Heaven Is Small (22 page)

Lillian chose to ignore the question. “Look . . . Gordon,” she said, using his name for the first time since she’d admitted him to Heaven, “it’s like this. When you were a child, you didn’t question recess. Certainly you
could
have stayed indoors and played Tonka truck on the floor tiles, or gone to the gym or to the library, but you
didn’t
. The teacher preferred that you played outside, so out you went, and you didn’t question why, even when it was raining. Those were the rules. There are rules here too. We may not understand them. Perhaps they do not benefit us, but — as you have already pointed out — we do as the others do so that the company can continue to function at its highest capacity. What happens at other companies when the profits fall, even slightly?”

Now Small, G., was beginning to sink. She could see it in his forehead, furrows that he likely didn’t know were there.

“If there are enough complaints against you, I will have to address the problem. If your behaviour begins to impact the work of our other employees, mistakes will likely be made. Attention to detail will be lost. Sales will be affected. If we have to downsize, believe me, those with complaint folders this thick” — she held it up, feeling the power return to her side of the mahogany desk — “will be the first on the chopping block. Tell me, if you’re worried now about where you should go, how will you feel then?”

Rapid blinking.

“Also, once you have been dismissed from Heaven, and so quickly after you started, you will not likely be hired by any of our sister companies. We simply will not be able to recommend you.” In case there was any doubt in his mind, she rattled off the names of the attached bra and underwear company, the printing plant and shoe outlet store nearby, the organic grocery delivery that serviced nearly all of Heaven’s staff, the popular online book retailer where he was a recognized customer, and fifteen additional companies — plus their subsidiaries — that she suspected Small, G., would find familiar, from the brand of muffins in the basement mall to the make of the faucets in the men’s room.

“Also . . .” She touched the coffee mug, held that same finger forth as if begging him to focus on its hypnotic tip, and did not break her gaze. “I myself am under orders to report you if I believe your knowledge of the company’s confidential
workings
may be a menace to the company at large. That kind of complaint does not just sit on my desk, nor on anyone else’s desk in this building. It goes straight to Head Office, and it could mean your immediate termination. Tell me, does your knowledge of this company go beyond that of your co-workers?”

“No, ma’am.”

He was placating her. She eyed him warily. “It is not a danger?”

“No, ma’am.”

He was smart enough to placate her, she decided. That was what was happening. “I suggest you find your way to the parking garage at night, then.” Lillian closed the folder. Beneath the desk, the feeling retreated — moved from her spine down the columns of her legs, curled up like her toes inside her shoes. Pleasant, she decided.

Small, G., employed an undersized voice to ask, “Are we done?” then glanced about the office as if both memorizing it and sussing out further ambushes.

Partly he reminded Lillian of a frightened rodent attempting to fight its way through a maze, his eyes scurrying across each surface for clues. Partly he reminded her of her younger self.

“There is one more thing.” Lillian rose, approached her fax, retrieved the latest batch of pages, and shuffled through them. “Ah, here.” She extended a faxed press clipping. The fuzzy ink read: chloe gold to champion unknown author.” Small, G., reached for it, unsuspecting.

“Have you perhaps seen this already? It’s been circulating around the building. My, but people do gossip,” she said, facetiously. “If I recall correctly, Ms. Gold was your wife?”

“Yes —” Small, G., choked, and Lillian could see quite clearly that the word
wife
— or perhaps the content of the article itself — had sent a shameful colour rising in his cheeks.

She recalled that the name “Chloe Gold” had been Small’s trump card during his initial interview, as if mere association were enough to grant him access to an entire industry.

“She isn’t looking for
you
, is she, Gordon?”

Small’s head jerked, but he kept his eyes downcast as if reading. He even held a finger aloft as if begging her to let him speak.

“I shouldn’t think . . .” the man croaked without looking up. “We haven’t spoken in almost eight years,” he finished, meeting Lillian’s gaze with eyes that looked more sad than scared. He wasn’t a bad liar.

But he hadn’t outright denied it. Lillian made a note. She wouldn’t take it further — not just yet, she told herself, watching him creep to his feet. There were others to question. She opened the door for Small, G., and let the former suicide case head back to his little cage.

Alone again, she watched the LCD screen where his smudge stood mid-descent in the elevator. Aloud to herself, she said, “It’s your job.”

Without thinking, Lillian picked up the tepid mug and took a quick swallow of its contents, which were damp, bitter.

She slouched into her chair and ran her nails unconsciously through her hair, spiking it out above her forehead in a row of red thorns.

Near the back of the
Small, G
., file was an envelope with “evidence — confidential” stamped upon it. She shook it out and unsealed the tab, which had been opened and closed several times.

The note was typed on a single sheet of white letter paper, the thin sort, that must have been, Lillian guessed, torn from a typing tablet. There was no signature. Clearly Small, G., had had, while living, a romantic attachment to the typewriter and had eschewed the technology he now used daily at his job. At the same time, the letters punched into the typing paper were dry, barely there — a sign of the infrequency of his use of the ribbon that had borne witness to his last words. The words were not desperate so much as tired. They huffed across the page like breaths coming from someone who was winded, who had run or walked a long distance. They were not grand words, intelligent words, or even overly passionate.
Resigned
, Lillian thought. The feeling crept back up from her toes into her belly, seemed to push its head upward against her diaphragm, and she felt a sharp pang, like heartburn — or was it sadness, pity?

Lillian handled the file gently. She recognized the tenderness with which her fingertips traced the anorexic page. She had just put him through the wringer yet she found herself defending him in her mind. She closed her eyes.
You like him,
she accused herself, and found she couldn’t deny it.
Why take the risk?

“We are all security risks. When was the last time you asked yourself what you really get out of being mid-level management?”

The voice inside Lillian enthused with effervescent sarcasm,
Why, I ask myself that every morning! How did you guess?
Terminate him or promote him — Lillian knew those were the only two options for the disgruntled employee. Lillian reminded herself that Bentley, T., who had been a troublesome co-worker of hers at one point, had been content to preside over a foyer in a promotion that was little more than a title change.

“We can’t promote him. That’s not going to keep him quiet. He’s already figured out that money doesn’t matter. Even his most basic antics demonstrate that he has started to care about his co-workers, though — what they think, what they know. It’s a backwards method of engaging with his community. We can use that.” Quite suddenly Lillian opened her eyes. She picked up the pencil and tapped it against her teeth, enjoying the small shock she still got from the metal band against the enamel. “We can use that,” she repeated.

The feeling inside her was still cocking its head.
That’s why you think he should be spared if possible — he’s a suicidal sap with a too-big heart.

Lillian swirled around in her chair.

You’re a sucker for cogs. Cog-sucker.

“Watch your language,” Lillian warned herself aloud, even though she hadn’t actually uttered the phrase.

20

Gordon let out a sluggish throat noise of detonation. Daves looked up from the onscreen page-spread he had been tweaking and highlighting with the cursor. Gordon slapped the door frame twice. Daves wheeled back, stood, and followed Gordon out of the office. Neither of them said a word until they had entered their private outdoor smoking cubicle. Then Gordon unfurled the faxed article from his pocket, the sticky note he’d previously affixed to his computer screen now hanging off the paper’s edge.

“Got a rider there.” Daves put his hand out and caught the neon note before it could fall into the snow. “Lillian Payne’s phone number? She liked our stunt, then?” He grinned as he handed back the sticky, but the comment was pure nerves.

“It’s my ex’s number. I attached it to my workstation in case of emergency.”

“What — When HR requested you to go up? Thought you weren’t coming back?” The scoff was semi-serious. A crease had appeared on Daves’ forehead.

Gordon nodded. “Never know.”

“That should be your motto.” Daves extended an open hand for the fax sheet. “C’mon.”

Gordon unfolded the page and read aloud. Between the morning’s encounter with Chandler and his ride down from Lillian’s office, he had the words nearly memorized.

“
W-T-F
?” Daves pronounced each letter, invoking an expression Gordon knew well from his time at Whoopsy’s, but which, like all Daves’ favourites, was several years out of date. Daves’ hands shook as he pulled out the package with three cigarettes. After watching Daves fumble with the foil, Gordon snatched it from him and mouth-retrieved one straight from the pack. Daves passed him a light, then seized the sheet and scanned the article.

“Keep it,” Gordon muttered. “I have another copy back at my desk. That thing is breeding like a romance heroine.”

Gordon watched as Daves’ face drained.

Daves tapped the page and said, “Corporate mindset . . . If HR gives it to you, it’s a warning. Big-time. Clear as a bell.”

Gordon flicked the cigarette. Its droppings hit the crust of snow and rolled across it, gradually dispersing into black flakes.

“Scared?” Daves stammered around his own cigarette. “Cuz I wouldn’t blame you if you were. But then there’s proof. That’s on our side, isn’t it? I mean, if your ex-wife can’t tell who it’s by, who
is
going to know?”

“I’m not sure Chloe doesn’t know. ‘Flabbergasted.’” Gordon air-quoted. “The word implies some disbelief. My wife, my ex-wife, is the seeking type. Holding a massive search is just her style — drawing others into the drama — but it doesn’t mean she’s entirely in the dark.” Even as Gordon said the words he felt himself reaching for his chest. He tapped the spot beside his heart, and ash from the cigarette tumbled down the front of his white shirt. Unbelievably, Chloe had read his book; he’d made contact. Strangely, he felt numb. But perhaps it was the cold air of the courtyard.

An actual expletive fell from Daves’ mouth. “Then we’re done. We’re —”

The expletive fell again.

Although Gordon had used the word himself that very morning, he had heard it so few times during his months at Heaven that it now sounded like an absolutely foreign word.

“I can’t afford this. There’s — there’s only one other job on my resumé,” Daves sputtered. He dropped his cigarette in the snow and clutched at his collar with one hand. He bucked, his mouth making a gasping motion, though there wasn’t any wheeze to accompany it.

“You’re not having an asthma attack, Daves,” Gordon assured him. One of Daves’ hands remained pressed against his plaid shirt while the other reached out to Gordon’s sleeve, clawing. Gordon shook it off like a minor irritant and circled the courtyard, pacing.

“I can’t . . . I can’t believe she read it,” he said to himself. His steps turned to leaps.

Daves’ hands dropped to his sides. He straightened. He scrunched his lips into an exaggerated scowl and, as Gordon came back around to his side, followed Gordon’s gaze upward.

“My luck. My sheer, absolute, unadulterated luck, Daves.” Gordon clasped him across the shoulders like a brother, a small smile hanging from his lips in spite of his friend’s despondency. “And you, Daves, you made it happen.”

Daves swore a third time — a string of profanity released in a gush. “Shit! Damn! Bastard! Motherfucking asshole!” The words trembled as they hung in the cold, still air in the courtyard in the centre of Heaven.

21

Over the years lillian had hired more than the 10,774 employees who currently served the building at 12205 Millcreek Industry Park occupied by Heaven Books, but there had been economic shifts, layoffs, promotions, demotions, and transfers. Although Heaven had its security systems to protect the workers from one another and to protect the company from any bold or blatant sabotage, it was simply not possible for Lillian to monitor the working habits of all ten thousand, seven hundred, seventy-four employees. The very idea twisted something in Lillian’s spine and made her stand less straight.

Certainly individual e-mails could be accessed, and the number of outside calls made in a given week could be assessed to determine whether an employee’s overly frequent attempts to contact a family member would threaten the company. But even then there were exceptional circumstances that were harmless when left alone. For instance, employee #1202, a Ms. Bitz, telephoned out every day at least once, but occasionally twice or even three times. Early on in the employment of #1202, the conversations had given rise to concern. Number 1202, Bitz, G., had a tendency to cradle the receiver for at least thirty minutes per day, conversing with a dial tone while believing contact was being made with the outside. It was a common habit, but thirty minutes was eight minutes higher than the company average. Reports had come back from Head Office asking Lillian to check into the situation.

In what was economically a colossal time-suck, as far as Lillian was concerned, her top IT person was contacted and given directives. The phone line of Bitz, G., was spliced and bugged, and Lillian Payne herself had to set aside time to go through the annoyingly one-sided conversations, transcribe them, and forward the transcriptions to Head Office along with her assessment of Bitz’s psychological stability. It had made her feel like a petty department-store dick rather than an executive in a thriving company. Once the transcriptions had been received, Head Office assigned one of their own staff to reassess the conversations and confirm Lillian’s findings. Verdict: harmless. In her branch alone, Lillian had calculated, $4,060 in salaried hours had been wasted investigating an excitable doting single mother. While Lillian understood the need to spend preventive and protective dollars, she weighed the gossip factor against them every time.