Charlotte Rogan - Now and Again

“You found it!” cried Valerie. “The missing document!”

“It was misfiled,” said Maggie quickly.

“Where?” Valerie wanted to know, but Maggie couldn’t tell her without admitting she had snooped in the director’s office and found the file in the drawer where he and Valerie left notes for each other.

“It was in the wrong folder,” Maggie said, hoping she wouldn’t be pressed for a better answer, but Valerie seemed preoccupied with other things.

“I just came by to make it look like I was here at least some of the time DC was away. You’ll cover for me, won’t you?”

“Sure,” said Maggie. “Of course I will.”

“I don’t want him to know I followed him downstate.”

“You what?”

“Well, he knows I followed him, but I don’t want him to know I stayed.”

“I won’t say a word.”

“You’ll let me tell him I was the one to find the document, won’t you?”

“Of course,” said Maggie. “That’s no problem at all.”

“Okay, then,” said Valerie. “Close your eyes for a teensy sec.”

Maggie looked out through her lashes as her co-worker took the key to DC’s office out of her drawer and filed the report in the gray steel filing cabinet. As soon as Valerie clattered down the hall to the restroom, Maggie took the key from its hiding place, unlocked the office, and removed the file again, along with two other important-looking documents. There was no time to copy them. There was barely time to stuff everything into the grocery bags and hurry out of the office. Valerie would tell the director she had found the missing document, but when he went to look for it, it wouldn’t be there. It was Friday, and Monday was a holiday. At most, Maggie had until Tuesday before they figured out what she had done.

“Whoo-ee,” said Hugo when he saw her. “What’s the special occasion?”

As Maggie put the two large grocery sacks on the table, she told Hugo about the play-offs and the snacks for the post-game party, all the while batting her lashes and thrusting her hip provocatively out to the side. She tried not to think about the smuggled documents in case Hugo could pick up on thought signals, but sweat was pouring down her back and she was sure he could see that she was hiding something. He looked her up and down appreciatively before turning his attention to her things. “Whoo-ee,” he said again, running his hands up and down the first of the two bulging brown paper sacks as if it were a woman. “I have a bit of a sweet tooth myself.”

Maggie pretended to be worried that their conversation might be overheard by another guard who was standing by the exit. “Shshsh,” she said. “Anyway, I can’t talk now or I’ll be late.”

“You’re already late,” said Hugo ambiguously.

“You’re right,” said Maggie. “The last bus has gone, so I’ll either have to call Lyle to pick me up or catch a ride to the ball field. I’m sure one of the other parents can take me home.”

A tiny push was all Hugo needed. A tiny redirection of all that muscle and attention so that Hugo wouldn’t even notice she was the one controlling things.

“That’s an idea,” said Hugo, removing a package of cookies from one of the bags. “But I’m not sure you should wear that blouse in front of a lot of teenaged boys.”

“I didn’t wear it for the boys,” said Maggie.

“If you can wait until the end of my shift, I can take you home.”

There was no time to look too far down the possibility paths before choosing one of them. No time to imagine Hugo’s hot hands on the curve of her hip or the cold concrete of the basement floor against her skin or the twin shafts of slanting light from the too-high windows making their way up the wall as the sun sank in the vacant, distant sky before closing her mind to further thought and willing her features to radiate frailty and indecision. She reminded herself that doing good occasionally entailed actions that in other circumstances might be considered questionable and that love and sex were entirely different things. She said, “Or…” as if an idea had just occurred to her. All she needed was for Hugo to think he was the one giving the final push, so she added, “Silly me. No, never mind.”

“What?” asked Hugo. “Never mind what?”

“I was going to say, how about you search me instead of that bag?”

7.7 Pastor Price

Red Bud’s annual Glory Dayz festival coincided with the last game of the summer play-offs, and this year most of the town had turned out for the evening barbecue and baseball game. Pastor Price steered Tiffany toward the welcome tent, where three Rainbow Girls were selling raffle tickets to fund their annual project.

“What’s the project this year?” asked the pastor.

“We’ll know in a few hours,” said a girl who was wearing the kind of short shorts and cropped top that would have shocked the pastor only a few years before.

“That one’s going to be trouble,” he whispered into his wife’s ear as he tucked a raffle ticket into her pocket.

Tiffany stood on tiptoes to whisper back. “Does she remind you of anyone in particular?” she asked.

“As a matter of fact, she does.”

Tiffany drifted off to join some women she knew while the pastor lingered in the shade of the tent, watching the girls. He missed being outraged by female sexuality, but he guessed he had moved on to other, thornier, provocations, and after a few minutes, he made his way to where the mayor was holding court and passing out campaign promises even though the election was more than a year away.

“What’s this?” asked Price. “No one ever runs against you!”

“There’s always a first time,” said the mayor, poking his head into a nearby tent where Helen Winslow, who was dressed as a fortune-teller, was jangling her bracelets over a crystal ball. “What do you say, Helen?” he asked. “Will there be stiff competition in the mayor’s race next year?”

“Not unless that young Fitch boy is thinking of running.”

“The Fitch boy!” exclaimed the mayor. “Surely you can’t be serious!”

“He attracted quite a following among the younger folks with that article about government overreaching,” said Helen.

“Oh, that,” said the mayor. “I don’t see how encouraging a developer to give us a badly needed office building can be described as overreaching.”

“I don’t think ‘encouraging’ is what he called it,” said Helen.

“‘Kickback’ is a strong word,” said August Winslow, who was sitting next to his wife, drinking a lemonade. “I’ll bet you could get him for slander.”

“One hand washes the other,” said the mayor. “Anyway, let’s not go poking our sticks into the hornet’s nest after we’ve sprayed it with Raid.”

“Who did you spray with Raid?” Lex Lexington slid out of the crowd and entered the backwater created by the fortune-teller’s tent. “Don’t tell me Martin’s nephew is causing trouble again!”

“Why hello, Lex,” said Helen. “I’ve just been telling Buddy that young Fitch is going to make a name for himself by exposing all of Red Bud’s secrets. Then he’ll throw his hat in the ring and run for mayor.”

“You see all that in there?” Winslow leaned over his wife’s shoulder and squinted at the glass ball.

“Of course not, darling. I made it up.”

“You nearly gave me a heart attack,” said the mayor.

“You and me both,” muttered Lexington.

“It would serve you all right,” said Helen, glancing sideways at her husband. “You of all people should know that trying to shut someone up is the surest way to prolong an argument.”

“Let’s not tell these good people all our secrets,” said Winslow with a hollow laugh. “We have a reputation to uphold.” He turned to Lexington and said, “How was your vacation?”