from my primary care doctor for this unrelenting neck
pain are doing the trick. I hardly sense that I have a neck anymore, let alone
register the random stabs of a hot poker that once afflicted me.
But
relief has its price. Since the day I filled the prescription, disturbing
dreams have stalked me. Nightmares that run my blood cold and snap me awake in
a sweat. The only blessing is that they vanish swiftly, leaving behind nothing
more than a vague sense of unrest.
Until
I find the first note.
A
week before Christmas, Mother Nature teeters on the brink of winter, unsure if
she should take the plunge or hop a getaway flight to the Caribbean. I hustle
to my car, an icy mix of sleet and freezing rain marring the suede boots I’ve
worn to work without as much as a cursory check of the weather forecast.
Today
I need not fumble with my keys, though, my thumb glued to the unlock button of my fob in preparation. I time the maneuver perfectly and slip into
the car, thankful to be dry, at least, even if I’m still as cold as a
frostbitten Thanksgiving turkey.
From
the driver’s seat, I spot something that was invisible outside: a soggy
envelope clamped under my windshield wiper. Probably a Chinese restaurant menu
or a rashly deposited slice of political propaganda. Whatever it is, it must be
moved, so I can clear the window and get on my way.
I
shake my head and resign myself to the task, abandoning the relative warmth of
the car, if only for a moment. But the envelope fights me, clings to the glass
like a starfish to a slick rock. I pry it free a millimeter at a time until I
have won, then retreat in victory.
What
could be so important that someone would brave this nastiness to deliver it? I wonder.
I
steal a glance at the other cars in my row but fail to locate the sisters and
brothers of the disintegrating mess I hold in my hands. Then again, maybe they
are camouflaged as this one was until now.
It
hardly seems worth the bother, but something tells me to look, unveil what has
been left to me. Yet the same voice fails to warn of trouble, drop the breadcrumbs
so I can find the way home.
The
envelope comes apart in gummy clumps that I drape across my lap. Inside is the
last thing I expect to find: an advance copy of next week’s Food Mart sales
flier. I wonder if some underling has mistakenly placed this, its intended
target the marketing VP.
But
I unfold it and look anyway, and what I see drops a boulder on my gut. In mismatched,
cut-out letters—the serial killer kind—a message: If you don’t tell, I will.
These
words fall just short of paralyzing me, force my hands to quake. You will
not, I tell myself, knowing what I must do. I will not let you.
I
hurl the flier out the window, then crank up the engine and drive over the
thing, smashing it to soggy bits. For good measure, I reverse and slaughter it
twice.
----
The
credit card statement Jenna has pulled for me provides a glimmer of hope, some
ammunition in my secret war. There are meal and entertainment charges I could
question, point to as inappropriate uses of company funds, characterize as
blatant theft.
But
these may be hard to prove, having occurred in the context of normal business.
What I do catch Eric on is a single hundred-dollar lapse, a purchase he cannot
explain away: gambling chips. An unauthorized excursion to Foxwoods.
I
highlight the offending purchase and march into Bob Evans’s office, without the
courtesy of a VP-to-VP heads-up.
“Hey,”
I say as he looks up from the computer. “Got a minute?” Usually I only bother
him with personnel matters, and this is how I plan to frame our exchange today.
“Yeah.
Come in,” he says, despite the fact that I already have. “Pull up a chair.”
I
breeze past the seating area and halt beside him, where I thrust the credit
card statement over his shoulder—and inches from his face. “You need to see
this,” I say, maximizing my physical advantage. In my standing position, I
tower over him
pain are doing the trick. I hardly sense that I have a neck anymore, let alone
register the random stabs of a hot poker that once afflicted me.
But
relief has its price. Since the day I filled the prescription, disturbing
dreams have stalked me. Nightmares that run my blood cold and snap me awake in
a sweat. The only blessing is that they vanish swiftly, leaving behind nothing
more than a vague sense of unrest.
Until
I find the first note.
A
week before Christmas, Mother Nature teeters on the brink of winter, unsure if
she should take the plunge or hop a getaway flight to the Caribbean. I hustle
to my car, an icy mix of sleet and freezing rain marring the suede boots I’ve
worn to work without as much as a cursory check of the weather forecast.
Today
I need not fumble with my keys, though, my thumb glued to the unlock button of my fob in preparation. I time the maneuver perfectly and slip into
the car, thankful to be dry, at least, even if I’m still as cold as a
frostbitten Thanksgiving turkey.
From
the driver’s seat, I spot something that was invisible outside: a soggy
envelope clamped under my windshield wiper. Probably a Chinese restaurant menu
or a rashly deposited slice of political propaganda. Whatever it is, it must be
moved, so I can clear the window and get on my way.
I
shake my head and resign myself to the task, abandoning the relative warmth of
the car, if only for a moment. But the envelope fights me, clings to the glass
like a starfish to a slick rock. I pry it free a millimeter at a time until I
have won, then retreat in victory.
What
could be so important that someone would brave this nastiness to deliver it? I wonder.
I
steal a glance at the other cars in my row but fail to locate the sisters and
brothers of the disintegrating mess I hold in my hands. Then again, maybe they
are camouflaged as this one was until now.
It
hardly seems worth the bother, but something tells me to look, unveil what has
been left to me. Yet the same voice fails to warn of trouble, drop the breadcrumbs
so I can find the way home.
The
envelope comes apart in gummy clumps that I drape across my lap. Inside is the
last thing I expect to find: an advance copy of next week’s Food Mart sales
flier. I wonder if some underling has mistakenly placed this, its intended
target the marketing VP.
But
I unfold it and look anyway, and what I see drops a boulder on my gut. In mismatched,
cut-out letters—the serial killer kind—a message: If you don’t tell, I will.
These
words fall just short of paralyzing me, force my hands to quake. You will
not, I tell myself, knowing what I must do. I will not let you.
I
hurl the flier out the window, then crank up the engine and drive over the
thing, smashing it to soggy bits. For good measure, I reverse and slaughter it
twice.
----
The
credit card statement Jenna has pulled for me provides a glimmer of hope, some
ammunition in my secret war. There are meal and entertainment charges I could
question, point to as inappropriate uses of company funds, characterize as
blatant theft.
But
these may be hard to prove, having occurred in the context of normal business.
What I do catch Eric on is a single hundred-dollar lapse, a purchase he cannot
explain away: gambling chips. An unauthorized excursion to Foxwoods.
I
highlight the offending purchase and march into Bob Evans’s office, without the
courtesy of a VP-to-VP heads-up.
“Hey,”
I say as he looks up from the computer. “Got a minute?” Usually I only bother
him with personnel matters, and this is how I plan to frame our exchange today.
“Yeah.
Come in,” he says, despite the fact that I already have. “Pull up a chair.”
I
breeze past the seating area and halt beside him, where I thrust the credit
card statement over his shoulder—and inches from his face. “You need to see
this,” I say, maximizing my physical advantage. In my standing position, I
tower over him
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