Mary Robb - Down the Rabbit Hole

A fog drifted apart to reveal a diorama of the afternoon she and Molly crossed paths with Liz Gurney at the mall.

Knowing now the ramifications of her original reaction to the scene, Elise was inclined to take a more objective view of it—taking the time to notice that great effort had been taken to ensure that the CD cover and the charity poster looked appealing and professional, that Liz was dressed in a serious businesslike skirt and jacket, that her expression was both friendly and hopeful . . . and that her own expression was, at best, snotty and condescending.

And yes, though completely oblivious to him the first time, she now saw a dark-haired boy sitting across the way—head down, shoulders hunched and clearly in pain of the worse kind.

“Oh no,” Elise said, miserable in a way Charlie Brown couldn’t imagine. There was a sickening tightness in her chest. “That poor kid. And look at my face—could I look more soured or hateful? Why do I do things like that? I mean, I do things and hear myself say things and I don’t even know why . . . not specifically. I’m kind and generous and loving—most of the time. I am. And I never would have hurt that little boy like that. Ever. I’m just so—”

“Lacking in self-awareness?”

“You said that before, as Zorro. You said I was pretty astute for someone with so little self-awareness. But I am aware. I know when I do or say things that aren’t very nice. And afterward, I’m almost always sorry. I can even see that it took more time and thought and energy to be harsh and insulting than it would have if I’d simply been polite and respectful and moved on—I don’t know why I bothered. I don’t enjoy it. It’s like an unsatisfying habit.” She tipped her head to the diorama. “I didn’t even try to understand what Liz was doing that afternoon.”

He smiled at her kindly. “Acknowledging your inferior behavior is a beginning, but for true insight you must also know why you behave as you do. Remember, the way you treat people affects them, but it isn’t necessarily about them. It is, however, always about you.”

He looked into the stationary setting, and she followed his gaze. There was a quick blip in the scene, and she and Molly started walking backward into Macy’s. Liz took back the CD she’d handed to Molly, took back the wave she’d used to get her friend’s attention and went back to staring at the boy across the way who seemed suddenly very restless on the bench. Rapidly, she and Molly reversed their lazy mosey through the store—perfume was sucked back into bottles, Molly put down and picked up dress shirts for Roger, and Elise closed and opened at least fifty purses before Molly sped past her and vanished through the street entrance. Momentarily, Elise backed out the door as well, unwound her way up two flights of stairs to Parking Level Green. Without so much as a glance out the rear window she pulled out of her parking space . . . but then continued to drive backward all the way to her building; she zigzagged the halls to her office, where she lowered her head onto her arms, which were folded in front of her on the desk. She jumped up suddenly and backed her way into the conference room, where several other collection officers sat. They were looking directly at her, while Cooper Winston did the same with a scowl. The rerun slowed down . . . slower and slower, then started forward again.

“Haven’t we been over this before, Elise?” Cooper Winston wasn’t shouting at her, but the tone of his voice made it seem so. “We have regulations. We have rules for everyone to follow—not everyone except you! Your job is to collect the taxes people owe. If they didn’t owe the taxes you wouldn’t be here. All you need to do—all you are authorized to do—is get the money owed to the IRS by any means possible: liens, levies, wage garnishments, property seizure. That’s it.”

“I know what my job is.” And she knew she was mortified at being berated in front of her coworkers. She also knew she was being dressed down for an act of kindness; for being understanding and compassionate . . . and stupid, because she’d known she’d get caught eventually. “But you can’t get blood from a rock. The Sheldons have no money, Cooper.”

“It’s not your job to audit these people—just get the money.”

“It’s my job to get it in a fair and reasonable manner. Fair and reasonable, Cooper, that’s what it says in the manual. Fair and reasonable.”

“According to whose standards? Yours? Are you making them up as you go along or what? Because you’re the only person I know who takes it upon herself to unilaterally decide to ignore the standard rules and regulations to—”

“They have two sick kids with some odd genetic disorder . . . that I verified as real, by the way . . . and the hospital bills are sucking them dry. He works a good job, but it’s not enough. They called and explained the situation; they told me they were trying to sell their house to pay off their bills—the IRS included—but needed the lien on it lifted to do that. They also asked for a waiver on the penalty and interest charges on their installment agreement for six months . . . or less, if they sell their house. Being fair and reasonable, I agreed.”

“And you got that authority how?”

She sighed, defeated. “They’re good people, Cooper. They’re trying. They’re doing the best they can. I cut them a break.”

“Rules and regulations, Elise. Rules and regulations.” He tipped his thumb at the computerized display of the Sheldons’ financial information on the wall behind him. “That’s twice you’ve stepped over the line. Just do your job.”

She pushed her chair back and started to stand when he asked, “Why didn’t you come to me first?”

Elise didn’t normally go out of her way to live her life dangerously, but she was already in for a penny. “I knew you’d say no.”

The piercing glare she turned and walked away from added a frightened, insecure feeling to the embarrassment and anger that was presently overpowering her inclination to be sympathetic ever again. No good deed went unpunished, right? Who were the Sheldons to her? Would they send her a Christmas card? If she lost her job for helping them she wouldn’t be able to pay her own taxes—and who’d take mercy on her? Cooper Winston? People suck.

Elise and the Tin Woodman watched the events of that afternoon take on a faster pace.

“And see there?” she said, pointing. “Every purse I looked at while I waited for Molly was as ugly as my mood. Not to mention the disrespect I felt when she couldn’t even manage to get there on time.” She hesitated and looked up at her companion. “Normally, it doesn’t matter. She’s a late person. I’m an early person. Most people are one or the other, which is why it’s such a surprise when someone shows up at the exact right time. Who does that?”

A tin finger directed her attention back to the show of that wretched afternoon. She and Molly were just approaching the exit.

“Stop. Please. Can we stop it there? Look at my face. My expression is rotten and foul before we even see Liz. She could have been Mother Teresa and I wouldn’t have had a single good thought in my head for her. Liz didn’t stand a chance . . . no matter what she was trying to sell.”

The fog closed in around the picture and it vanished. It was a long minute before she could look into the Tin Woodman’s . . . well, Martin’s golden-green hazel eyes.

“I get it. It’s not them, it’s me.”

“Only sometimes,” he said kindly. “Cooper Winston should be flying monkey bait for calling you out in public. And the regulations are soulless. Still, no matter how much you couldn’t regret it, in the end you knew you’d broken a rule.”