Reading Between the Lines

Reading Between the Lines

 

     Clay glanced out his office window at the darkening sky, felt the familiar dread, shifting clouds of nausea within. He clicked on the flat screen to confirm the weather.

     “Helen?” he spoke into the intercom that rang his office assistant.

     “No sir this is Becky,the temp. Helen is on maternity.”

     “Becky, the weather’s getting bad. E-mail the staff and tell them to go home, get in their safe spots.

     “Sir?”

     “Spread the word, all right? This is a weather day.”

     A moment later a thin, tall woman with limp brown hair to her shoulders materialized at his door.

     “Come in Becky.” Clay picked manuscript pages off his desk and stuffed them into a leather satchel. He’d printed what he might want to read and edit the rest of the day in case the internet failed.

     “So, we all go home when there is a tornado warning?”

     “Sure do.”

     “With all due respect sir, I’m paid by the hour. I’d rather stay and catch up.”

     “I’d be too worried about you being here. Couldn’t have it on my conscious if we got hit.”

     The girl’s brown eyes grew large, brimming with tears.  Her fingers trembled around the notebook she held in her hands. Clay sighed.

     “Tell you what, pick some manuscripts from the slush pile. Read them at home. Let me know if you find anything decent. We usually don’t, but you never know. I’ll pay you for the hours that way.”

     Becky’s smile brightened. “That’s tremendous sir. Thank you!” She gave a small bow before she turned and left.  Becky sat at her desk with her heart pounding. Her chance to get Greta’s Goal in his hands had presented itself earlier than she expected. It was sitting in that pile, but it was not slush. It just needed someone of his caliber to give it a chance. She could barely contain her excitement as she clicked out the “weather day” e-mail.

  A few moments later the usual office weather day cheer began.

     “Thanks Boss!” Jenna, his chief acquisitions editor yelled from her office. Kathy, the accountant of the small publishing firm, walked by and blew him a kiss. “Heading to my safe spot,” she said.

     He knew they made fun of him for his fear of tornadoes, of icy road conditions, terrorists alerts. But so what? The company employees were his family, all twenty something of them, helping him publish 15-20 books a year and make a little money despite the crap economy.

     He locked the glass front door of the two-story building at noon and headed home. Fat round drops splatted ominously on his window, one Mississippi, two Mississippi… Birds twittered and flew in groups to shelter.  Clay admired birds because he thought they were smarter than people.

     Clay’s safe spot waited warm and ready, the corner of his basement that abutted an interior wall. A recliner sat on a square of old burpee carpet, along with a portable TV and weather radio, a small refrigerator with bottled water and a fifth of Scotch.

     He pulled several rubber-banded manuscripts from the satchel, put on his reading glasses, clicked the TV. Storms were three hours out. He headed up the steps, grabbed chips and a jar of salsa from the kitchen, returned to his chair and settled into reading.

     “Men in Sports and the Animals They Love.” This was Jared’s find. It was trash. Why did he agree to this? He took his red pen and began editing as storms grew closer.

     That first tornado, back in Kindergarten, he had to sit in the hall with his classmates in what teachers called the “turtle position.” When Mrs. Jones tapped his back, he looked up, thrilled to see Mom there to pick him up early. They drove home in a wind that bent tree branches close to the ground, pushed the tall grass sideways. It had frightened Clay, but Mama was smiling.

     “I love a good storm,” she said as raindrops pounded like bullets against the windshield.  Mama had wanted to make pop-corn and sit on the screened in porch to watch the wind. But Clay heard the TV people say over and over to get to a safe spot. And how could she think of pop-corn at a time like this?  He was so adamant she relented. They ate pizza in the garage next to the three steps that lead to the house, listened to the portable radio and waited for Daddy to come home from his law office. Mama kept leaving the safe spot to get a glass of wine, or answer a ringing phone, leaving Clay alone and terrified that the house would blow away any second.

     Mama had always been careless. At the beach, she swam in red flag water while he and his father watched at the edge of sand and water, waiting to jump in and save her if she got caught in the rip-tide, but mostly hoping her swim would end and she would be happy building a sandcastle. She also smoked, when the surgeon general had told the whole world it was hazardous to your health. She did unsafe things. Clay knew at a young age he would always have to protect her.

     Ironically Dad died at age 57, in a car accident caused by a drunk driver. Mom passed in her sleep of a heart attack at 82. Clay thought of her a lot in his safe spot. Now that he was an adult, he could require people take safety measures. He would do what he could to keep his employees safe, to protect them.

     He doubted Jenny or Kathy were in safe spots. Certainly not Jared. But he gave them the option. No-one would sit in his hallways in the turtle position. What about the temp, Becky? Was she in a safe spot? Something about her told Clay that she was. She seemed afraid of things. Afraid of him even, afraid to tell him she needed to work the hours. He pictured her in a garage somewhere, wrapped in a fleece blanket, reading a manuscript and watching the weather.

     The next morning dawned bright and glistening, a cleansed earth with air the scent of freshly dried laundry. Tree branches the size of human torsos littered yards and drainage ditches, tiny green leaves clung wetly to street signs and car windows. There had been no major damage, although electricity was out South of the city, and shingles on roofs of some houses had seen blown away.

     At the office, Becky arrived thirty minutes before the rest of the employees, as was her job description, to open the building and make coffee.

     “Good Morning Mr. Richter.”

     Her smile made him pause and take a second glance. Her eyes glistened. In the week and a half she’d been here, this was the cheeriest he’d seen her. She usually withdrew, kept quiet and blended in with her blond-wood desk.

     “I see you survived the storm,” Clay said.

     “Sort of.”

     “What happened?”

     “I had roof damage but it’s not a big deal. I found something in the slush pile.”

     She was probably wrong, Clay thought. No one finds anything in the slush pile. She’s not even an editor. Just a temp. Clay turned to go to his office. She followed him and sat down opposite his desk.

     “I know everyone wants to find something in the slush pile, Becky, but no one ever does.” Her face fell. She was so transparent. He hated to disappoint her, though.  It couldn’t be worse than  Sports Men and the Animals They Love.

“I’ll take a look.” Clay said.

     “Thank you! That would be tremendous!” Becky clasped her hands in front of her heart, did that slight bow thing, and left.

     Clay went for coffee and a slice of banana bread someone had brought in this morning, probably Kathy, and returned to the office to start on the manuscript Becky selected.

     “Greta lay awake on the cot at the new shelter, scared of the night sounds. All she wanted was someone to protect her, keep her safe. She snuggled against the warm body of her mother, who could sleep through anything. But Mama couldn’t protect her from so many things. With Mama she would still be hungry, still be embarrassed at school, still be afraid of the ghost that stir around her.  She was completely alone in the world, with no one watching out for her. One foster mother said God would always be there if she turned to him. That would be tremendous to have God watching out, but she didn’t know how to call on God. All she got from the other world were blasts of air that felt like evil ghosts who would do her harm.

     Clay read all two hundred twenty- five pages of the novella, which took the main character from a child to an adult, all the while alone and fearful. The book needed work.  But there was something else. The writing made him think of Becky. Was this her story? It didn’t matter. No one should feel unprotected. Not Greta, not Becky. No one.

     “Becky,” he spoke into the intercom.

     “Yes Mr. Richter.”

     “I think we’ve got something here. Let’s discuss it over lunch if that’s convenient.”

     “That would be tremendous sir!”

     “Today?” Clay asked.

     “Of course.”

     At noon, Clay and Becky walked out the glass front doors and down the street toward Patsy’s Italian Restaurant. It felt natural to walk beside her, to maybe slide his arm around her waist. But that would be too much too soon. She would have to leave the company before they dated. He lightly touched the small of her back with his palm and steered her through the crowded sidewalk.

He would help her perfect this novella, if indeed it was hers. Or he would help edit what she found. Either way, he would keep her safe from storms as best he could. Maybe she could protect him, too. Maybe someday another recliner would accompany his in the safe spot, so neither would be alone or afraid again. Perhaps having someone like her would make all the difference. Maybe, Clay thought.  A heaviness he hadn’t been aware of lifted from his spirit. A light-hearted smile toyed with the corners of his lips.

“So you think the novel is good?” Becky asked?

“Oh yes,” Clay said. “I think we can make it work.”

 

    

    

    

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