When You Don't See Me (11 page)

I thought about running for the door. Instead, I meekly said, “Afraid not.”

“Good! Those positions are all filled,” she said. “Another cookie? No? The partners are looking for a—well, I guess you could call it a gofer. Or a runner. Someone to run errands, help with deliveries, and that sort of thing. I'll tell you now, it's drudgery.”

“I don't care.”

“Good boy. Fill out this application while I see if someone can interview you today.”

I filled in the boxes on the form with robotic precision. After submitting hundreds of others, it became like breathing. But as usual, I paused at the space for notification in case of emergency. Sometimes I put my parents. Other times, Uncle Blaine. Or Gavin. This time, I filled the blanks with Roberto's name and his cell phone number.

Just as I finished, a toy poodle with a pen in its mouth pranced through the reception area as if it had an appointment down the hall in another office. It was dyed crimson, and I took that as another good omen.

“Alrighty then,” Eileen suddenly chirped. Then she said to me, “You're in luck. Both partners have time to meet you. Down that hall. Behind the walnut door on the left is the conference room. They're in there.”

“Great. Thanks, Eileen.”

“Have another cookie. I insist.”

“I couldn't. Crumbs,” I said. She nodded, as if crumbs were the devil.

I found the conference room and knocked. After the door opened, a blue poodle ran through my legs and scampered down the hall with a swatch of fabric in its mouth. I looked up and saw a woman smiling at my puzzled expression. “Was that the furniture designer or the carpenter?” I asked her.

“Close. That's Ottoman,” she said. “Come in.”

“So the gofer position has already been filled?” I asked. My eyes quickly swept the room. I took in a long, dark table, leather chairs, plants, and an older man in a dark suit standing by an enormous globe. I half expected him to spin it, point to a random continent, and announce plans for an invasion while laughing maniacally. I figured I'd end up being rejected again, so with nothing to lose, I added, “Would it help if I came back as a Shar-Pei?”

“No. Maybe a mastiff,” the man suggested. He didn't sound evil at all. His tone and expression reminded me of Mr. Rogers. Or Fred Rogers meets Dr. No. “We need a working dog. Now, the kuvasz is a fine dog. Please, have a seat. Nick, is it? I'm Thaddeus Wamsley, but you can call me Mr. Wamsley.”

“Okay,” I said. I sank into a leather chair and added, “Mr. Wamsley.”

“I'm Bailey Wilkes,” the woman said. She leaned across the table and firmly shook my hand. She looked young, maybe a few years older than me. Her suit was immaculate and hid her flaws, if she had any. Her hair was honey blond, with a dark streak in her bangs. She wore a pair of nerdy glasses, favored by nine out of ten businesswomen and female solo artists. “Please, ignore my partner. Mr. Wamsley is an old man whose idea of new and exciting design is Martha Stewart's Kmart collection. I only keep him around because he's the money behind our organization.”

“And Ms. Wilkes is nothing but a hotshot fresh out of design school who blew a couple of rock stars, replaced some pillows on their beds, and was lucky enough to snap a few photographs before they kicked her out, which she then got printed in
Town & Country,”
Mr. Wamsley said. “If she wasn't so good at drumming up business and making sure we're mentioned in every publication dedicated to our craft, Bailey would be at home where she belongs, selling homemade pillows on eBay.”

Bailey's mouth dropped open, feigning shock; then she grinned and said, “Good one.”

Mr. Wamsley picked up my application from the table, glanced at it for a few seconds, then dropped it. It skimmed the table's polished surface and landed in front of me. In a bored tone, he said, “I could go on and on about how we're looking for a team player, someone with an upbeat attitude and good people skills, and all that crap…”

He trailed off and Bailey picked up his patter, as if I'd stepped into a scene they'd rehearsed without me, and said, “The truth is, Nick, we need someone to do what he's told, and to do it without question.”

“You make it sound like I'm auditioning to be your slave,” I said.

Mr. Wamsley's left eyebrow rose. “In a word, yes.”

“I wouldn't go that far,” Bailey hastily disagreed.

“Don't be such a nanny,” Mr. Wamsley growled at her. He turned to me and said, “Nobody's going to ask you to wash toilets with your tongue. You'll help with deliveries, assist the designers with installations, perhaps nail together a table, fax, file, and maybe get coffee. Is that so terrible?”

“No,” I answered. “I can do all that.”

“I'm sure you can,” Bailey said warmly. “You'll be great.”

“Does that mean I have the job?” I asked.

Bailey picked up my application again. Her eyes skimmed the page and her forehead wrinkled. She looked up and asked, “You're going to Pratt? Good school.”

“I dropped out,” I admitted. She continued to stare at me, which made me think she wanted more of an explanation. “I wasn't sure what I wanted to do. What area to focus my studies on, you know? It seemed like a waste of time and money, so I figured—”

“Look,” she interjected, “I don't need to know everything that happened before you walked in here. I just wondered if you plan on going back. This is a full-time job. We need you here.”

Her change in attitude was startling. It jarred something in my memory and I felt as though a fog had suddenly lifted, allowing me to see Bailey more clearly. The trim figure, chic clothes, salon-bought hair, enhanced features—she looked like an upgraded version of Morgan. Morgan 2.0. I hardly ever thought of Morgan as human, much less as someone who might have a living and breathing family. I just assumed she stepped out of a pod, or was hatched from an egg buried in sand. Were she and Bailey related?

My mind flashed on Morgan's rent checks. Morgan Adams. Bailey Wilkes. Different last names, but the physical resemblance was eerie. Maybe they were cousins.

I suddenly realized Mr. Wamsley was staring at me as though I'd just loudly farted. I asked, “What? I mean, no. I don't plan to go back any time soon.”

“Good,” Bailey said. She shrugged, as if my application had no more interest and asked Mr. Wamsley, “Any more questions?”

“We could check his references,” he said. “I didn't recognize any of the names he put down. Frankly, I don't care.”

“Me, either,” Bailey agreed. She smiled brightly at me and said, “It's your hair. I like it. You're hired.”

“Rock on,” I said. “I mean, thank you.”

Mr. Wamsley shook my hand firmly and said, “I don't care about your hair. If you're not here at eight sharp, you're fired.”

“I'll be here, sir,” I promised.

“Sir,” he repeated, obviously pretending to savor the sound of the word. “I like that. Bailey, call me ‘sir' from now on, okay?”

“Only if you refer to me as ‘high priestess of everything fabulous and my personal queen.'”

“Oh well,” he said, “so much for that idea. See you both tomorrow.”

 

“Score!” Roberto shouted that night after I told him my good news. He gave me a bear hug and jumped up and down, carrying me with him around the living room. My feet nearly clipped Kendra's head, causing her to jerk backward and drop the magazine she'd been flipping through.

“Watch it!” she shrieked.

“Will you guys shut up?” Morgan hollered from the bedroom. “I'm trying to work in here!”

“What's up with Countess Crab-a-lot?” Roberto asked. He'd just come home from work. None of us ever came home and relaxed. First, we had to figure out if Morgan was home and assess her mood. If she was in a bad mood, the three of us would go out, or hang out in my room. If she was in a good mood—

I supposed we'd find out someday.

“She came home and locked herself in there,” I said, gesturing to the bedroom, “grumbling about her bosses, work, and men in general.”

“Her boss is a general?” Kendra asked, lost in her magazine.

“Yes. General Whyareyousuchadummy,” I answered.

“What a strange name. Is it Polish?” she murmured. “Should I get capri pants?”

“Will they make you smarter?” Roberto asked.

“What a silly question. Of course not.”

“Then, no,” Roberto said.

“Speaking of names,” I began, but stopped when I realized Morgan was suddenly in the room, standing like a pissed-off statue with crossed arms and a stony stare.

When she had our full attention, she came to life. “Is it too much to ask for you guys to be quiet? I was forced to bring a ton of work home with me tonight, and it all has to be done by tomorrow. I can't concentrate with the three of you chattering like a bunch of magpies in here. I can hear every word you say, you know.” She glared at Roberto and added, “
Every
word.”

“Nick got a job,” Roberto said brightly, as if he hadn't heard a word she said. “It's a happy day.”

Morgan closed her eyes for five seconds. I imagined that she was willing herself not to kill us in our sleep later that night. She came to and asked, “Where are you working?”

“Wamsley & Wilkes,” I said, enunciating clearly. I waited for a reaction, but if the name meant anything to her, she didn't let it show. “It's a design firm.”

“Do they make—”

“Interior design,” I said, interrupting Kendra. She frowned and went back to her magazine. “I'll be doing shit work, but it's good pay.”

I told them everything that Eileen had told me while I'd filled out tax forms. I'd get ten dollars an hour to start, a two-dollar raise after three months, with health insurance, dental, and an optional 401k program.

“I should be working a lot of hours, so I'll finally make some real money,” I said. “Plus it's in a creative field. It's not art, really, and it's fulfilling someone else's vision, but still…” I trailed off, unsure where I was going with my train of thought.

“As someone in a similar situation, I know what you mean,” Roberto said.

“Way to go, da Vinci,” Morgan said blandly. Before she went back into her room she added, “Now keep it down, please.”

Kendra looked up. “Did she just say please?”

“This would be a good time to consult Nostradamus,” Roberto said.

“I used to date a psychic. His predictions have been accurate so far,” Kendra said. We looked at her, but she was already reading her magazine again.

Roberto ran his hand over his eyes like he had a headache, and I bit my knuckles to keep from laughing.

May 1, 2003

Dear Nicky,

Thank you for finally responding to the many messages I've left on your voice mail. I'm sure it was just luck that you managed to pick a time to call back when my phone was turned off. I would really like to speak to you soon.

As for the cell phone bill, it's all part of a package that includes the entire family's phones. So no, there's not a way to separate your bill out. Did you ask because you want to pay for your own phone, or because you're worried that we'll have a record of your phone calls? All of that's handled through Dunhill Electrical. Only the bookkeeper there sees the bills. I don't even know if the calls are itemized for each number. Neither your father nor I is interested in spying on our sons. So please don't give the bill or your privacy another thought.

I'll keep trying to reach you at a time when it's convenient for you to talk.

Love,
Mom

I
arrived promptly at 8:00
AM
on my first day as an employee at Wamsley & Wilkes, but I was the only one. At half past, Eileen drifted down the hall toward me. I could see something blue sticking out of a canvas bag. I thought it might be Ottoman the dog, but it was a skein of blue yarn for what I assumed would be that day's knitting project.

After Eileen unlocked the door, I made coffee while she unloaded her bag. I was relieved to see there were no cookies.

“Now what?” I asked, bringing her a cup with two sugars, no cream, as requested.

“You wait for our driver, Isaiah,” she said. “Sometimes he's late because he comes from the Bronx. Then he has to pick up the van from the garage.” She peered at her computer monitor while it booted up.

“Is there anything I can do to help you?” I asked, eager to make a good impression. I sat on the chair in front of her desk and heard a loud squeak.

I jumped to my feet, certain that I'd killed a poodle when Eileen also squeaked, “Otto!” Fortunately, it turned out to be Ottoman's toy pork chop in the chair. “I wish those dogs could be trained to put their toys away,” Eileen complained.

“What's the other dog's name?” I asked, gently placing the pork chop on Eileen's desk.

“Tassel. They come in with Bailey. She's late this morning.”

The door opened and a barrel-chested black man walked in. It didn't take a genius to realize this was Isaiah, since he was in a navy shirt with a badge on one pocket that said
Isaiah.
At least no one had suggested that I wear a similar shirt. I wasn't above wearing one, and I was often attracted to men in uniforms. But the shirt made me think of Dunhill Electrical, my family's company where I hoped I'd never have to work in my life.

When Eileen introduced us, Isaiah wore a dubious expression. I didn't blame him. I probably looked like a scrawny kid to him, even though he didn't seem much older than I was.

“Twenty-five,” Isaiah said later when we got into the van and I asked him. “You?”

“Nineteen.”

He consulted the clipboard Eileen had given him and said, “You're in luck. Light morning.” Then he lurched into traffic in a way that made me grab the oh-shit handle above my window. I hurriedly fastened my seat belt while a man in a black Lexus stuck his hand through his sunroof to flip us off. Isaiah seemed oblivious as he attempted to find a station on the radio.

“I can do that,” I volunteered when he nearly clipped a cab.

“Good,” Isaiah said and reached for his coffee. “I'm off to a sluggish start this morning.”

I hit the first preset station and left it on 50 Cent. I thought my prayer as Isaiah cut across two lanes to make a right turn was only in my head, but I must have sounded like I was patiently waiting for disaster right along with 50 and Eminem, because Isaiah turned to stare at me. Fortunately, he was stopped at a traffic light.

“You know this song?” he asked. It sounded like an accusation.

“I like 50 Cent,” I said defensively.

“Ah ha ha haaaaaaa.” He threw back his head when he laughed.

“I take it you don't?”

“I hate that gangsta shit. If you're trying to impress me—”

“I started listening to Tupac and Snoop when I was a kid,” I said.

“Your parents should have been arrested. You like 50 Cent. Ah ha ha haaaaaaa.” The light changed, and his foot was heavy on the accelerator. “Nick, huh? Like nickel. I guess I have to call you 5 Cent till you grow up.”

“Shut up,” I said without animosity. He made me think of the torment I endured from Roberto's older brothers. “You do realize that you nearly took out two pugs and an old woman just then?”

“Pugs are ugly, anyway,” Isaiah said. “I'll only get fired for killing poodles and greyhounds.”

“Greyhounds?”

“Mr. Wamsley owns five.” He whipped the van into the loading zone of an office building and said, “First stop. We deliver that.”

My gaze followed the direction of his thumb, and I said, “That looks like something my grandmother has in her house. What is it?”

“That is an antique washstand,” Isaiah said. “There's a pitcher and bowl to go with it. Because people want the strangest shit in their offices.”

 

After our fourth delivery of the morning, Isaiah jumped a curb to pull into a McDonald's. We were eating our Quarter Pounders on the loading dock in the garage when I pointed up and asked, “What's the story on the people at Wamsley & Wilkes? Is there anyone extremely evil I should stay away from?”

“No. Everyone's cool here.”

Isaiah's answer lacked detail, but turned out to be extremely accurate. I spent the rest of the day assisting Jisella, Wamsley & Wilkes's master carpenter. Everything about Jisella was large. She was tall, with large hands and feet. Her hair was a thick mass of wiry curls, which were twisted and bound into a huge knot. Jisella's head contained what I assumed was an enormous brain; she casually mentioned in conversation having a degree from MIT.

“I could've geeked it up with the best of them, I guess, in Silicon Valley or at NASA. But I'd rather build a table than the next supercomputer,” she said. “Keep sanding. It's possible to listen and sand at the same time, you know. If you do a good job, I'll show you how to plane a door.”

I was getting some coffee in the break room when a man in jeans and a Sex Pistols T-shirt under a black suit jacket stared at me and said, “You're Nick.”

He pulled a pencil from behind his ear and used it to stir sugar and cream into his coffee. He glared at me over the rim as I said, “Yeah. I don't know who you are.”

“Nigel,” he said. First he offered me his cup. Then he switched and firmly shook my hand. “I'm a designer. The one they'll never promote.”

“Oh,” I said.

“It's no big deal,” he assured me. “I've had offers from several top firms in town. But I like it here.”

“That's good.”

“I need you,” he suddenly said.

“What?”

He laughed and said, “No. Not like that. I just finished some sketches for a job we're doing on a—well, just come look.”

I followed Nigel to his office and looked at several drawings of various rooms. They looked like Aphrodite's summer home in the Hamptons, and I said as much.

“I know. The client just vacationed in Greece. She wants her place to look like a villa in Athens.”

“Do they have villas in Greece? I thought that's Italy.”

“A temple, then. Whatever. Greece is so played out. We want to be original, but what can you do with a concept like Greece that hasn't been done a million times before?”

A fact from one of my classes at Pratt suddenly reared its ugly head and made my mouth move. “Coins were invented in Greece. In Lydia.” I realized Nigel was staring at me with an expression that I was sure I used daily, whenever Kendra opened her mouth. I quickly added, “What if you used coins in the bathroom as a tile? Kind of like a—”

“A mosaic,” Nigel interrupted. “That's not bad.”

I watched as he began scribbling notes on one of the drawings. I tentatively suggested, “A lot of people automatically associate white-figure pottery with Greece, but black-figure pottery was very popular in Ancient Greece. It had black lines over red clay, which would look great in—”

“In the study!” Nigel exclaimed.

“I was going to say the kitchen, but okay.” I liked that Nigel was listening to my ideas and taking me seriously. I boldly added, “I was going to suggest scrolls for the study. Like in the—”

“Library of Alexandria?” Nigel said. “That might be a little too literal, don't you think?”

It took me a minute to realize that he thought he'd made a clever pun. I laughed, but it seemed painfully obvious that I hadn't gotten the joke. Luckily, the awkward moment was ancient history when Mr. Wamsley unexpectedly entered the office.

“Nigel, I met with Crepsky and Turner this morning. We got the account.”

“That's great.”

“That's crap,” Mr. Wamsley said, pointing to one of the drawings.

“Nick was just helping me with that,” Nigel explained. I detected a hint of terror in his voice, and wondered if he was about to pin the blame on me. But he didn't. He told Mr. Wamsley my ideas and how they could be incorporated to enhance the client's overall vision. “He's right, earthen tones will work a lot better in the grand scheme of things.”

“Fine. But make sure you have some marble in there,” Mr. Wamsley advised. “Nothing says Greece like marble. Nick? Terry needs your assistance.”

Terry's unofficial title was Fabric Bitch. Her office looked like a fabric outlet. There were yards of prints in rolls leaning against the walls. Swatches littered every surface in the room. Two chairs stood in the center of the chaos, half covered in a red-and-gold-patterned silk.

“I need you to hold. I'll staple,” she said. Somehow she managed to speak while gripping several pins between her lips. I made a mental note to dress as Terry for Halloween.

A girl my age walked in and dropped three bags on the floor. She crossed something off a list and said, “Your organza, Madame.”

“Thank you, Susan,” Terry said. Three pins flew across the room. She said to me, “Susan's our buyer.”

“Hi,” I said. I jumped as a staple missed my pinky by a millimeter.

“Hey,” Susan replied. “Want to go buy a piano?”

“Uh, now?”

“He's helping me,” Terry said.

“I'm not blind,” Susan stated. Terry shook her head and muttered something unintelligible through the pins. “I'm supposed to meet some friends in an hour. We're going to a concert, and I'm worried I'll be late if—”

“You can't make Nick pick up your slack,” Terry admonished. “Just because you suck at budgeting your time—”

“Who asked you, Terry?”

“Or, maybe you were shopping for yourself again, instead of—”

“I don't mind. Really,” I insisted. “I've never bought a piano before. Could be fun.”

“You're not authorized to use the company cards,” Terry said. “Put your finger here. Don't move, while I get the glue gun.”

“She's right,” Susan said and sighed. “Oh well. Thanks for offering. Stupid piano.”

“That girl thinks time stands still for her,” Terry said, once Susan had left the room. “Wait until she's my age. She'll see that it all zips right by you. Time waits for no—hey!”

I laughed as she chased Ottoman, who'd grabbed a yard of organza and run from the room.

 

I didn't mind getting up early every morning to go to work. The job was a little like I Dream of Cleanie, in that I got to go inside people's residences as well as businesses. But the stays were of shorter duration, and it was a lot more fun to deliver a piece of furniture, or hang a painting, or even drop off boxes of tile, than to clean someone's toilet.

As long as I got enough sleep, I found that I was actually cheerful in the mornings. It was fun to see what Eileen was up to at her desk, dodge her offers of food, and be greeted by the poodles. I continued to enjoy getting to know my coworkers. And Isaiah was an interesting, if hazardous, pilot, who apparently not only woke up happy, but stayed that way no matter what the day dealt us.

However, even with my new schedule, I planned to sleep late on Saturday morning, my first work-free day. Apparently, Morgan had other ideas. I opened one eye to see the sheet pulled back, allowing me a clear view of the living room. Morgan was poised at the stereo, watching me, and as soon as she saw eyeballs, she began noisily opening and shutting empty CD jewel cases.

“Look,” she said. “Not here. And nothing here. Wow. Nada. And yet another empty case. Where are my CDs?” When I just stared at her, trying to remember how to speak, she went on. “I know how this works. I've been taken before. First you use my TV, my DVD player, my stereo. Then you eat my food. Then you lose my CDs and my books. Next you'll be wearing my clothes.”

“Well, no,” I croaked.

“It's not going to happen this time, you understand?” She jabbed her finger in my direction. “These CDs better be back in their cases when I get home tonight.”

She swooped out of the room, and I heard the apartment door slam shut. That was usually the moment when Kendra came out of hiding and Roberto emerged from the bathroom. But I seemed to have the place to myself. Rare. I let out a sigh that I felt I'd been holding for weeks.

I'd hoped that having a job would get Morgan off my back. Of course, it would take a while for me to get my cash flow adjusted. Especially since more cash had flown from me to Kendra than I liked to think about. But I hadn't told Morgan or Roberto that. As far as they knew, everything was fine.