Chance Encounter

By Autumn Writer

© Copyright 2006, 2007, 2010

 Chapter 7 - The Meaning of Ethics

Marge and Paul arrived at the hospital in Springfield at ten the next morning.  Paul stopped as they approached the ward where they wre told they would find Audrey’s room.

“Marge, why don’t you go in first?  You can talk to her woman-to-woman.  Tell her that I’m waiting out here, and ask her if she wants to see me.”

Marge disappeared and Paul sat in a small waiting room nearby.  He wondered what to say to Audrey when he saw her.  He had never known a rape victim.  He wanted to say the right things to her, but didn’t know what they were.  He didn’t want to say the wrong things, either, and he tried hard to figure out what they were. 

He realized that he bore a good part of the blame.  Audrey, after all, was carrying out a mission on his behalf and he allowed it to get out of control.  He wondered if the young, injured woman hated him for his part in the debacle—and if he confessed his guilt to her  she would forgive him.

“No,” he reasoned to himself in the silence of the waiting room, “I’m supposed to make her feel better—not the other way around.”

And so he decided to keep his feelings to himself.

After a short time Marge appeared at the door of the waiting room.  “She wants to see you,” she said, and took a seat in one of the chairs.

Paul was confused. 

“She wants to see you alone,” Marge clarified.  Paul obediently made his way to Audrey’s room.

Audrey wasn’t in bed.  She sat in a reclining chair next to the bed, dressed in her hospital gown and covered by a robe.  She had on sock slippers that the hospital provided.  There was no expression on her face.  The upper regions of it were black and blue, and puffy with swelling.

“I’m surprised to see you out of bed,” Paul said as he walked in.  Audrey didn’t answer, but her eyes followed him as he walked across the room.  There was a small chair next to hers.  Paul sat down in it.

“That must be a good sign,” Paul pressed ahead, eager for a response from her. 

Audrey still didn’t answer, but her eyes were welling with tears.

“I won’t ask you how you’re feeling,” Paul tried again.  “I’m sure you don’t feel very good.”

“I was so stupid,” Audrey blurted out.  “I should have known that he would come for me.”

“You can’t blame yourself, Audrey.”  Paul knew his answer was weak.  It was a safe answer that protected him from saying something wrong.  The truth of that fact made him ashamed.  He should have tried harder.  Safety of words revealed itself as a frivolous convenience.

“Everyone knew that he was on the run.  I should have been watching out.  I was looking at my mail!”  A tear trickled out of her eye and ran over the swelled flesh over her cheekbone and down to her chin.  “I teased him.  I should have known better.”

“Everything that you said is true, Audrey.  That doesn’t mean that it’s your fault.  If you blame yourself, you’re letting him escape blame.  Don’t do that.”

Audrey was silent, perhaps pondering what Paul had just said.

“Morehead’s responsible,” Paul went on.  “He committed an evil act of his own free will.  He did it; no one made him do it.  It’s on his head, not yours.  He allowed himself to go out of control.  If you hadn’t been there, he would have found some one else.”

Paul paused, hoping for a sign that Audrey was listening to him.  She only stared down at the floor beneath her feet.

“He’s weak and evil.   Men of that kind always find a good person to let themselves loose on.  The goodness in people reviles them.  They have to stamp it out because they know what they are.  I’m sorry it was you; I wish it didn’t have to be anyone at all.”

“But I was so careless and…” Audrey insisted.  Paul cut her off before she could say more.

“Yes, you were a little bit,” Paul replied with some tenderness.  “I was too.  You gave me the clues when I called you the other day.  I didn’t put them together.  I was thinking of other things.  I could have warned you.  I’m more experienced than you are.  I’m the one who should have seen it coming.”

Audrey shook her head, but didn’t utter a word.

“That doesn’t mean that it’s your fault, or mine,” Paul continued. “Rape isn’t the penalty for carelessness.  It isn’t the just punishment for anything.” 

Paul stopped speaking because he found that he had raised his voice without meaning to.

“Your bruises will heal in a week or two, and your other hurts, too—at least the outside ones.  You have to make sure that you heal inside, too.  You can’t carry this guy around inside you.”

Paul finished.  Audrey’s eyes brightened a little.

“Do you really think that I’m a good person?” Audrey whispered.

“Yes, I do,” Paul answered.  “And I think that you’re a brave one, too.  I know that you’re going to be alright, because you have what it takes right here.”

As he said it, he put the three middle fingers of his hand together and softly thumped her chest twice, just above her left breast.  As he started to draw his hand away Audrey clutched it and held it tightly against herself.  She looked straight into him.

“You’ve never touched me before, except to shake hands,” she sobbed.  “There were times I wished so hard that you would touch me.”

“I remember them,” Paul said.  “It was all I could do to not touch you.”

Audrey was still clutching his hand.  “It means a lot for you to touch me now,” she said.

Paul leaned forward and kissed her forehead.  Audrey grasped him around the shoulders as tightly as she could and buried her face in Paul’s chest.

She let out a sob, trying to hold back, and then could not restrain herself and thrust her tears into Paul as he held her.

“Why…did…he…do…this…to…me?  He…hurt…me!” she managed to cry out in spasms as she caught her breath through her weeping.

“Let it all out, Audrey,” Paul said to her.  “You need to.”

“Yes, Audrey,” Paul said to himself, “give it all to me—I will take it.  I have a space inside for it.  I’ll bury it deep, with the rest of my sorrows.  I can do this for you.  You have youth, and sweetness and beauty.  You should be happy.”

As Audrey continued to heave into his chest, Paul felt the demons of pain and guilt leave her and enter him.  He plunged them down deep inside himself.  They would reside there in silence forever, amidst all his other losses and pain that he had ever endured.  He would entrap them, never to be released, never to hurt others.  He could not kill them, only battle and subdue them, and he accepted that it was for him to do so.

************** 

The nurses heard Audrey’s cries and ran to her room.  When they saw Paul holding her they stepped away, knowing that her purging was the best medicine that she could receive. 

Audrey was scheduled for release from the hospital the next day.  Paul told her that he would have Marge stay with her for a few days.  Audrey refused but Paul insisted.  They made arrangements with the hospital to get Audrey’s keys.  Marge would rent a car and pick Audrey up the next day. 

Just as they were leaving, Mrs. Mongelli arrived at Audrey’s room.  She was the upstairs neighbor who brought help to Audrey as Morehead attacked her.  She had taken the bus to visit her young friend.  Marge made arrangements to pick her up after renting a car at the airport.  After that, they would go to Audrey’s apartment and clean it up before she returned home the next day.

Paul and Marge were riding to the airport in a taxi.

“Buy yourself some clothes and whatever else you need,” he told Marge.

“I packed some,” she said.  “I thought that I might be staying overnight.”

“I wouldn’t ask this of just anyone,” Paul said.  “Some couldn’t do it and some wouldn’t.  You’re the one person that I knew I could ask.”

As Paul said that to Marge she turned her head and looked out the window for a few seconds, but not before Paul saw the moisture collecting in her eyes.

*********** 

Two weeks had passed since the day Paul had presented his evidence to Wilton and Audrey had suffered the rape at the hands of Morehead. 

Audrey returned to her job at the Agency.  She seemed to be doing alright.  Paul called her every three or four days to check up on her.  Paul pressed her for her resume.  She was still putting it together.  When she did, Paul would circulate it and make some calls.

Morehead was still in jail.  His lawyer kept trying for bail, but had been turned down several times because of the violence of his crime.  Finally, a judge ordered psychiatric tests for Morehead and that guaranteed that he would remain locked up for a while. 

Marge returned to her desk after helping Audrey in Springfield.  She was in hot pursuit of the Choir Director at her church.  He was playing harder to get than Marge had expected.

The case against Grafton grew cold.  The Feds had taken over the case.  The prosecutors needed Morehead’s cooperation to move against him.  Morehead wasn’t talking without a reduction in the rape and battery charges against him.  Everyone but Audrey agreed that it could not be done.  Morehead’s actions were too heinous to consider leniency.

Audrey’s desire to lessen the charges worried Paul.  He wondered if it she was profoundly unselfish, or trying to spare herself the ordeal of Morehead’s trial.  Paul questioned her about it several times.  In the end he was convinced that it was her youthful idealism.  She wanted it all.  In the end, Paul felt better because Audrey’s youth was returning.  She would not get her way, though.  Morehead was going to face the full rap.

Ted Wilson let Paul know that there were several parties interested in hiring Glenda.  He was out of town on business.  He would fill him in later.

Paul had an appointment with George Adams that morning.  He had not spoken to his boss in several weeks.  Soon he was seated in the Corporate President’s office.  He was sure that the subject was the Ethics Committee’s findings on his deviation from policy in the Bert Loehman matter.  Paul didn’t know what to expect.  He had been so preoccupied of late that he had little time to worry about it.

“George, we’ve got to deal with something,” Adams began.  “The Ethics Committee’s findings are in.  Frankly, it is harsher than I expected, but I can do nothing except tell you what they are.”

“Alright, let’s have it,” Paul said with a sigh.

“It’s not the end of the world.” Adams said. 

“Let’s have it, then, George.  I’m a big boy,” Paul prodded.  “I’ve seen enough over the past few months to fill up my quota of misery, so one more rock on the pile won’t make the mountain any taller.”

“Paul, the Ethics Committee exonerated you on receiving the drawings.  They said that what you did was proper.  They recommended a punishment to the Board about the Loehman affair.  The Board had a hard time with it.  In the end, they approved the sanction because it was the first act by the Ethics Committee.  They felt that they had to back them up.”

“So…?” Paul asked, “What did they do?”

“They stripped you of your Class A Stock Options from last year’s bonus,” George answered.  “For you, that was one hundred thousand shares.”

A silence filled the room as Paul let the meaning of the punishment sink in. 

“George, that’s hard to accept.  My reasons were very sound,” Paul answered back, not trying to hide his anger. 

“I know, Paul.  Off the record, I agree with you.  On the record, my hands are tied,” George answered.

“This is going to cost a lot,” Paul replied.  “The option price was twenty-seven per share.  The shares are up to thirty-five now.  That’s eight hundred thousand dollars for something that wasn’t wrong in the first place.  This really burns me up.”     

“Some of the directors are concerned that you might do something drastic, Paul,” George said.  “They know that you had a big part in the stock going up to thirty- five.  It’s just that they wanted to show that the Ethics Committee has some teeth.”

“Tell them to go to hell,” Paul spat out.

“What does that mean, Paul?” asked George in a nervous voice.  “What are you going to do?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to resign, George,” Paul replied.  “Just tell them to go to hell, that’s all.”

George didn’t say anything. 

“On second thought, why should you have to my dirty work?” exclaimed Paul, heating up.  “I’ll tell them, myself!”

“No, no, Paul!” cried George, raising his hands.  “I’ll tell them.  It will go better that way.”

“Tell them in your own words, I suppose?” Paul said, a wry smile starting to emerge.

“I’ll buy you a drink tonight before the Directors’ dinner,” George promised.

“It will be ‘Open Bar’,” Paul protested.

“Then I’ll buy you a double,” George conceded.

George and Paul had worked together for a long time.

************* 

Paul was about to leave, but he had something else on his mind.

“There’s one last thing, George.  It’s going to sound like sour grapes after all this, but it’s all true and the Board should know about it,” Paul said.

“I’m listening,” George replied.

“Did you have a chance to look at the minutes of my meeting with the Ethics Committee?” Paul asked, hoping to make the explanation shorter.

George nodded that he had.

“When Allison Greene grilled me about the drawings she tipped me off that she was receiving confidential information from an unauthorized source.  There were very few people who knew of the drawings,” Paul explained.

George leaned closer. 

“There’s more,” said Paul.  “When she started up on my taking Glenda to my cabin on the Peninsula I knew that the information could only come from one source.  There were only four people who knew of it: me, Glenda, Arthur Hopkins and his lawyer, Judson.  She had to be communicating with Hopkins.  It’s the only way that she could have known.”

“Are you sure of your facts?” George demanded.  “This is serious stuff!  As a director, she owes her loyalty to Dunn, but you’re saying that she’s working for Hopkins.”

“I’m sure!” Paul attested.  “I think that the whole thing was a setup to derail us from fighting this lawsuit over the Peoria.  From the minutes you’ll note that she tried her best to get her hands on the drawings.”

“You should take this to Richardson,” George said.  “It’s only right.  It’s his committee to clean up if he has to.  They’re still in town.  You should try to button-hole him today before they fly out.”

Paul nodded.  He thought that he had done enough by passing the ball to his boss, and George sensed his frustration.

“I would have to bring you in, anyway,” he explained.  “Whatever I would say would just be second-hand.”

**********  

During their interim quarterly meetings, the hotel of choice for the Dunn Directors was the local Marriott.  At four that afternoon the meetings were over for the day.  The Directors had scheduled a dinner together that evening and they all retired to their rooms to get ready.  On this day a fly on the wall of a certain room was watching one of the directors get ready in a very unusual way.  It looked down at Director Allen Richardson sprawled across his disheveled bed.  He was nude.  His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, but he was preoccupied and didn’t see the fly.  He was concentrating on the nude woman whose mouth was attached to his erect penis.  Allen was thrusting his hips up at her, close to ejaculation.  The woman performing her oral arts was humming as she moved her head up and down on him. 

It was impossible to tell the identity of the woman.  Richardson’s legs were spread and bent up like a frog’s.  The woman was perched between them and she was on her knees.  Her back was rounded over as she bent to him, so that neither her face nor her form could be made out.  She held the base of his organ with one hand to steady it.  The other she used to cup his testicles, or deliver a shocking probe to an area that Richardson used to only dream about as he watched his stag movies. 

The woman—one might say artist—had great skills.  As Richardson thrust up, with a final effort in preparation for the firing of his salvo, the woman backed her head away and allowed his intensity to subside temporarily.  The cycle would start anew.  First, a deep swallow down to the base, followed by a slow stroke upward with even suction.  When she approached the glans, she wrapped the sensitive tip in her tongue, and swirled it around the bundle of nerves.  A deep breath followed, and then a second downward plunge.  Then, as she reached the bottom, she would hum some high note, perhaps a C, or a D-sharp.  She repeated the maneuver many times but each plunge seemed to catch Richardson by surprise.             

The unknown, musical woman started the journey upward again.

“Please don’t tease me any more!” Richardson gasped.  “I need it now.”

“Oh, Allen!” the vixen cooed, “You always cut me off before I’m done.  Now just lie back.”

“Please!” Richardson pleaded.

The woman thought for a moment and decided to relent.  Instead of a renewed downward stroke, she let her lips encircle the tip of his organ.  She alternated between suction and licking.  Richardson gasped harder; his breath became uneven.  She knew that his climax was not far off.  A little more sucking, some licking, a tickle of the scrotum, some gentle pulsing suction, and Richardson arched his back and thrust up hip hips.  His semen sprang from him and he cried out.  The woman caught it in her mouth and let it flow down her throat.  It was effortless.  There was no spilling.

The woman, uncoiled her body.  As she crawled up Richardson’s body to lie next to him she teased him.

“Allen, you always leave such a good taste in my mouth whenever we get together!” as she giggled to show him that she, too, had enjoyed the fellatio.

The change of position revealed the woman’s identity.  It was certainly not Richardson’s spouse, whom he had left behind in Des Moines.  One might have guessed a recruit from the secretarial corps at the office, but it wasn’t.  It was not it a call girl of local talent, either.  The fellatrix turned on her side.  The dark hair and complexion, the slightly chubby figure and the wrinkleless face pegged her at none other than fellow Director of Dunn Chemicals, Allison Greene.

“Allison, you’re a magician!” Richardson panted as he caught his breath. 

“Well, you know that practice makes perfect, Allen,” she said, snuggling next to him.  “And I love practicing on you—especially after you were so nice and helped me with that Paul Crane problem.”

“I still feel badly about that,” Richardson said

“He’ll be alright.  There will be plenty of more stock options in his future, and I promised my friend, Arthur, that I would do this for him,” Allison purred.  “You don’t feel bad all-over, do you?” she asked as she stroked the tip oh her finger lightly along the length of Richardson’s deflated organ.  “A favor for a favor—that’s fair enough!”

****************

In the lobby of the hotel, Paul was impatient as he waited for Richardson to come down to meet him.  It was obvious that he had forgotten their appointment.  Paul planned to inform on Allison Greene as they sat in the hotel bar and sipped a scotch together.

Paul tired of waiting.  He approached the front desk.

“Can you tell me which room is Mr. Richardson’s?” he asked the clerk.

What Paul asked for should not have been given out, but Paul was well known as a Dunn Executive, and so was Richardson.  The clerk wanted to be helpful and couldn’t see the harm in telling him.

“Room 308, sir,” she said.

As Paul approached Room 308 he noticed the “Do Not Disturb” sign hanging from the doorknob.

“He’s taking a nap,” he said to himself.  “He won’t be for long, though,” he added as he drew closer. 

As he lifted his hand to knock on the door, he heard voices coming from inside the room.  They were too muffled to make out any of the conversation.  He recognized one voice as Richardson’s; the other was female, but he didn’t recognize it.

“He’s got a business girl in there, the old dog.”

Paul was annoyed.  He didn’t care much about Richardson’s extra-curriculars except that this call girl was infringing on Paul’s time with him.

“If they’re talking, maybe they’re almost done,” Paul thought to himself. 

He ambled back toward the elevators, which were hidden in a small alcove that was recessed off the hotel hallway.  He decided he would go back downstairs and wait for Richardson there.  It would be pointless to catch him in an indiscreet moment.

As he neared the alcove where the elevators were, he heard the loud click of a hotel room door opening.  He stepped into the alcove and turned and looked back down the hall he had just come from, expecting to see the call girl coming toward him on her way to the elevators.  The woman exiting the room went the opposite way.  Paul couldn’t mistake recognizing Allison Greene.  She was dressed, but carried her pantyhose and heels instead of wearing them. 

Paul went downstairs to the bar and nursed a scotch.  When he was done he called Allen Richardson on the house phone, who said that he was on his way down to meet with him.  While he waited he hoped the bracing amber fluid would soothe him.  It couldn’t, and Paul knew the ‘why’ of his debacle with the Ethics Committee.  Paul would say nothing about what he had seen upstairs, and he would tell Richardson about Greene’s connection to Hopkins, although he couldn’t explain to himself what good it would do.

He lifted his glass in a mock toast.  “To the Ethics Committee!”

************** 

Summer had nearly given way to Fall.  In the City of Chicago, at Northwestern University School of Law, Glenda Mahoney sat at her desk that guarded the Dean’s office.  She had acquiesced to save her position, serving her unjust imprisonment at the hands of Arthur Hopkins, and his minion, Dean Judson.  She had made no attempt to escape, or to venture out of the confines they laid down for her.  Each passing week was a step closer to the end of her sentence.

She had once been proud to be Confidential Secretary to the Dean.  It had been the fulfillment of her career dreams.  She had pulled herself up by her frayed bootstraps over the course of decades, after starting out life in the hole.  Now, as pawn in Arthur Hopkins’ game of revenge, she plodded day-by-day in unsatisfying service to a man she despised

Glenda had given up on ever renewing her relationship with Paul.  At first, her instincts told her to save what she had worked so hard for.  Later, she regretted that she didn’t have the courage to stand up to her tormentors.  She knew that many women had sued—and won—over less.  It was too late for courage.  It would be natural for Paul to move on.  He had no stake in her and she knew that Paul would be in demand by many single women looking for a man.  Glenda knew that most of the pursuers would be younger and much more beautiful than she was    She couldn’t see the point in fighting when there was nothing to win.  There had been, of course, the shame of surrender.  Perhaps, after her pension credits were filled, she would try for something better.

She was on the phone dealing with an insistent caller badgering for an audience with the Dean.

“Dean Judson doesn’t see anyone without an appointment.  You’ll have to give me your name and state your business.  I’ll call you later if he wants to meet with you.”

Glenda was sure that it was a salesperson, or the parent of a rejected student looking for special consideration.

“If I could just drop in,” pleaded the female voice on the other end of the line.  “I’m in town today.”

“No, that’s not possible,” Glenda repeated.  “The Dean is out of town this week, anyway.  You’ll need an appointment.  Now if you would just give me your name …”  

There was a click and the dial tone took over.  Glenda hung up; glad that the annoying call was over.

************ 

At the other end of the line a woman’s face took on a wry smile and she started to make some plans.  Contrary to Glenda’s assumptions, the news of Dean Judson’s absence was welcome news because who she really wanted to see was not the Dean, but Glenda.  The caller had actually been speaking to Glenda on her cell phone from a coffee shop on the campus.

Shirley Kramer was a woman who was determined and had trouble with ‘no’ as an answer.  She was about the same age as Glenda.  Like her, she was long-divorced and had built a career to stay off the welfare roles.  She had grown to be a top headhunter for the firm of Waterman & Agostinelli.  One of her biggest clients was Dunn Chemicals.  From her Chicago office she stocked Dunn with accountants, engineers and other professionals.  Today, she was on a ‘missionary assignment’ for one of her closest contacts at Dunn, Ted Wilson.

The ‘Glenda Project’ as she liked to call it, had been on Shirley’s plate for a number of weeks.  Ted had given her the details.  At first it appeared like a routine task, but as she approached Glenda, she had been brusquely rejected.  Unlike many in that position, Shirley was challenged, not deterred, by the candidate’s reluctance.  Because of their similar backgrounds, Shirley understood Glenda’s motivations and fears as few people could.  When she heard what had happened to Glenda, she was more determined than ever to help Glenda to put things right.  The Dean’s absence was her opening.  She finished her coffee and made her way to the Law School.

At the Law School there was a screening desk that visitors to the executive floor had to pass through.  A student on work-study was filling in.  Shirley passed some money and a phony story to gain admittance to the executive floor.  Shirley found Glenda at her desk.  Her practiced eye scanned Glenda’s appearance and the neatness of her desk.  Her presentation passed her test.  Shirley approached.

“May I help you?” Glenda asked.   

“I’m Shirley Kramer of Waterman & Agostinelli,” she stated.  “I’ve come to meet with you.”

They had spoken briefly over the phone on several occasions, each time ending in Glenda’s rebuff.  When Shirley made mention of her firm’s name, Glenda placed her right away.

“What are you doing here?” Glenda demanded.  “I told you that I wasn’t interested.  You could get me in a lot of trouble!  How did you get past the screening desk, anyway?”

“You won’t get in trouble,” Shirley assured her.  “Your boss is out of town this week.”

“That was you!” Glenda exclaimed, as she put the clues together.

“Why don’t you hear me out?” Shirley challenged her.  “Then, if you’re still not interested, I’ll get off your back—permanently.”

Glenda hesitated, wondering if the wrong person might wander into the office at any moment.

“It’s the only way you’ll ever get rid of me.  What have you got to lose?” Shirley continued.

Glenda summoned her courage and accepted the challenge.  She ushered Shirley into a nearby conference room, and left the door open so she could keep her eye on her desk and listen for the telephone.

“I don’t blame you for not wanting to get involved with me,” Shirley started.  “When it’s over, you’ll be glad that you did.”

Glenda was skeptical, but complied when Shirley asked her for a summary of her career.  Glenda’s eyes started watering when she retold the tale of recent events. 

“I started out like you,” Shirley said.  “I was divorced, had no income.  I fought my way up the ladder.  I understand what you’re feeling.  This job is all that you’ve got.  It will take a lot of courage to let go of it.  I’ll help you.”

Glenda sighed and leaned back in her chair.

“Okay,” she mumbled.  The ice was broken.

Shirley informed her that there were three employers interested in interviewing her.  One was the Law School at a nearby University.  Another was a prestigious downtown law firm. 

“Take those interviews first for practice,” Shirley advised.  “The real prize is the last one.  I’ll tell you about it after you’ve done the first two.”

Glenda explained her pension problem to Shirley. 

“We’ve dealt with that before,” Shirley seemed unworried. “Let me worry about it.”

To Shirley’s surprise, Glenda had a resume prepared.  She kept it in an envelope in her purse.

“It was my little stab of defiance,” Glenda explained.

Shirley took it from her and nodded.  She would have the staff ‘punch it up’.

Finally, the two women made arrangements to communicate without blowing Glenda’s cover.  They shook hands and Shirley left.

Glenda was shaking.  She was nervous, but felt good.  Shirley’s visit looked like the real thing.  Anything would be better than her present existence, and change was in the wind.

******** 

The leaves were beginning to turn orange.  Paul was working in his office.  He had the Corpus Christi analysis in front of him.  Later he would meet with Jim Spencer about the Engineering Standards Project and Jim’s recent trip to Peoria.

Marge was at her desk out in front of Paul’s office, typing away at a report.  She walked in carrying a coffee.

“I thought that you might like this,” she said as she approached him and set the coffee down.

Paul was always amazed at how Marge could predict him.  He was about to get a fresh cup.  He knew that Marge had something on her mind, though, because Paul always got his own coffee unless he had guests.

“How’s everything, Marge?” he asked as she set the coffee in front of him.

“Since you asked,” she began, “I’ve had several dates with Walter Hartley.  You know him.  He’s the choir director at the church.  He’s very nice, but …” she hesitated to find the right words, “… slower to act than you were.” 

Paul stifled a laugh.  He felt happy for Marge that she was seeing someone who she liked.

“I don’t get it, Marge,” he teased her, “slower to act on what?”

Marge glared at him and that told him that she wasn’t in the mood to be teased.

“Maybe he wants to keep up his church image,” Paul said.  “It could be that he’s unsure of what you want.”

Marge took a deep breath.  She had anticipated Paul’s answer.  

“Marge, there’s something else,” Paul turned serious.  “When I first went out with Glenda, I was unsure of myself.  After Sally, I thought that I was through with that phase of my life.  Then, I had to change course.  Men are like big ships on the ocean.  We don’t change direction without making a big arc.”

“Didn’t you want to?” Marge asked.

“There was a battle raging inside me.  I thought that I had already plotted my course.  I had to be convinced to change.  There was a feeling that staying true to Sally, even after she was gone, was a way to keep her with me.  I had a hard time understanding that she would always be there—and that there was room for someone else.  The two didn’t have to compete.  I don’t think women have that same problem.  Give Walter some time, and he might come around.”

“You‘re still thinking of Glenda, even now,” Marge said.

“Yes, I do miss her.  I think that she’s gone, though.  After all the times that I called and wrote her, the door was always open.  For whatever the reason, she made a decision.”   Paul shrugged and shook his head.

Jim Spencer appeared at the door.

“Thanks Paul, I understand it better,” she said in a way so the Jim didn’t catch on.

************ 

Paul motioned his subordinate over to the conference table.  Jim pulled out his notes on the Standards Project.  It was a program that Paul started when he arrived in his present job.  Its purpose was to create uniform practices across the company for everything from determining specifications for equipment to the degrees and courses that personnel should have in various engineering positions.  It was a big job.  Dunn was a huge company, doing business all over the world.  The person writing this manual would be prescribing engineering practice in the company for years.  Paul had given the job to Spencer to give him preparation for work at higher levels. 

“You’ve picked up the pace well and the team has better priorities since I put you in charge,” Paul pronounced.  “You haven’t been in touch with the foreign units enough,” he continued.  “I’ll pave the way in the management meeting, and you schedule yourself to travel right after that.  Can you handle the Peoria Project and this at the same time?”

“I can handle Peoria because there’s nothing going on,” Jim replied.  “I know that a lot of lawyers are filling out a lot of forms.”

“Keep me informed,” Paul said.  It was his way of closing a meeting.

“There is something else,” Jim said.  He handed Paul an unmarked, large manila envelope. 

“What is it?” Paul asked.

“You’d better see for yourself.  It could be the thing that gets the Peoria Project off the ground again,” Jim answered.

Paul didn’t care for mysteries, so without ceremony he tore the envelope open.  It contained three photographs, with the digital disk that Paul assumed contained the original images.  Each photo was a slightly different rendition of the same event. 

Paul glanced at Spencer, who waited patiently for Paul’s verdict, silent and without facial  expression.  Paul looked at the pictures again and then set them face down on the table. 

“Where did you get these?” he demanded.

“Harry Carmichael gave them to me when I was in Peoria last week,” he answered.

“That surprises me,” Paul said.  “What would you do with them if it was up to you?”

“It’s a tough call.” Jim replied.

“Never mind passing the buck!”  Paul was angry.  “What would you do?”

“I would use them.  It’s not like they don’t deserve it.  Look at what they’ve done.  Look at Harry’s company, at this company, at Bert Loehman.  What about you and Glenda?” Spencer was on the defensive.

“You’d play hardball?” Paul confirmed.

“With Hopkins and his crew, I would,” Spencer nodded.

Paul took a deep breath.  Spencer’s advice was so tempting.  Paul silently added Audrey’s name to the list of victims.

“Listen to me carefully, Jim,” Paul lowered his voice and looked straight into him.  “I won’t do business like that.  You are not going to, either.  Most important, Dunn Chemicals will not.  At least it won’t happen as long as I’m sitting in this chair and it’s my call.”

Spencer looked down at the table.  He shook if head slightly.

“Surprised?” Paul asked.

“They hurt you as much as anyone,” Jim said.  “They had no reason except spite.”

“Would revenge help?  Would it bring Glenda back?  I have to think of the integrity of the Company and the people in it.  It’s my responsibility,” Paul replied.

“It was Glenda who gave Harry the photos,” Jim told him.  “She sought him out and handed them to him.  She said that she called in a favor from the union steward at the University.  A call was made to the shop steward at the hotel in the photo.  After that, it was easy.”

Paul was shocked at the revelation.  He looked out the window as if looking for an answer.  All he saw were the leaves falling profligately from what had been their strong foundations.

“Principles are like leaves on trees,” he told himself.  “They fall so easily, and once they’re on the ground the get trampled and then swept away.”

“It doesn’t change my answer!  Glenda’s action can be understood.  She’s alone, frightened and angry.  She’s hurting worse than any of us.  It doesn’t make it right, but understandable.”

“Alright,” Jim said.  “What do you want me to do?”

“Forget this ever happened.  Think things over better the next time,” Paul answered.  “It’s not your fault.  You were just the carrier pigeon.”

Paul buzzed for Marge.

“Marge, I want these photos shredded,” Paul said.  “Don’t just leave them in a pile for shredding, do it yourself.  Then destroy this disk.”

Paul handed Marge the photos and she couldn’t help looking at them.  She understood the reason for Paul’s command.

The photos were the images of two men.  The photographer had obviously startled them.  They were peering up from where they were, lying on a bed together.  Both were nude.  On his back was a man Paul later would find out was Dean Judson, Glenda’s boss.  On top, in the fellatio position was a man Paul knew well.  It was Arthur Hopkins. 

********** 

Paul finally reached Arthur Hopkins’ cell phone.

Paul:  Hello, Arthur.  It’s Paul Crane. 

Hopkins: Hello, Paul.  I haven’t seen you in a while.

Paul: That’s funny Arthur.  I’ve been seeing a lot of you!

Hopkins: Do you mean that TV interview that I did a few weeks ago?

Paul: No, that wasn’t it.

Hopkins: It must have been that lecture I gave at the University.  I didn’t see you there.

Paul: No, you’re getting colder.

Hopkins: Get to the point, then.  Where was it?

Paul: You were in a photo, Arthur, giving some guy a blow job!            

Hopkins said nothing, but Paul could hear him breathing.

Paul: I suppose that you expect me to blackmail you, Arthur.

Hopkins: Isn’t that why you’re calling?

Paul: No.  I’m letting you know that I shredded the pictures and smashed the disk that they were on.  No one will use them.  I’ll beat you, Arthur, but I’m no blackmailer!

Hopkins:  I’m supposed to believe that?

Paul: You have no choice, Arthur.  Yes, you can believe it.

Hopkins: Where did you get them?

Paul: Mum’s the word on that, Arthur.  Goodbye.

Paul knew that he had to call Hopkins.  Keeping silent would have been almost the same as actual blackmail.  Paul had never thought that Hopkins wouldn’t believe him when he said that the photos were gone.  He thought about it and figured that he should have expected it.  Despite the civility, he and Hopkins remained enemies.

All-in-all it was a satisfying call.  Paul would never commit blackmail, but he didn’t mind that Hopkins sweated it out.  In a funny way, Hopkins was doing it to himself.

*********** 

In a coffee shop in the ground floor of the Sears Tower Glenda was sharing a table with Shirley Kramer.  Although she was taking a day of vacation, Glenda was dressed in her best navy suit.  She looked good and all business.  It was a final pep talk for Glenda before going to her most important interview.  It would be just a couple blocks down the street at the Chicago Mercantile Exchange—the famous MERC.  Glenda couldn’t help being excited.

“You look great, you are great!” Shirley assured her.  “You’ll do great!”

“I’ve got time; it’s a nice day.  I think that I’ll walk.  It will give me a chance to relax and clear my head,” said Glenda as she finished her coffee. 

“By the way, Shirley,” she asked “you never told me how you came to get my name in the first place.  I never sent out anything to say that I was looking to change jobs.”

“Hmmm!” thought Shirley.  “I know that you asked me that before, but I really don’t know the answer.  I think I got it inter-office or something.”

Glenda passed Shirley a quizzical look, letting her know of the weakness in her story.

“This is no time to worry about it, that’s for sure!” exclaimed Shirley.  “You better get moving!”

The two women hugged and Glenda walked out of the coffee shop to her interview, and maybe to the rest of her life.

*********** 

Bert Loehman always prided himself on having the most energy-efficient house in the neighborhood.  He considered it his duty as an engineer to set a good example.  Agnes tolerated the Fall tradition of him climbing into the attic.  There, Bert would carefully measure the inches of cellulose matter piled among the rafters.  If it had settled, the inches would decrease and Bert would order a topping.  Bert enjoyed calculating the ‘R-value’ and then estimating the annual heating cost based on average degree days and projected costs per therm.  He would get the data from the local utility company.

Agnes used to roll her eyes as her aging husband pursued the dirty job each September.  He would emerge from the attic covered with the stuff and declare how many inches he would have blown in.  Agnes considered it a hobby.  She never believed that the ground-up newspaper material worked.  She didn’t understand why Bert didn’t just roll out some of the pink blankets of fiberglass and be done with it.

“Fire retardant!” Bert explained each year in one breath.  “The cellulose is impregnated with bromic acid.”  So it was; he didn’t expect Agnes to understand.  It may have been the reason that he relished the project each Fall.  Perhaps it was a hobby.

This year, Agnes was visiting her sister in Minnesota and was due to arrive home on the very day that the insulators were in process.  That suited Bert.  He wouldn’t have to put up with Agnes ‘tut-tutting’ all the while as the workmen crawled about in her attic and worked the noisy compressor in the front yard.  Agnes was philosophical.  Bert was never a big football fan, so it was a good trade-off.

It was a Saturday.  The workers got a late start.  Bert thought that he would be able to have the job cleaned up, the workers on their way, and be on time to pick up Agnes at the airport at three.  The insulators were getting to the end of the job, but Bert couldn’t wait for them.  The owner of the company was supervising the job.  They had known each other for years.

“Frank!” Bert yelled over the noise of the compressor.  ”I have to pick up Agnes at the airport.  If you finish before I get back, I’ll settle up with you on Monday.”

“No problem!” Frank yelled back.

“Just one thing,” Bert yelled again.  “I don’t think the soffit vents are flowing right.  Can you get someone up there to make sure that they’re not plugged with insulation?”

Frank nodded ‘yes’ and gave him the thumbs up sign.      

As they drove home from the airport Bert told Agnes that the insulators were finishing at the house.  Agnes just sighed at the annual ritual.  Something struck her as not quite right.  She couldn’t figure out what it was.  As they rounded the corner of their street, it struck her.

“Hurry up, Bert!  I want to get home before the insulators leave,” she demanded.

As they came within sight of the house Agnes saw the back of a panel truck, towing a compressor, heading away from them.  Agnes knew it had to be the departing work crew.

“Damn!” she muttered under her breath.

“What?” asked Bert.  Agnes didn’t answer.

As he parked the car Agnes ran into the house. 

“Take care of my suitcases, Bert,” she yelled over her shoulder.  “I have to go to the bathroom.”

Bert scratched his head.  It had been a peaceful week, but it was over now.

Agnes closed the bathroom door so that Bert would think that she was in there.  She made her way to the attic and peered over the billowing piles of new insulation.  It looked like grey snow.  She stepped across the joists, wading through it.  She went directly to the spot at the eaves where she had hidden the paper bag with the money she had collected from Ed Grafton.  She hadn’t touched it since hiding it there weeks before.

It was gone. 

She searched all around, in case it may have moved with the insulation blowing in.  It was gone.

She searched for the memory of why she had taken so much pleasure in collecting the three thousand.  It was gone, too.  Gone, gone—it was all gone.  What had she left? 

She thought of a story to tell Bert when he asked her why she was covered with the insulation material that she thought so little of.  He would never know the truth.

******* 

The workmen rode in the back of the panel truck to the shop.  One of the young men, Bobby, was wearing a smile and a baggy sweatshirt.  The bundle stuffed under it wasn’t noticed by the other workers.

“Bobby, why the big grin?” one of his friends asked.

“I just like this work,” he told them.

********* 

TO BE CONTINUED

Dear Readers,

I hope that you’re enjoying the story.  As always, I enjoy receiving your questions and comments.       

Autumn Writer