Rae is a tall, big-boned woman who comes from a long line of linemen. She bellows my name and beckons me to her office. I enter the only room in the building with functioning air-conditioning and breathe in the strong fake scent of gardenia air freshener.
She stands with some difficulty and motions for me to sit in front of her. Mother-of-pearl glasses rest on her nose as she takes in everything about me. I do the same to her. She towers over a glass desk. The light from the backdrop display case of Hummel figurines glows through her thinning hair, giving her a ghost-from-Christmas-past look.
One late night after Lysa and I had written up Medicare qualification reports on residents, we became giddy on Mountain Dew and Goobers from the snack machine. Neither of us wanted to go home because going home meant going to bed and eventually waking up and having to return here. So we restarted the antiquated computer and researched on eBay what we could get if we kidnapped the Hummel porcelain cherubic children and animals. It turns out they are worth more than enough to cross the border and live comfortably for a few years.
The problem with fantasies like that for a somewhat logical person…you always ask the “what then?” question and the dream balloon deflates faster than you can purchase a one-way bus ticket to Mexico. Overanalysis is my own worst enemy.
Our stare down ends with Rae extending a candy dish to me. A cheap peace offering before the battle begins. To be polite I select a red hot, but it is stuck to a wrapped peppermint, and she has to hold the dish while I wrangle the tiny dot of sugar loose. Unfortunately, her patience allowance for me was spent the moment I walked in the door and sucked in some of her private cold air. She makes it clear that she is at wit’s end. Since she was born with a shortage, this comes rather quickly.
Her thin silver pen taps on the glass repeatedly. I chose the wrong candy, so she is going to make me wait and consider how much better life would be had I chosen a golden butterscotch or a root beer barrel. My mind immediately conjures a neon sign that flashes: “Bull in a china shop.” There is no way to avoid such a thought when you are in Rae’s office. This woman, who is one plaid flannel shirt away from a Paul Bunyan portrait, surrounds herself with fragile items that teeter on the edge of possible doom. Delicate crystal figurines in indistinguishable shapes, origami birds midflight, shell saucers holding glass marbles, antique lace doilies draped over the arms of her leather wing-back chair. I want to ask her if she does this to feel powerful. And whether she places herself among fragile bones and tender spirits for the same reason.
Instead I focus on a smear of mascara that is below her right eye. She looks like a heavyweight boxer, and somehow this identity is more user-friendly to me than that of wicked supervisor. So I keep it to myself and refer to her as Sugar Rae in my head.
“Let’s get right to it, shall we?” She adjusts her blouse so that I see mostly the tropical red tank beneath. She is a large stop sign planted in my path. I’m tempted to run it…grab the Hummels and dash for the border after all.
“Well, plans for the Golden Golden party are well underway. We’ll be ready after a few minor details are ironed out, but I’ll have those secured by next week. Blanche, the head of the resident committee, and I are on top of all details.” The big fiftieth anniversary party for Golden Horizons is a bit of a scam, really. The facility is only twenty years old, but apparently an original Golden Horizons started up in Yuma fifty years ago. I guess services to the aging are prime franchises these days.
“What’s left?” Rae twirls the small gold chain around her thick neck. Each time she twists it to one side it disappears into her flesh on the other.
“I just have to confirm the play time and rate for a fantastic fifties band. The Doo-Wops. I thought it would be nice to commemorate the music of the original era. I was only able to get them through a personal connection; they are in high demand throughout the Southwest.” My mouth is rambling along. I don’t know why I need to build up these details to Rae. I’m doing a good job and she knows it. Why do I become so defensive in her presence?
I tell myself to shut up, but I keep on talking to avoid the silence. “This music will go well with the decorations and those invitations you approved last month. The pretty ones with the balloons rising up the side of the page.” They are horrific juvenile invitations instead of the very classy version I picked out. Rae had refused my choice, saying this wasn’t an inauguration or a funeral but a real party. “Parrteee” she had said, like a seventeen-year-old.
“Forget the music. I have that covered.” She stops twisting her chain in favor of pulling my leg.
“You’re kidding, right?” As soon as I say it I try to suck back in the breath that carried those bad, bad words into her space. She never kids. She punishes, insults, tortures. Never kids.
Her Mona Lisa-esque smile quivers. “I have arranged for the band. All that fifties music can still be the theme.” She opens a folder in front of her. I know by the colored label that it is an employee file. I’m several months from a review, so my heart skips a beat. Is she taking over the party plans for a reason? Could this be my firing? Could this be my free pass to another life?
“Beau was spectacular and quite a planner.” She praises the employee who quit.
As sick as I am of this guy, at least he had the sense to quit. “Oh, the one who quit and left you on short notice?” Ha. Take that. I was the savior when Beau the wonder boy left her high and dry.
“Did you ever meet him?” She skips over my comment with the greatest of ease. And her voice even catches with emotion.
Here we go. “Uh, no. Haven’t had the pleasure.” I start to roll my eyes but she is watching me, so I keep them still at the top and pretend to focus in on a mosquito. I grab the air to snare it midflight. My aim is excellent. I ask her for a tissue, a burial for the imaginary bug.
Her usually smooth forehead now has several layers of creases. She looks at me as though I have eaten the bug and scrounged around for more. “Well, he was a good planner.” She pauses to note the obvious contrast between former and current employees. “He left us with some anniversary party ideas before he left five years ago. They’re quite good. I want you to use as many of these as possible.”
She shoves the folder at me. It falls onto my lap and the papers inside start to slip out.
“But I have the party under control.” The last thing I want is to work my behind off creating this big event and have all the credit go to Beau. I’m so sick of him.
“And I don’t need to remind you that personnel files are personal and confidential. I want this back next week. I shouldn’t even be doing this, but his ideas are so great…” She stops talking. A small laugh escapes her throat. “There are even some excellent recipes in there. The residents used to love his lemon chiffon cake, and his black bean, chipotle chili is award winning.” Her fingers go back to the necklace, and she seems to forget I am here. It crosses my mind that possessing Beau’s personnel file is a gift. Maybe in between casserole secrets and event-planning tips there is one write-up. An early bad review. A string of unexplainable tardies. I organize the folder and get up to leave before she wakes up from her daydream.
“Sit,” she barks. I obey
“Our pilates instructor is leaving. I’ll need you to cover for her until you find a replacement.”
“But I’m not trained in pilates. And don’t you hire?”
“Do I need to remind you again that you are the recreational director? First you leave the party details to me, and now you want to get out of leading some harmless calisthenics. These people just want to try and touch their knees, for pete’s sake.”
I’m elated to hear my professional role reduced to inciting knee touching. Renewed conviction to distribute more résumés this week is fueled.
“Is that all?” I’m pouting now. My job description keeps mutating. Even perfect Beau couldn’t keep up the act forever. Maybe he had a breakdown and now lives in the psychiatric ward of Holy Cross Hospital. I grip his file even tighter.
“You should be thrilled that we can hire an instructor at all. I shouldn’t tell you this, but since it relates to you…” She shrugs and opens her drawer. She pulls out a piece of black licorice and starts gnawing. “Our budget is getting slashed at the end of the year. Big time. Whatever you are planning for the fund-raiser had better be huge. Don’t try to push through era bands and plain invitations or the first cut will be your job. Got it?” With each chaw her mouth is getting darker from the licorice. Black is beginning to fill the creases her red lipstick had carved out earlier. “Do we understand each other?”
I stand and look at her…black eye, black lips…and think maybe she is morphing into the devil right before my eyes. “Perfectly.” I spread my healthy pink lips into a broad smile and think bigger. Maybe Beau’s file will include favorite recipes and instructions for a good ol’ fashioned exorcism.