Jack O'Connell - Box Nine

“I’d agree with that,” Ike says, his voice a little higher than usual.

“So I was saying it’s funny because, though I don’t know you, I always thought it was funny that you weren’t this family man. Married and a dozen kids and co-managing the Little League and all. You just seemed very, well, I don’t know”—she smiles, raises her eyebrows—“sort of purposeful and clean-cut …”

“Clean-cut,” Ike says, surprised, unsure of her meaning.

“Sure. True-blue. You know what I’m saying.”

“Yeah,” Ike says, “I guess so,” though he has no clue as to what she’s talking about.

“God knows,” Eva says, draining the last of her mug, “not like the rest of the crew we’ve got in here.”

Ike thinks he might be on shaky ground. He wants to watch what he says here.

“I think everyone works to the best of their abilities.”

Eva lets out a deprecating laugh that’s little more than a gust of air.

“You do?” she says, and it’s less a genuine question than a mocking disagreement.

“Yeah,” Ike says, “I think so.”

“Ike, please,” Eva says. “Wilson? Rourke?”

“I’m just saying I’m not sure everyone has the same capacity.”

“Oh, I get it. ‘If you can’t say something nice …’”

“No,” Ike says, “not at all. It’s just, how do I know their situations?”

“And how do they know yours? Their ‘situations’ have nothing to do with it. Here’s a job. How are you going to perform it? That’s it. That’s the only question to be debated. I’ll tell you what I think is going on here, Ike. I’m management and they’re labor and no matter how awful they treat you, you feel this loyalty to them just because they’re on your side of the fence. Right? Does this come down from your father?”

Ike doesn’t know what to say. He feels like he’s been hauled out of bed in the middle of the night and questioned by some police force.

“Oh no,” he says. “No, no, not at all. That’s just not true, Ms. Barnes …”

Before he can bite his tongue, Eva bursts out with a single laugh and chokes out, “Ms. Barnes? Ms. Barnes? For God sake, Ike.”

“What?” is all he can come up with.

Eva collects herself, puts her hand up to her forehead for a second, like it will help her think, then lets it fall into her lap and says, “How old are you, Ike?”

He hesitates, then answers, “Thirty.”

“All right, then. I’m thirty-seven, Ike. I’m not exactly your grade school teacher. All right?”

“So, what,” Ike stammers, “I should call you Eva?”

She smiles, seems pleased. “Yes, Ike. Call me Eva.”

“Okay,” he says, forced cheerful, starting to move to get up out of the chair. Eva stays in place and says, “So why do you put up with it?”

Ike freezes and repeats, “Put up with it?”

“The rest of them. Your co-workers. I’m telling you, I’ve worked at different branches, and I’ve worked down the main station. There are always a couple of people, okay, but this group. They’re the worst bunch of bastards I’ve come across.”

Ike doesn’t like her talking like this. He especially doesn’t like being the one to hear it. He stays silent and Eva pushes.

“Do you disagree with me?”

“I guess there’s a lot of hostility,” he says.

“You have a way with understatement.”

“If you’re looking for a reason why …”

She cuts him off. “I’m the supervisor. They’d hate any supervisor they got over here. On top of that, I’m a woman and that doesn’t go down very well with Jacobi or Rourke. So I know why they hate me and I don’t lose any sleep over it, believe me. But I don’t understand what it is about you …”

“That makes two of us,” he says quickly.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I’ve never been this popular guy, okay? I’ve never been Mr. Popularity.”

“This isn’t about being popular, Ike.”

“I don’t know.” He pauses, looks up at the clock. “It’s getting to be that time.”

She ignores his comment. “What I think we should do,” she says, “is have dinner together sometime and discuss it. What do you think about that?”

Ike looks down at his knees. “You want to have dinner with me?”

“That’s right,” Eva says, not backing down at all.

“You think that’s a good idea, us working together and all?”

Eva smiles. “It’s just dinner, Ike. Sometimes you don’t know if something’s a good idea until you give it a try.”

Ike concedes this point. “I guess.”

“Besides,” Eva adds, standing, “we outcasts have to stay together. It’s a lonely world out there, Ike.”

They both laugh at her last comment and it takes away some of the edge Ike’s feeling. “I guess we could have some dinner,” he says.

She nods to him and leaves the break room without another word, holding her black mug cradled at her chest.

Ike gets up and pushes the chairs back against the wall in a row. He puts his mug in the cardboard box and makes a mental note to wash it out in the men’s room sink later on. He walks back to his cage feeling a little light-headed and hyper.

He sinks back into the perfect position on the edge of his stool reflexively and takes a minute to ball up his hands into fists and rub at his eyes. A chill moves up his back and he shudders slightly and takes a deep breath. It’s going to be that kind of a week , he thinks to himself.

He looks down at the small metal lip that juts out from the wall of slots in front of him. The pile of mail he left off with is still sitting there. But next to it is a small brown cardboard box, the type of box the bank mails new checks in. It measures about five by three inches and is maybe an inch tall. It should have been put with the parcels. Ike doesn’t remember seeing it when he left the cage.

The package is taped closed at both ends with several pieces of that thick, wide brown mailing tape. Ike leans over it and reads the simple, hand-printed address:

Box 9

Sapir Street Station

Quinsigamond

He reaches down and picks it up and immediately puts it back on the lip. His fingers are wet with something thick and oily, something seeping from the bottom of the package. He sees now a small puddle forming under the carton. And then he notices the smell — an awful, rotting-type smell. His coffee rises up halfway toward his throat.

Ike pulls a handkerchief from his back pocket and holds it up to his mouth and nose. Then without thinking, he picks up the package, dabs away at it, then mops up the puddle on the cage lip.

He throws the soiled handkerchief into a nearby wastebasket. Then he does something he has never done in his career. In his whole life. He uses his fingers to tear open the package. He breaks open the tape at each end and runs his finger along the inside edge of the package, touching something moist inside. His heart starts into a rapid and painful pump, like rubber bullets being fired at the inside of his chest.

He rips the entire top of the package open and tosses it on the floor. He looks inside. And he looks away for a second, unsure, then brings his eyes back again.

It looks like the chopped-up remains of a small fish. There’s a tiny section of the face left, one eyeball still visible. The smell is horrible. And then he sees the parasites — tiny mites and worms crawling through the terrible remains.

A sweat breaks instantly over most of Ike’s body. He makes himself move slowly, to create the illusion of control. He makes himself walk, not run, to the men’s room. He steps inside and bolts the door and turns on both faucets in the sink. He takes a breath to keep himself from vomiting.