Definitely Against Policy, page 2
She woke up her screen, typed and scrolled, then made a call. “Brad? This is Mary Rose from Hill Realty…Yes…Fine…Actually, not fine…Yes, I’ve seen them. Claudia wants them all taken down…As soon as possible…Yes, all of them…I’m sure she’s aware of the terms of the contract…Can’t you send a crew out?…Not even at the end of the day?…Listen, Brad. I’m in some serious hot water here…You have to help me…Oh. Fine. Bye.”
Mary slammed the receiver onto its cradle, slumped back in her chair, and made a noise like a wounded animal. Then she spun in her chair to face him, a furious scarlet blush coloring her cheeks. “What I don’t understand is how the ads can go up overnight, but it’ll take a few days to take them down.”
“Poor Stephen. And Claudia,” said Jonquil. “She’ll be so upset.”
Mary stopped Jonquil’s gush of sympathy for the Hills with a glare, then turned her chair to face her screen and placed another call. “Yes, good morning…I’d like to order a cake…A humungous, ginormous chocolate hazelnut…Yes, large is fine…That’s an option? Then yes, gluten-free, keto…Yes. Put, ‘I’m sorry.’ In pink, please. Pickup for noon…I can pay then?…Pardon?!…Oh…Wow…No, no, that’s okay. I’ll stick with large…Lovely…It’s Mary Rose. Thanks.”
Eli was surprised by Mary’s gesture of apology. He was about to compliment her originality and depart for the concentration-enhancing din of the coffee shop when Claudia messaged him.
“Summoned to the principal’s office,” he announced with a wry smile. After a languid stretch, he strolled across the room and knocked on Claudia’s door.
“Come in.”
Claudia was agitated. Full robot-toy mode. Back and forth she went, trudging a furrow in the carpet with her sharp heels.
“Eli. Thank God. Sit, sit.”
He plunked himself onto the leather sofa and extended his legs.
“You owe me a big one for giving you In-Spire,” she said. “And I’d like to call in the favor.”
An icy chill ran down his spine. Visions of following Stephen into the men’s room invaded his mind. Eli was a negligent babysitter, especially when his charge was a fifty-year-old drug fiend.
“You’ll need help with In-Spire,” Claudia said casually. “Handling presales, communications, setting up the sales office, the model unit, that sort of thing.”
Suspicion confirmed.
“I’m a forgiving person,” she continued. “I believe in second chances. Learning from mistakes.”
Yup. There would be Stephen, wound up like a cuckoo in a little wooden clock, riding shotgun, demanding they make a detour behind a boarded-up strip mall.
“I came this close to ending a relationship this morning.” Claudia brought her index finger to her thumb in the air. “But something stopped me. Compassion, I suppose.…” She looked through the window with her head cocked to the side, as if newly aware of her astonishing generosity, then turned. “How would you feel about working with Mary? On In-Spire?”
“Mary?”
“Yes. Mary. I realize she’s not the easiest person to get along with, but I need her out of the office before Stephen returns. Keeping her in reception would be toxic. An impediment to Stephen’s recovery. After this morning’s debacle, I should’ve fired her, but she looked at me with those huge, homely eyes, like an innocent baby lamb, and I couldn’t bring down the knife.”
“You’re a softy, Claudia.” Eli chuckled. “Tough as nails with a heart of gold.”
“Don’t I know it. She gets one more chance, and if she blows it?” Claudia snapped her fingers. “Anyway, keep me apprised and if she gives you any trouble, I’ll take immediate, corrective action. Jonquil has experience in condo sales. She can pitch in if need be.”
“Who’ll replace Mary at reception?”
“Well, our niece Felicity has been doing some minor clerical work for pocket money and she’s looking for an internship. Until she starts, we can all take turns at the desk. It’ll only be a couple of weeks.”
Eli murmured his noncommittal support for Claudia’s plan.
“So, are we even?” asked Claudia.
“Even Stephen,” replied Eli.
“Now skedaddle, before I change my mind about Mary,” said Claudia.
****
Mary stood in line at La Noisette, two blocks from Hill Realty. The trendy bakery’s customers looked like the sort of people who would live in a luxury condo, judging by the photos on In-Spire’s website. Healthy, well-dressed, rich, and multi-ethnic.
Fifty dollars for a bloody cake. None of these people would think twice.
She had to stop behaving impulsively. Claudia, the person she aimed to appease, didn’t eat cake. Jonquil would accept a “teensy weensy” slice and then secret-eat several more. Eli would scarf down a chunk without even tasting it. Bill, Lori, and Alex, agents who came to the office sporadically, would ask about the strange message piped in pink. Maybe she should scrape it off after Claudia read it.
“Yes?” A young, mauve-haired woman flashed a customer service smile.
“Um, I’m here to pick up a cake. Mary Rose.”
The smile broadened. “Large, chocolate hazelnut torte?” She retrieved a cardboard box taped shut with a pale green sticker and set it on the counter. “Here you go. Enjoy!”
“On Mastercard please.”
“It’s already paid for.”
“Paid for?”
“A guy came in about an hour ago, asked if we’d taken your order for a cake, and paid for it.”
“Oh, thank you,” Mary stammered.
“Thank him,” corrected the woman.
Despite lashing sleet, her precarious employment, and it being a Tuesday, Mary felt inexplicably happy as she hurried back to the office. Well, not inexplicably. Eli had been very, very kind to her. Perhaps she wouldn’t mind working with him after all.
Chapter Two
With her pajama-clad legs folded under her and a glass of Chateau Plonque in hand, Mary watched her roommate, Dominic, savor a forkful of cake.
“Darling, this humungous, ginormous apology torte is to die for!” he enthused with his mouth full. “Every bite literally screams ‘job security.’”
“Not literally. Figuratively,” said Mary.
“I can’t believe Claudia didn’t even taste it, the ingrate.”
“Or bring any home for Stephen.”
“The Hills are such bores.” Dominic shoveled a rosette of pink icing—the head of the apostrophe—into his mouth and waved his fork. “Now Eli, on the other hand…”
“Here we go—”
“You must bring him home to Daddy. I’ll do a little party. Nothing much. Some oysters, champagne, and you vamoose before dessert.”
“He’s straight, Dominic.”
“How do you know? He drives a BMW roadster. That’s kind of gay.”
“Is it?”
“And his LinkedIn photo is totally gay. Smart clothes. Fit. Facial hair trimmed close. Glossy chestnut mane and straight teeth.”
“Actually, you’ve described a horse.”
“A stallion who wears tailored shirts and drives a nice car.” Dominic gazed dreamily into middle space and sipped his wine.
Mary knocked on the coffee table. “Earth to Dominic. Eli Klassen is straight.”
“I could test your hypothesis,” Dominic said mischievously.
“Like how we tested whether you’re gay or bi? And the only way you could get it up is if I smeared mascara all over my chin and put on your suit.”
“Honey, you’re gorgeous, but I thought of Timothée Chalamet through the whole ordeal.”
“You even had to take a Cialis.”
“In my defense, we were drunk.”
“And you were not, and are not, bi.”
Mary embraced her best friend in a loose hug and they descended into helpless laughter until Dominic spoke gravely. “Enough about me. We must discuss your future.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Even though you fucked up today, you weren’t fired, Mary. You were promoted.”
“Was I?” She took a gulp of wine.
“Yes. You were.” Dominic spoke in the low tone of a funeral director. “Goodbye, old Mary Rose. That ship has sunk. The new Mary Rose requires new clothes for her new job.”
“Requires?”
“Yes. It means the same thing as ‘needs.’ Honestly. A liberal arts edumacation ain’t what it used to be.”
“I don’t require anything of the sort,” Mary protested as she refilled Dominic’s glass.
“Mary, Mary, Mary. Yes. You. Do. Your upholstered jackets and pilled sweaters and boxy footgear do not inspire.” He laughed at his joke. “You dress like an elderly dog trainer.”
“I can’t afford a new wardrobe.”
“You can. A few nice but inexpensive pieces will make all the difference.”
“But I hate shopping.”
Dominic rolled his eyes. “We’ll visit all the downtown thrift stores on Saturday, after you’ve finished your homework.”
With a pang of guilt, Mary glanced at her desk in the corner. A leaning tower of books threatened to fall onto an empty coffee mug. Post-it notes with go-nowhere ideas fringed her computer screen. She still hadn’t nailed down a dissertation topic that met Gabriel Silverstein’s expectations, and now he was pushing her to take over his classes entirely. Well, tonight was for recovery after surviving Claudia’s tirade, not schoolwork. With another swallow of wine, Mary evicted her acerbic academic advisor from her mental real estate and wondered aloud if the clothes made the woman or the woman made the clothes.
“Definitely the former,” said Dominic. “A well-made, fashionable wardrobe and a good haircut are the foundation of success in love and career.”
“Setting aside your definition of success,” said Mary, “would you argue that a well-groomed poodle in a designer jacket, fancy collar, and booties has a better foundation for success than an unclothed, ungroomed mutt?”
Dominic replied impatiently. “The aphorism applies to humans, not dogs, because dogs conceptualize success differently from humans.”
“And so do humans from each other,” countered Mary.
“All right. Let’s settle on a simple definition. Success for you would be a boyfriend who loves you, a fulfilling career, a decent night’s sleep six days out of seven, and a bosom buddy with a sturdy, waterproof shoulder for emotional times.”
“I score one out of four on your success-o-meter, Dominic, and I’m grateful for your shoulder.”
“One out of four is a start. After we shop on Saturday, we’ll update your dating profile.”
“No way. Please recall, I’ve taken a vow of celibacy until my dissertation topic has been approved.”
“Fine,” he shrugged. “Have it your way. Delay your gratification until Gabriel gives you permission to pursue it.”
“I don’t consult Gabriel on my love—”
“Zat vas joke,” Dominic interrupted in an atrocious Russian accent and smiled sardonically. “By the way, the designer collar you mention…”
“Red leather. Definitely not vinyl.” Mary took a wild stab. “Maybe Hermès? The wearer was drinking a tea-colored mixture from a collapsible dog bowl outside of Roasters on Lakeshore.”
“Woof!” barked Dominic.
****
It was dark when Eli returned to his cold, sparsely furnished condo. He dumped a week’s worth of mail, his jacket, and his laptop onto the dining room table and went to the fridge. Empty except for last night’s pizza crusts, which he’d saved for reasons unknown even to himself. Laziness? Guilt? Composting? Sustenance for the coming apocalypse?
Whatever his folks back home imagined, if his evenings were a sitcom plot, it would be the most boring show ever. The TV execs could call it “Success in the City” and the pilot would feature a hapless hero who eats, jerks off, and sleeps. The end. He closed the fridge door.
Ten minutes later, he pushed through the navy curtains of the Takamatsu Sushi Bar.
“Irashaimase!” Kenji Ikeda grunted in an approximation of a welcome. “The usual?”
Before Eli could reply, Ikeda hollered, “Yuka! Eri-kun is here.”
Ikeda’s wife peeked through the kitchen curtains. “Chotto, Eri-kun. Sit, sit. I bring your favorite.” Eli took his usual spot, and a moment later she reappeared carrying a steaming bowl of soba with vegetables and pushed it in front of him. “Douzo. Eat! I get you a fork?”
“That’s okay, Yuka-san.” Eli smiled gratefully as he took up a pair of chopsticks. “Arigato.”
“Jouzu, ne!” She laughed. “You speak Japanese and use chopsticks very well!”
“You taught me everything I know.” Eli rewarded Yuka’s kindness with a boyish grin and slurped the noodles under her motherly gaze.
Pouring green tea from a small celadon pot, she praised his appetite while Ikeda formed clumps of vinegared rice into tiny logs for nigirizushi. Every meal at Takamatsu warmed Eli’s heart, and late suppers, early in the week when there were fewer diners, were the best.
Soon Eli had wolfed down enough soba and nigiri to feed a small family. As Yuka bustled back to the kitchen, Ikeda looked at the clock and pushed a pitcher of sake across the counter.
“On the house,” he said gruffly. “We share.”
“Thanks.”
Eli poured the warm, clear liquid into tiny cups and they toasted, “Kampai!” Ikeda drank his first cup of sake in one swallow and exhaled in noisy contentment.
Eli refilled the older man’s cup. “You ever miss home, Ikeda-san?”
“Osaka? I suppose, but I have Yuka and the twins, so I’m not lonely. Parents are dead. Brother and his family are in Vancouver. Now I belong here. And you?”
“Yeah. It’s too quiet in the condo. I’m the middle child of seven. Grandma living with us, nieces, nephews, and cousins visiting. So many Klassens round the supper table. It’s still weird to eat meals alone.”
“You’re homesick.”
“Maybe I am. And I’m idealizing. We weren’t exactly the Waltons. I can’t go home to the crazy religion, church, and Bible study, all the rules and the bad haircuts.”
“A homesick refugee,” pronounced Ikeda.
“From the nonsensical Church of the Evangelical Brethren.” Eli shuddered. “You religious?” He asked the nosy question less from curiosity than from a wish to change the subject before he succumbed to maudlin self-pity.
“I’m Japanese,” Ikeda replied, as if his ethnicity explained everything.
“He means he’s part-time Buddhist, part-time Shinto, and full-time superstitious,” Yuka called from the kitchen.
“Not superstitious,” Ikeda objected.
Yuka whooshed through the curtains and gestured toward a shelf holding a ceramic cat with its paw raised to beckon money, to a calendar with tiny print under each date, and to a colorful amulet hanging by the cash register.
“They make the place feel like Japan. For authentic customer experience,” Ikeda said to his wife’s back as she returned to the kitchen. He gazed fondly at the cat. “Business is better when I remember to dust my maneki neko. Anyway, everybody has a lucky charm of some kind. It’s normal.”
“I don’t,” said Eli. “The Brethren believe that talismans and amulets and charms are idolatry and go against the first and second commandments. They’re sinful.”
Ikeda regarded Eli with narrowed eyes. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am. They’re very zealous on that point, and they’ll pray for you to mend your evil ways if you’re caught with so much as a lucky baseball card.”
As Ikeda shook his head in disbelief, Eli closed his eyes, contorted his face into the earnest smile-frown of a missionary, and placed his hand above Ikeda’s head. Voice breathy and fervent, Eli intoned, “Lord Jesus, we pray that you take up your heavenly shepherd’s crook and pull thy lamb Ikeda-san into the flock of the righteous so that he may be spared the eternally licking flames of Hell for his idolatry. Please hold him in your loving arms as he discards his satanic artifacts and his sinful notions. We pray, Lord, that you guide him in begging your forgiveness so that he may be born again in you, his Savior. Amen.”
Eli opened his eyes to the rare sight of a grinning Ikeda, who said, “You should be a TV preacher.”
“I’ll consider it if I get tired of real estate. There’s crossover in the skillsets—connecting with customers, creating an experience to close a sale, money management.” Briefly pensive, Eli sipped his sake. When had he become so cynical?
Ikeda poured a cup of sake for Yuka as she flipped the sign on the door to ‘closed’. She perched on the stool next to Eli and squeezed his elbow. “We had Mormons in Japan. Boys in white, short-sleeved shirts and black trousers, visiting from America. They sound like your people. The Mormons tried to convert people in the train stations. They told about God and the Bible and how Jesus Christ loves everyone in the world, even people in Asia.”
“The Mormons sound very similar to the Brethren.” Eli’s face darkened with shame for uninvited North American evangelists who foisted their delusions on others. “I refused to confess my faith, let alone proselytize, so I was forced to leave the church. Anyway, selling condos is way easier than selling Christianity. At least the product is real.”
Yuka smiled. “Some of the Mormons must have lost their faith on their travels. Pretty Japanese girls, beautiful temples and shrines, the glamor of Shinsaibashi…” Her voice trailed off wistfully.
“You’re homesick, too,” said Eli.
“No, no.” She shook her head. “I have Kenji. He’s my Japan.”
The trio sipped the warm, sweet sake until Yuka broke the silence. “I think you need a girlfriend.”
“What?” Eli squawked. He remembered his manners. “I mean, pardon?”
“A girlfriend,” Yuka repeated. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Five years older than the twins. Saori is already engaged. Emi has a serious boyfriend. And you—you won’t meet any single girls at Takamatsu Sushi Bar. You should go to nightclubs.”
Yuka’s observation sounded accusatory, as if his pathetic loneliness could be attributed to his lack of effort. She looked at her husband searchingly.
