Catherine McKenzie: Hidden

There was no way I was ever going to be able to look Art in the eye again.

Concentrate on outlining the details of the package. She’d said that too.

I opened the folder and read the text from the one sheet in a monotone. “ We ’ re sorry to inform you that your position has been eliminated. In appreciation for your years of faithful service to the company, we ’ re happy to offer you— ”

I stopped reading because Art was crying. Not sobbing, just a stream of tears flowing from behind his glasses and collecting on his shirt in spreading pools of wet.

Christ. What was I supposed to do now?

Sometimes a reassuring hand on the shoulder is appropriate. Tish’s words kept coming. Sometimes I let them cry, just being there for them.

I opted for the latter, partly because I couldn’t bring myself to move my hand, but also because it seemed like that kind of gesture should come with words, and I had no idea what to say. That it was all going to be okay? That he’d find something else, something better? That he wasn’t going to lose his house, or have to raid his kids’ college funds to avoid it? I couldn’t say any of those things. It wasn’t going to be okay, and he wasn’t going to find something else.

Guys like Art never do.

Not at fifty-six.

Not when the guy firing you is the guy you hired.

I have to hand it to Art, though. Sixty seconds of silence was all it took to pull himself together.

He lowered his glasses and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I expect you have to finish reading that.”

“Yes. I’m sorry. It’s—”

“Company policy.”

“I’m sorry,” I said again.

“It’s okay, Jeff. Don’t give it another thought.”

I hung my head. Art was comforting me for firing him, and for a moment, it actually made me feel better. Was I the worst person ever?

“This will be over soon,” I managed to get out.

“Thank you.”

After I read through the rest of the miserly conditions of his package, Art had to suffer the final indignity of having me watch while he packed up his stuff. Back when I started here, a guy in Art’s situation would’ve been given a proper send-off. They’d have called it “early retirement,” and there would’ve been a nice lunch, maybe even a nice watch. Art would’ve gotten slightly drunk, and someone would’ve made a speech about how much Art had done for the company, told a funny story or two about his time here, and said he would be missed.

But that was a long time ago. Now, I pulled white, flat-packed banker’s boxes from the supply closet, folding them together mechanically, wondering how many were required to pack away twenty-plus years.

It ended up being two.

When it came right down to it, Art traveled light.

He finished packing. I pulled a dolly out of the same closet and stacked his boxes on it over his protests that he was perfectly capable of doing it himself.

“I know you are,” I said. “I want to do it, okay?”

“You’re the boss.”

He smiled sheepishly, a silent acknowledgment that none of this would be happening if I wasn’t the boss. Or maybe it would. If I’d quit when I wanted to, someone else would’ve been promoted, or brought in from the outside, and they might not have protected Art from this day as long as I did. Who knows?

Either way, I still felt like an asshole.

Art picked up his light tan coat and slipped his arms into it. By tacit agreement, we left the building by the fire exit, which kept us from having to do the I’m-being-escorted-from-the-building walk past the still half-full office.

I followed him, wheeling the squeaky dolly behind me, hoping his boxes didn’t tip over. I’d done my best to look away while he was hastily emptying his desk, remembering a story he was fond of telling about the first person he had to fire. Don Somebody, who was an old-school, three-martini-lunch guy whose lack of productivity in the afternoons had finally reached the notice of the higher-ups without any help from consultants. Art had tried to track the guy down before lunch, but he kept getting pulled into meetings.

He finally caught up with Don around three. He was standing next to a filing cabinet like the leaning tower of Pisa, and he didn’t take the news well. After his swearing had been reduced to short, sporadic bursts, he’d agreed to clear out his desk. Don reached for the top drawer, but it was stuck. Art wasn’t sure if Don was so drunk he forgot what was in the drawer or if he simply didn’t care, but he lifted his foot off the ground and placed it on the desk for leverage, tugging on the drawer’s handle for all it was worth. It came unstuck, and Don and the drawer tumbled backward as a stack of porno magazines fanned across the floor.

The way Art tells it, Don was completely unfazed. He collected his magazines and held them against his chest.

“Only thing I wanted to take with me, anyway,” he said as he lurched out the front door.

I took the wheelchair ramp down its long, gently sloped diversion from the front doors. Art waited for me at the bottom, his face now expressionless, his posture screaming Let this be over. I followed him through the parking lot, past rows of cars backed carefully into their spots. He stopped in front of a silver Pontiac Vibe. The left side mirror was cracked.

“Kids,” Art said. “You know how it is.”

“Sure,” I said, though, thankfully, Seth wasn’t old enough to drive yet.

He popped the hatchback and I stacked his boxes inside, closing the trunk lid with a thud. We stood there awkwardly for a moment; was this a handshake occasion, or were we going to hug it out? Art solved my dilemma by reaching out his hand.

I took it. “You take care of yourself,” I said. “Sorry about all of this.”

“I’ll be all right. Who knows? I might take up golf.”

“Call me if you do.”

He folded himself into his car. The engine started neatly and Art was composed enough to look left, then right, then left again before exiting his spot. I watched him drive slowly through the lot, toward the sun’s setting orb, shielding my eyes against its glare. I’m not sure why, but I felt responsible for him while he was still on company property. Once he made it off the lot, I felt, he’d be all right.

After his car was absorbed into the end-of-day traffic, I turned back toward the building. The sun was glinting off the large windows, and I couldn’t face going back inside. I decided, instead, to walk home. The air was warm, my car would survive the weekend where it was, and I had my phone. I could file my report on Art’s firing on Monday.

I tucked my hands into my pockets and took a shortcut through the parking lot to the main road. Home was a mile away, and the sun felt warm on my face. I closed my eyes for a moment to concentrate on the feeling of it, and I guess that’s why I never saw it coming.

Friday’s an ordinary day at the daycare,if there is such a thing when you have thirty children between the ages of one and four under your supervision. There are no visits to the emergency room, despite the fact that Carrie Myers gets a penny stuck in her nose. The parents make their usual number of calls, from zero, in the case of the Zen 20 percent, to ten, in the case of Mandy Holden.

It’s all because of the video cameras. Standard issue in daycares these days: twelve cameras (six in the baby room, six in the toddler room), all strategically positioned so any concerned parent can watch their child all day long via streaming video if they want to.

I’m glad Seth graduated prior to the invention of the Daycare Cam. I tell myself I’d be in the Zen 20 percent, but I have enough evidence to the contrary to know I would’ve had the camera feed open on my computer screen eight hours a day.