my office? All in one fell swoop?" I ask him. "Maybe I should just don a hairshirt and self-flagellate while I’m at it. You got a whip handy?"
Mordie holds his hands up in self-defense. "It wasn’t my idea, Abbie."
"Then whose was it?"
"Barry’s," he says.
"He can just strip my office bare because he deems it appropriate?"
"Well, you had vital things in there that he needed."
"Vital things? I’ll show him what I can do with his vital things. Name one thing he needed from my office."
"The refrigerator, for starters."
"Why didn’t you just put one in his cubicle? Or take it out of mine and put it in his?"
"You know his cubicle was too small for that. Plus you had the view. Barry said he did his best writing looking out the window. I figured you weren’t going to need that so much, only being in part-time. At least for the time being."
"I just wish someone had warned me when I took the job that I was being employed by Judas Iscariot. At least now I know who I can trust around here." I storm out of his office, a tempest in stretch nylon I am.
I navigate my way through a cluster of colleagues, all exchanging niceties with one another, discussing their exciting weekends. A couple of people say hello to me but I dodge them for the most part, wend my way to the far corner of the office and find my new office: a cubicle between the gal who writes movie reviews and one who writes obituaries.
I sit down to my new (old) desk, and sift through the stack of mail that has gathered since last week. There is a noticeable absence of invitations, announcements of restaurant openings, and any other hint of my former stature. Obviously Barry has pillaged my inbox along with every other aspect of my professional life. All this time he fed me like a fatted calf. While I stood there with mouth wide opened. Why I oughtta...
My gaze is drawn to an envelope with familiar looking handwriting on it. The scrawl looks like something they teach you in med school, it’s that illegible. But I do recognize the name on the front: Abigail Louise Cartwright Jennings. Jennings in parentheses, oddly.
I open the letter to find this:
Dear Abbie,
Get it? Dear Abbie. Like the famous newspaper column?
I know, you’re not laughing right now. I know you’re not, because even after all these years, I know my Muffin. You probably don’t believe it, but I do. After everything that’s come between us, even.
Muffin. I flinch at that reference.
I saw you in the Post the other day. Usually I go straight to the sports, then Page Six. But when I saw that face smack on the cover, hot damn, I knew it was you. It was a no-brainer. I didn’t even know your last name—you got married?—but I could tell. I saw your mother and me in your face.
I guess life’s gotten ahead of us, hasn’t it? I had a stroke a few years back and can’t move like I could. Now they tell me my ticker’s ticking down. Nothing much for me to do each day other than read the obituaries in the local paper and maybe watch a few ball games on TV. I know it’s too late to make amends. I don’t even want your forgiveness—I don’t deserve it. But I do owe you some explanations. I’ve got some things to say that I think you should hear. I beg of you, please indulge an old man his dying request.
He proceeds to give me a phone number at the nursing home he’s at in Jersey. As if I’m going to go visit him. Give a dying man a chance to alleviate his guilt. As if. My father, the commodian. He should be flushed. I forgot that he had a really corny sense of humor at times. He didn’t know I was married? So what. Would he have even cared? Historically his track record would prove that not to be the case. He says we haven’t seen each other in too many years to even recall? Well, I can recall, to the precise hour.
I was eleven years old. It was 9:31 p.m. My chocolate pound cake, which I was baking from scratch, was due to come out of the oven in eleven minutes. The perfume of
Mordie holds his hands up in self-defense. "It wasn’t my idea, Abbie."
"Then whose was it?"
"Barry’s," he says.
"He can just strip my office bare because he deems it appropriate?"
"Well, you had vital things in there that he needed."
"Vital things? I’ll show him what I can do with his vital things. Name one thing he needed from my office."
"The refrigerator, for starters."
"Why didn’t you just put one in his cubicle? Or take it out of mine and put it in his?"
"You know his cubicle was too small for that. Plus you had the view. Barry said he did his best writing looking out the window. I figured you weren’t going to need that so much, only being in part-time. At least for the time being."
"I just wish someone had warned me when I took the job that I was being employed by Judas Iscariot. At least now I know who I can trust around here." I storm out of his office, a tempest in stretch nylon I am.
I navigate my way through a cluster of colleagues, all exchanging niceties with one another, discussing their exciting weekends. A couple of people say hello to me but I dodge them for the most part, wend my way to the far corner of the office and find my new office: a cubicle between the gal who writes movie reviews and one who writes obituaries.
I sit down to my new (old) desk, and sift through the stack of mail that has gathered since last week. There is a noticeable absence of invitations, announcements of restaurant openings, and any other hint of my former stature. Obviously Barry has pillaged my inbox along with every other aspect of my professional life. All this time he fed me like a fatted calf. While I stood there with mouth wide opened. Why I oughtta...
My gaze is drawn to an envelope with familiar looking handwriting on it. The scrawl looks like something they teach you in med school, it’s that illegible. But I do recognize the name on the front: Abigail Louise Cartwright Jennings. Jennings in parentheses, oddly.
I open the letter to find this:
Dear Abbie,
Get it? Dear Abbie. Like the famous newspaper column?
I know, you’re not laughing right now. I know you’re not, because even after all these years, I know my Muffin. You probably don’t believe it, but I do. After everything that’s come between us, even.
Muffin. I flinch at that reference.
I saw you in the Post the other day. Usually I go straight to the sports, then Page Six. But when I saw that face smack on the cover, hot damn, I knew it was you. It was a no-brainer. I didn’t even know your last name—you got married?—but I could tell. I saw your mother and me in your face.
I guess life’s gotten ahead of us, hasn’t it? I had a stroke a few years back and can’t move like I could. Now they tell me my ticker’s ticking down. Nothing much for me to do each day other than read the obituaries in the local paper and maybe watch a few ball games on TV. I know it’s too late to make amends. I don’t even want your forgiveness—I don’t deserve it. But I do owe you some explanations. I’ve got some things to say that I think you should hear. I beg of you, please indulge an old man his dying request.
He proceeds to give me a phone number at the nursing home he’s at in Jersey. As if I’m going to go visit him. Give a dying man a chance to alleviate his guilt. As if. My father, the commodian. He should be flushed. I forgot that he had a really corny sense of humor at times. He didn’t know I was married? So what. Would he have even cared? Historically his track record would prove that not to be the case. He says we haven’t seen each other in too many years to even recall? Well, I can recall, to the precise hour.
I was eleven years old. It was 9:31 p.m. My chocolate pound cake, which I was baking from scratch, was due to come out of the oven in eleven minutes. The perfume of
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