Charlotte always arrives at work half an hour early. She leaves her apartment at 7:15, brown bag in hand, and waits in front of a car rental agency for the 7:22 Wilshire Boulevard bus, a tall, broad-beamed secretary in a tortuous beehive hairdo and a miniskirt, fat pads at the knees.
She stands dumbly, lapping pearls of sweat from her upper lip, squinting against the glare from the polished derrieres of the rental cars. Timed gushes of traffic buffet her and powder her face with tiny flakes of carbon soot.
But when she enters Beverly Hills, Charlotte closes her book to gape at the lissome, arrogant window mannequins posturing within pagan temples of mosaic and gold. Exotic greenery springs miraculously from solid stone; fountains gush water of impossible, iridescent blue.
As the bus nears her stop, Charlotte feels a surge of adrenalin. “Comin through!” she commands, lunging sideways into the aisle. There is a general shifting and grunting in the packed bus, a peristalsis toward the door, and Charlotte is expelled at last onto the curb, damp and rumpled.
She smoothes her clothes, blows a gust of air at her forehead, and saunters toward the light, enjoying the crush of smart people, their subtle noises and scents. To her left stands a silver-topped executive in a navy blazer, his eyes pensive. Beside him, a beautiful young woman with cropped blonde hair murmurs into his ear. They laugh richly, eyes closed, faces sunward. Charlotte tosses her own face up and closes her eyes. When she opens them, the light is green, and she strides purposefully toward the day’s quota of pleadings, subpoenas, and gummed labels.
The law offices of Lewey, Rhodes & Hork are always eerily quiet after the street; cool, dry and bright. Giant turbines deep within the building circulate the air imperceptibly so the temperature never changes; so odors never linger. Charlotte feels that if she ever cut herself, her own blood would be purged and cycled away before it could even drip.
She brews a cup of coffee, noting with pleasure that the silky teakwood desks have been freshly oiled. Elves, she thinks, smoothing our carpets, scrubbing our sinks. She sips her coffee and reaches into her purse to pluck out a small plastic compact. Blinking and grimacing, she dabs with the puff, licking her index finger from time to time and rubbing at her nose.
When she hears the swipe of a card key in the outer office, she clicks the compact shut and drops it into her lap, groping for a stack of subpoenas and a felt tip pen.
“Hi, Herb, what are you doing here so early?” Herbert Hork does not respond, but stands watching her intently, chewing his lower lip. At last he sighs and runs a hand through his thinning gray hair.
“You get Phil Greer served? I think Mashimoto’s going tomorrow.”
“No, I didn’t, gosh darn it. Remember, you said to hold off until we found out if he was still in town? But I’ll get right on it.”
“No don’t. I forgot. Never mind.” Herb pulls at his tie and exhales noisily. “Listen, Char, come in my office a minute. We need to talk.”
“Well, shoot,” Charlotte says. “Nobody’s here. Would you like some coffee?” Herb drops his briefcase. “Will you come in my goddamn office? Jesus Christ, what does a man have to do?” He snatches up the briefcase and starts away.
“Okay, okay. Sheesh.” Charlotte jolts to her feet. The compact hits the floor and rolls and settles like a coin. Herb jerks at his locked office door.
“Son of a bitch.”
“Hey, slow down.” Charlotte jogs toward him with a key. “What in the hell’s the matter with you?”
“Fight with my wife. A biggie. I was up all night.” Herb closes his eyes and shudders. They are inside his office now, the air thick and cold and dark. Charlotte gropes toward a wall and opens the curtains to reveal the uninspired Los Angeles skyline in its smoggy umber matrix. A helicopter is landing on the roof of a building two blocks away. Tiny cars zip along the Santa Monica Freeway.
“Nice day.”
“Gorgeous.” Herb opens the liquor cabinet and pours two scotches. “Here.” He shoves the drink at Charlotte and she takes the glass and sniffs it, head to one side. Eyes narrow, she hands it back.
“Here yourself. You know I drink gin.” Herb shrugs and pours her a shot of gin, throwing in a red swizzle stick.
“Well,” he says brightly. “It seems we’ve been found out.” He watches Charlotte closely for a moment, then turns away. Charlotte says nothing. After a while Herb, back still turned, says “Barb.”
“My God, Herb, what are you talking about? It’s gotta be six years since we....”
“I know, I know. I feel like the biggest jerk in the world. Of all things to get caught on.”
“Of all what things?”
“Look, Char, I feel like hell about this. You’ve meant more to me than you know. I’m talking real affection. Secretaries like you don’t grow on trees.”
Charlotte drinks off her gin at a gulp. “I see.” She tries to picture Barb Hork in a rage, rending her Pucci scarf, snatching at her tawny hairdo with long, bronze fingernails. Or maybe all ice, the slick, mauve mouth narrow with contempt, the nares wide, white spots on the tanned cheekbones. “I didn’t know she was like that.”
“Like what?”
“So vindictive.”
“Not much she’s not vindictive. I still don’t know how she found out. Maybe Stan’s wife, Carol. For ten years they hate each others’ guts. Now suddenly they’re bosom buddies. They sit around the club all afternoon comparing tummy tucks and shredding everybody they know.”
“So she wants you to fire me.”
“Commands.” And as Charlotte continues to stare, blinking rapidly, “Even though it was just a few times, you and me. But don’t forget that was the year Bridget joined that cult. Everything was going to hell for Barb. And now to find out I was, uh...”
Charlotte puts down her glass and takes her head in her hands, moaning softly.
“Well what choice do I have? You tell me, Char. She’ll fuck me good, and I’m too old to start over. I already had to clone my assets to pay off my first wife.”
“She wouldn’t divorce you over this. Over me.” Charlotte surveys herself desperately. “She’d have to be nuts.”
“Oh she’s nuts all right. Ahhhh, why keep up the pretense? She doesn’t give a shit about the marriage anymore, she just wants her bundle. For the last ten years she’s hated my guts, and I deserve it. I’m a stinker.” Herb sniffs at his scotch.
“Couldn’t you have waited till tonight? The whole staff is going to be here in two minutes.” Charlotte starts to cry, her lips twitching uncontrollably.
“I’m sorry, Char. You saw the shape I was in. Besides, she’s coming in at noon.”
“Where can I get another job at my age, you bum? All they hire now are young chicks.”
“They do not. Calm down.”
“You do.”
“I’ll give you a month’s severance, it’s all I can manage. She goes over the books now.” Charlotte continues to cry and Herb waits, checking his watch once. At last, she plucks a tissue from the box on his desk and blows her nose.
“God. People like me never get away with anything in this life.”
“Atta girl. Get beyond it. I swear, you’re gonna be fine. I promise. Listen I have to be in court by nine-thirty this morning or we lose Dawson Buick. That Orner kid is screwing it up but good.” Herb sits on his little tuxedo sofa, closes his eyes, and jiggles his foot. After a moment, he opens one eye.
“So are you going home right this minute?”
“What the hell do you expect me to do?”
“Well, on your way out could you get me the Dawson file? One last favor?” Charlotte hesitates, then nods. Herb sighs. “How am I ever going to get along without you?”
Handkerchief to nose, Charlotte trots briskly from Herb’s office into the file room, where Dawson Buick, fat with years of litigation, bulges from its own cabinet. Panting, she scoops the rust-brown accordion folders into her arms, walks out to the hallway, and dumps them down the garbage chute, one after another, cocking her head to listen as they plummet twenty-one stories. When the cabinet is empty, she dusts her dress and enters the ladies’ room, where three primping secretaries are squeezed in front of the narrow mirror. Ignoring their greetings, Charlotte jerks open the door of a stall, slams it shut behind her, and collapses with a wail onto the john.
This story first appeared in 2005. Linda Boroff can be reached via This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it
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