In Sheep's Clothing Page 5

  “Shit. You know I am dying to hear what’s going on, but I can’t meet you after work today,” Freddie said with an apologetic tone. I didn’t even ask her why she couldn’t meet me. My girl had a huge plate and it was always full. I was just a small piece on it.

  “I’ll call you at home later on tonight. If I get a few things out of the way, and it’s not too late, I’ll drop by for a drink. You can tell me everything then. And it better be something juicy,” Freddie teased.

  Before I could even mention the subject, Ann appeared again. Without a word, she strolled over to my desk and stuck a yellow Post-It on the monitor of my computer. She didn’t even look at me or say a word before she strutted back toward the elevator.

  “I have to go,” I sighed, lifting the Post-It. That hussy’s handwriting looked like chicken scratch. It was a real struggle to read what she had written. “Freddie, would you believe that this heifer came all the way from the second floor to tell me to add toner to the fax machine?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  I could hear Wendy and Pam snickering and clucking like old setting hens in a barnyard. I didn’t bother to whisper anymore. “The damn fax machine is right outside her office. She had to walk right by it to get to me. She could have saved herself some time by adding that damn shit herself.” I let out a snort that made my nose burn.

  Freddie was snickering now. “Welcome to the real world, baby girl, baby girl,” she chanted. “Now you know what I go through every damn day of my life. By the time they get through with you, girlfriend, you’ll be running back to that counter in your daddy’s liquor store.”

  “Now I don’t know about all that,” I protested. “I don’t think this job here is that bad.”

  “Hmmm-huh.” Freddie let out a huge snort. “Not yet. If I can, I’ll call you tonight.”

  I stared at my monitor for about a minute more and would have done so longer if my phone hadn’t rung. It was Ann.

  “Trudy?”

  “Ann?”

  “Uh, yes . . .” Her hesitation confused me. For a full twenty seconds—I counted them on my watch—she remained silent. I knew she was still on the line because there was a faint hum with each breath she took. I didn’t know where she was coming from or going to. She really was like a fart in a windstorm. “Trudy, did you see my note?” she huffed.

  “Oh, yes. I was just about to go take care of that,” I said meekly.

  “Good. After you’re done with that, swing by Starbucks and bring me a tall mild, a dash of half and half, no sugar . . . please. Thank you.” She hung up before I could tell her that it was almost quitting time for me.

  “She wants me to go to Starbucks to get her some coffee,” I said to Pam, glancing at my watch. “I’m going to miss my bus.” I sat there in slack-jawed amazement with my eyes blinking and itching.

  “You’re going to miss more than that by the time Ann’s through with you,” Pam predicted, shutting off her computer and struggling into her jacket at the same time. “When she gets her period, she gets so bloated she can’t even button her clothes. That’s when she turns into a real demon.”

  “How can you tell the difference?” I asked.

  “Oh, you’ll find out. Nothing you do will please her. She’ll be as cold as ice. So during that time of the month, I advise you to dress warm.”

  Wendy trotted out of her cube, buttoning her sweater and shaking her head. “Look on the bright side, Trudy. Since your father owns a liquor store, you might want to bring in a few extra bottles yourself. I think you’re going to need it.”

  The last thing I wanted to do was develop a steady relationship with alcohol like Wendy and Pam. From what they’d shared with me about their situations it hadn’t really helped them that much. Both had told me more about their backgrounds than I wanted to know.

  Wendy, the eldest of three children, didn’t get along with her family. She was the daughter of a former coal miner and the town slut. She had been born and raised in the hills of Kentucky. She’d lived in California for ten years but still had a slight hillbilly accent. Her entire family, even her two teenage brothers, drank cheap whiskey like water and fought like cats and dogs.

  Pam’s history was even worse. Her epileptic husband had run off with another woman while Pam was in the hospital giving birth to their son. She hadn’t heard from him since. Pam’s mother had died in a mental ward and she’d never known her father. She had to have a drink just to get to sleep every night. Her sixyear-old son was so incorrigible she had to change babysitters every three or four months. My life was a bowl of cherries compared to theirs, and unlike them, I had a lot of pride and I was not about to let Ann Oliver ruin that.

  Having to run down the street to Starbucks and add toner to the fax machine was going to make me miss my bus and I would have to wait half an hour for the next one.

  Starbucks was two blocks away and I cussed all the way down there. I cussed even more when I got to the place because that was when I realized Ann hadn’t given me any money, so I had to pay for her tall mild cup of coffee with money out of my pocket.

  The fact that Ann was Black made it even worse. Sisterhood, and even brotherhood for that matter, took on a whole new meaning when I felt I’d been mistreated. Getting robbed and assaulted by that young brother at the liquor store a week ago was still fresh on my mind. I felt soiled. I knew I had to do something to make myself feel good again.

  Every time that robber’s face entered my mind, so did Ann’s. I couldn’t do a thing to get back at the robber. I’d have to take out my wrath on somebody else. When I look back on it now, I think that that was the moment when I got the notion in me that I could at least make Ann sorry for the way she treated me. I planned to do that by not allowing her to destroy what little dignity I had left. No matter how mean she was to me, and no matter how much it hurt, she’d never know it. But that depended on whether or not I remained on the job.

  The way things were going, there was a strong possibility that I’d get fired first.

  CHAPTER 10

  It didn’t take long for Bon Voyage to become an obsession with me. It filled a vacancy in my life that I had ignored too long. It didn’t matter if I was on the premises or not, the place dominated my mind. Every time I saw a travel ad or a travel commercial on television, I thought about Bon Voyage. With just a little effort and imagination, in my confused mind it was my face on the bodies of the models stretched out under palm trees on the beaches in the ads. Or was it Ann’s face? Sometimes I couldn’t tell the difference. Even with a she-devil like Ann in the picture, to me, Bon Voyage was The Rapture compared to my old job at Daddy’s liquor store. And, it was also a lot more interesting than every temp job I’d had.

  Bon Voyage was more than a job to me. It was a distraction. The money was good, but not that good, so there was more to it than that. A lot of the appeal had to do with the fact that it was a travel agency. To me that represented escape. When I was in the office I didn’t think about the robbery and assault as much as I did when I was at home. And when it did enter my mind at work it didn’t seem to bother me as much as it usually did. One of the most important aspects of my relationship with Bon Voyage was that it helped me set aside my ongoing grief over losing my mother and my brother.

  The office was closed on the weekends. It closed its doors to the public promptly at five P.M. every weekday evening, but we all had keys to get in after hours. As hard as it was for me to believe, some of the reps worked way past our regular hours. Often, they had the nerve to come in and work the weekends, too. Exactly what they did that kept them so busy was a mystery to me. Now, I knew that they traveled a lot and sat around negotiating all kinds of package deals with hotels, airlines, cruise lines, important clients and such. But they also spent a great deal of time socializing with each other during the day. Naturally, Ann was the leader of the pack. Her office was more like a clubhouse because that’s where Mr. Rydell and the rest of the reps could usually be found, all at the same
time.

  When Ann wasn’t on the telephone in her office yakking away to somebody in French (she could speak two foreign languages), or behaving like what Freddie called “the house nigger,” she strutted around, showing off a different new outfit, fishing for compliments. I couldn’t count the number of times I had overheard her ask somebody, “does this dress make my butt look big?” Ann did not have a weight problem and her roundsided, moderately extended butt, which was about the same size as mine, was typical for a Black woman. Wendy and Pam, and Joy Banning—the most likeable of the reps—all complained about being overweight. I could always count on seeing one of them poring over a diet book every day. The ones who should have been more concerned about their weight, plump Mr. Rydell and lumpy Lupe Gonzalez, nibbled and gnawed on something off and on all day long.

  Dennis Klein, being the only male employee at Bon Voyage, except for Mr. Rydell, stood out like a lighthouse. He looked like a thirty-year-old version of Harry Potter and sometimes acted like one, too. Dennis behaved like a spoiled only male in a family of doting females. Even Ann catered to him. I often saw her brush lint off his clothes, straighten his tie and lapels, and smooth down his bowl-shaped hairdo with the palm of her hand.

  This bunch was a real-life reality show. To them, vanity seemed like a job requirement. Next to Evian and coffee from Starbucks, Slim-Fast was the most popular drink at Bon Voyage. The whole crew swallowed cans of that stuff like it was holy water. Especially after gobbling up a croissant. But with Pam and Wendy, who both slurped at least one can of Slim-Fast a day, the bottle of vodka in Wendy’s drawer was the top of the line.

  A few days ago Ann requested coffee from Starbucks, again. It came as a complete surprise and inconvenience to me, again. As interesting as Bon Voyage was, I looked forward to quitting time each day. But it looked like my “quitting time” was going to vary from one day to the next.

  When I got back to the office with Ann’s coffee she was nowhere to be found. After I had checked her office, the ladies’ room, the break room, and the other reps’ offices, I assumed she was gone. But her coat and purse, as well as the personal belongings of all the other reps, were still where they were supposed to be. More puzzled than I was angry, I also searched the stairwell and the supply room. I did what I thought any other sane person in my position would do, I set the now-cold coffee on Ann’s desk and I prepared to leave for home. Just the thought of leaving without knowing where Ann was made my head spin. Even though I had done what she had asked me to do, and something that was not really part of my job.

  I sighed as I reentered the ground floor. Being in the reception area alone, not being bombarded with telephone calls, Pam and Wendy’s catty chatter, and customers who couldn’t make up their mind where they wanted to travel to, I felt totally different. Pictures of huge jetliners on some of the posters seemed to jump out at me. Even in the dim light, the reception area was mesmerizing. Pam had slapped some bold new posters onto the main wall that featured beaches from the Caribbean to Hawaii.

  When I made it back to my desk I plucked the latest edition of the Enquirer out of my in box where Wendy had left it. Wendy and Pam, and now I, read every ratty tabloid and women’s magazine on the market. Just as I was about to stuff the tabloid, which contained a cover that was lurid even by tabloid standards, into my purse, Ann stumbled in the front door dangling her keys. She stopped in front of me.

  “Oh, it’s you,” I said, blinking stupidly.

  “So?” Ann snapped, kicking the door shut with her foot. She opened her mouth to speak again, but stopped when she noticed my reading material.

  She looked at me with an amused grin on her face. Then she made sure that I saw that the Wall Street Journal was the newspaper folded under her arm. She held it up and fanned her face with it.

  “I left the coffee on your desk,” I said, fiddling with the buttons on my jacket as I moved swiftly toward the door. “You asked me to . . . get you some coffee from Starbucks,” I reminded her.

  “I did?” she asked, her eyes rolling from side to side like marbles. She had forgotten what she had ordered me to do that quickly! “Hmmm,” she said, scratching her head, flopping her newspaper in front of her face, which now displayed a thin film of sweat. It was hard for me to even imagine a prima donna like Ann experiencing a bodily function as basic as sweating. “Are you sure?” She gave me a look that would have made me feel stupid under normal circumstances. I had done more than my share of stupid things in my life.

  This was not one of them.

  CHAPTER 11

  “Yes, I’m sure,” I said firmly. “You were very specific,” I insisted.

  Ann shrugged. “Well, today’s my weekly evening appointment at the nail shop on the mezzanine across the street next to the boutique,” she said, giving me a guarded look and waving her freshly polished hand. “Now, there are a few other things that you need to take care of before you leave today.” She blew on her nails and waved her hand, beckoning me to follow her to her office. Walking behind her, I realized she didn’t look as good from behind as she did from the front. Her butt was slightly lopsided and she had, of all things, flat feet. But what topped that were the hard-looking beads of nappy hair decorating the back of her neck like pebbles. I had to wonder if she would have thought so highly of herself if she could see what I saw. I had been taught to pity difficult people who couldn’t see themselves the way others did. So despite her behavior, I pitied Ann.

  She started to hum “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” that old Bobby McFerrin song that had been sung to death. With her husky voice it sounded even more annoying. Then she gave me a two-inch stack of two-sided documents to photocopy and put into a binder, separating each section with tabs.

  After the binder assignment, which took me an hour to complete, Ann handed me a bundle of new brochures to incorporate into the supply already on the rack by my desk.

  To be on the safe side, I returned to Ann’s office to see if she had any other chores for me before I left to go home.

  “That’s all for today, Trudy.” She smiled. “I really do appreciate your help,” she added as I handed her the binder. I was comfortable until she looked at my turtleneck sweater like it was a gunnysack. “Where do you live, Trudy, Oakland?”

  San Jose was considered the distant, jealous cousin of San Francisco, two hours north. But Oakland, right across the bay from San Francisco, was often referred to as San Francisco’s ugly stepsister. Mr. Clarke, the horny old man who helped Daddy run the liquor store, was from Oakland and was too embarrassed to admit it. Just from Ann’s tone of voice, she made Oakland sound like a shantytown.

  “South Bay City,” I said flatly, bile rising in my throat. “I was born and raised there.”

  “Oh,” she said, rubbing her nose. “Dennis got carjacked in South Bay. But I still don’t think it’s as rough as Oakland.”

  “No place is safe anymore,” I said firmly.

  She nodded and sniffed. “You know, I appreciate your staying late. If you can hang on for another hour or so, I’ll give you a ride home.”

  Another hour or so. I was in such a state of disbelief that my head was about to explode and slide off my shoulders. And what was I supposed to do for the next hour or so? There was nothing on my desk that couldn’t wait. I had a feeling that if I didn’t make myself scarce soon, Ann would probably have me dusting the elevator.

  Waiting for her to finish her work was one thing, but the thought of being stuck by myself in the same car with Ann Oliver made my stomach expand. “That’s all right. I can wait for the next bus.” I paused because I had to choose my words carefully. “I don’t want you to go out of your way,” I said. I don’t want you to see where I live, was what I was thinking.

  “Aw, shuck it, girl!” Ann shouted with a dismissive wave. “Take a cab. Get a receipt. I’ll have Wendy reimburse you from the petty cash fund.” She bowed her head and focused her attention on a sheet of paper on her desk.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d rathe
r take the bus,” I said with a broad smile. “Is there anything else you want me to do before I go?” I asked in a voice that was rapidly losing steam. Ann’s sudden and unexpected kindness had thrown me off balance. “Your coffee’s cold,” I said, nodding toward the cup I’d set on her desk earlier. “Do you want another cup?”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” she replied, not looking up. A few frighteningly quiet seconds passed by. When she realized I was still standing there, she looked up. “A tall mild, a little half and half, a dash of sugar,” she told me, cocking her head to the side. A couple of dollars didn’t mean much to her, but it did to me. At the rate I was going, I’d go broke supplying her with coffee with money out of my pocket. I made a note to avoid her around lunchtime. Knowing her, she’d have me picking up and paying for her lunch, too.

  Starbucks had closed for the day. I scurried around for twenty more minutes before I found another coffee shop still open. I got back to the office just in time to see Ann and Joy leaving for the day. I attempted to hand Ann the coffee she’d requested. “I’m late,” she snapped, giving me an exasperated look.

  I shook my head as I watched Ann and Joy sprint across the street to the lot where they parked every day. I poured the coffee into one of Pam’s potted plants and refilled the cup with some of Wendy’s vodka. I drank until I’d swallowed every single drop.

  I didn’t just miss the bus I normally took home, I missed the next two that followed it, too, and had to wait another half hour for the next one. After plowing my way through a knot of rowdy teenagers, I plopped down on a backseat in a corner next to a large musty man in a trench coat. I felt totally overwhelmed, and in a deep state of disbelief. Several people on the bus turned to stare at me when I laughed out loud. I wondered if Ann was crazy, or if I was the one with the mental problem.