mirror, and I paused to look at myself. My hair was dark blond and cut short in back with feathered bangs. Mitzi, one of the beauticians at Brenda’s Boutique, told me that short hair would make me look slimmer. It wasn’t working. My face was oval, but my fat cheeks made it look round. I wasn’t ugly, but being fat kept most people from noticing. I had the high cheek bones of my Indian grandmother and the large eyes of my mother – although mine were hazel instead of blue. I had a nose like my father and even a black mole just like his on my cheek – I called it a beauty mark. My smile was mine alone – perfect teeth and thin lips. I wore wire framed glasses with tinted lenses – and I hated them. Even more, I hated my body. I was about twenty-five pounds overweight and for someone my age, that might as well be one-hundred. Even so, I didn’t dwell on my weight most of the time. Quite often I thought of myself as being just like everyone else. It was only when I approached a mirror that I became acutely aware of my true size. Okay, also when I squeezed into a blue polyester dress. Ouch. Or when people called me names like whale, pig, or behemoth. Double ouch.

  I walked over to my stereo and popped in an eight-track tape. Jim Croce’s lamented voice crooned “Operator,”
and I lost myself in one of my little fantasy worlds. “Rapid Roy the Stock Car Boy” was just starting when Mom opened my door and said dinner was ready. In a rankled voice she added, “And please turn that music down.” Neither she nor my dad could understand the legendary music Croce left behind. In their eyes, if one of the three greats – Hank, Haggard, or Jones – didn’t do it, then it wasn’t real music. I reluctantly pulled out the tape and headed for the dinner table. It would be enough to dream about Max later.

  The rest of that first week was mostly unremarkable. I did discover that Max lived on the other end of my street, and, by Friday, I knew that his last name was Savage and that he was a junior. No one had teased me about him anymore, but then no one knew how I felt about him yet.

  I had also learned some things about Johnny. His last name was Roberts, he was a sophomore, and Dominique had a huge crush on him. I learned the last thing on the way home Friday. Dominique was sitting alone in a seat, and Johnny sat down beside her. He hardly seemed to notice her, but his presence certainly pleased her. Aurelia couldn’t contain herself. She revealed Dominique’s crush, but she swore me to secrecy. I agreed to stay quiet, and we giggled about Dominique’s situation all the way home.

  Everything else was just school. It was already becoming a grind. Getting off the bus Friday afternoon, I told Erma that I was glad it was the weekend. Erma and I were becoming distant friends, but we had little in common. Erma was rough, bossy, and sometimes mean. I feared her much more than I liked her. Nevertheless, she was someone to talk to every morning, and she was another person I could sit with on the bus.