The rest of that Friday, and then Saturday, and then Sunday passed with an unremarked numbness. I did things. I spoke to my wife. I played with my son. I did my share of the housework. I ate my food. I took my showers. At the end of each day I went to sleep, and each morning I woke up. And throughout it all I tried to keep my mind off of what was waiting for me back in the office. I tried and I failed. No matter what I did, no matter how I tried to occupy myself and my mind, nothing could keep those dark and desperate thoughts far from my consciousness, and they cast their fretful and numbing pall over everything I did.
Only two things from that long weekend do I remember distinctly. The first was the phone call I placed back to Julie Prescott, Steve Anderson’s assistant, in order to set a day and time for my conversation with him the following week. Miss Prescott was a champion of pleasant efficiency, genuinely glad that I called, and expressing her professional concern that we find the best possible time for me and Mister Anderson to connect on our important business. It was no trouble at all, quickly resolved by a close comparison of two calendars, one in my home and the other on her desk in far off Philadelphia. Tuesday? Yes? Tuesday afternoon? At 2 P.M.? Eastern? Yes, that will work. That will work splendidly.
The second was listening to the voicemail that had been left for me by someone in the office, which I intentionally did not listen to until much later in the day on Friday. I had, after all, called in sick, and had to at least pretend that I was unable to engage in my professional responsibilities.
Perhaps not surprisingly, the voicemail was from Bethany, her hushed and mousy voice apologizing for disturbing me, wishing me a speedy recovery from whatever was ailing me, and pleading with me to give her a call as soon as I was able, even if that meant over the weekend. It was Wes Howard. Always and forever, it seemed, it was Wes Howard. He was making trouble and Bethany needed my help, needed me to do something about it. She left a lot of details on the voicemail, but I had trouble focusing on them; wishing, preferring, that I could just turn all those details into vapor and let them blow away on the wind.
Her voicemail was one of the things that hung over me all weekend. I was determined not to actively engage in whatever nonsense it represented until I was back in the office on Monday and to put it entirely out of my mind. I was only successful in doing the first thing.
She cornered me early on Monday morning, much as I should have expected.
“Are you all right?”
We were standing in the breakroom, me just closing the fridge on my sack lunch. “Yes, much better,” I said, remembering to pretend that I had been sick on Friday. “Thanks.”
“What was it? The flu?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Migraines, maybe. I just couldn’t get myself out of bed. Dizzy and nauseous. I slept most of the day.”
I don’t think it was intentional, but she was standing in a position that effectively prevented me from leaving the room. Her arms were folded across her chest and she seemed to be glaring at me.
“Did you get my voicemail?”
“Yeah,” I said, trying to dissipate her accusatory tone with feigned innocence. “I didn’t see it until Saturday, and we were wrapped up most of the weekend in family matters. I figured we would talk about it this morning and come up with a game plan.”
“I asked you to call me,” she said pointedly. “I was waiting all weekend. Goddammit, I needed you to call me, Alan.” She looked like she was about to cry, her eyes shining and her lower lip quivering.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, self-consciously looking around to verify what I already knew -- that no one else was in the breakroom with us. Knowing that someone could walk in at any moment I suppressed an innate impulse to touch her -- to caress her shoulder or, God forbid, to hug her -- to comfort her in some way. Reacting negatively to the impulse, I turned suddenly cold. “I was busy, and I figured we would talk about it today. What’s the big deal?”
The look she gave me could only be described as horrified. She teetered on the edge of snapping back at me, but pulled her anger back when Angie Ferguson suddenly entered the room, an oversized lunch thermos -- the kind only arctic explorers would use -- clutched tightly in her pudgy hands.
“Good morning,” she said, navigating easily around us and pulling open the refrigerator door.
“Good morning,” I said absently as I maintained eye contact with Bethany. The look on her face turned quickly from anger to betrayal.
“Good morning,” she said icily, and then left the room.
“Is she all right?” Angie asked me.
“Yeah,” I told her. “She’s just under a lot of stress right now.”
Angie nodded. “We all are,” she said matter-of-factly, and then barreled her way out of the room.
I was left alone with a choice. Go and apologize to Bethany, ask her to share her secret fears with me, and take the burden of those fears off her shoulders and place it on mine; or go back to my office and press my nose to the grindstone perpetually waiting there for me.
I chose the latter.
+ + +
“Dragons” is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. For more information, go here.
This post first appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can follow him on Twitter @ericlanke or contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.
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