487
Page 487 was missing. Angrily she pawed back through the last few pages of the manuscript; it was not there. She checked her desk, the uncluttered surface gave no betraying hints at the pages whereabouts. Her one drawer mocked her with its pristine emptiness; she had only just begun working in the editing department, it had yet to engorge with any useful detritus. She stared at the pages of neatly tabbed and highlighted notes, over half-finished and looking forward to ending ahead of schedule.
Anna looked long and hard at the phone, loath to call her new boss. She glanced at her wall; the carefully framed diploma seemed to look down its nose at her, “Bachelors of Arts” years of sweat and hard work didn’t seem to fit under so mundane a title; her focus on investigative journalism had seemed a logical path to pursue in her teens. Now, 13 months after graduation with no job offers, a philosophy degree would have at least given her better scope to deal with her crisis.
She carefully re-read the last line of page 486, “heart sick, with life eddying away, he wasted no more time and…” no new electrifying meaning jumped off the page at her. Page 488 was just as bad, “Carefully he placed his last souvenir from her away and prepared to face what he now knew he must.” Disgusted with not only having to edit such drivel as this supposed novel, but having yet to herself garner such an offer for any of her own writing, she tore open the previous editors notes on the manuscript and scanned rapidly down the thin spiked cursive for the authors Biography. It was blank, no name, no picture, and no silken pros on his or her work, nothing; just a red stamp of “confidential” that mocked her inquiry.
Perplexed, Anna took the remainder of the work; some 253 pages, and locked the rest in her desk carefully. No one else worked in this wing of the building, as she was the newest addition and the next junior person had been there for ten years already.
Resigned, she headed for Mr. Bates office, wishing that the stuffy British expat would have at least kept to the English tradition of bachelor honorifics, if only for the interest it would have lent his otherwise bland personality. She neared the door and read the name plate dejectedly, Mr. Martin T. Bates Director of editing. Before she could reach the door knob, the voices filtering through the thin frosted glass door halted her.
“I don’t know James, taking on such a new hire is risky in this economy; don’t you think?” Mr. Bates English accent was as precise as ever.
“Aw ease up Marty; she’s as bright and polished as a new penny! You guys needed some fresh life in the department.” James replied.
Anna brushed her unruly red hair off her neck self-consciously, it was completely unmanageable with the humidity that the low lying clouds overhead had drug in with them from the lake.
“That’s true, but her degrees greener than the trees it’s printed on and she has no real experience in the writing industry.” Mr. Bates said.
A man’s shadow darkened the glass and she snatched her hand back unwilling to be accused of ease dropping, Anna Pirouetted smartly, glad that her well-worn ballet flats made no whisper of sound as she retraced her steps back the way she had come. She paused at the head secretary’s office next to Mr. Bates.
Poking her head in, she asked in a falsely chipper voice that grated on her own nerves.
“Ma’am, my copy I’m editing is getting tattered, is there any way to get a new copy?”
The matronly women manning her desk looked up at her unruffled, she answered while typing with one hand and writing on a post-it note with the other.
“Sorry Hun, but until you finish with it there won’t be a digital copy; the author uses a typewriter, we’d have to send word to the author and ask for another hand typed copy to be couriered over to us.”
Anna smiled her thanks and ducked out. She hurried back into her office; tiny and cramped at least she had a small window, little more than a loophole to let in light, but a window nonetheless. The building she toiled in sat hunched like an ancient castle, a palisade of the written word against the tides of progress; enduring the encroaching future to shelter its diligent serfs in their toils.
Her hair had come out of its confines again and frizzed around her head because of the humidity. Outside the rain finally broke and came thundering down, an avalanche of water. Absently she balanced on one leg and starred out the window, her hand rubbed at the jagged scar that forked around her left ankle bone; faded and puckered, her pale skin was only a few shades lighter than the scar.
Outside a boy, no a man stood in the rain; what is his story? She wondered, herself braced before the window, safely ensconced inside. His green umbrella saves him from the worst of the wet that slashes down. Savagely the wind whips forth, turning the cloud burst into a squall. 143, a white house, shades down, curtains drawn, grass un-kept, gravel driveway, two small sedans glimmer under the cleansing deluge. The alley between them rapidly turns into a quagmire of soupy red mud, the construction there pauses at natures furry. Workers run to cover their interrupted projects.
An obsess women wattles out of the house, his wife? his mother? a sister perhaps? Anna wonders watching avidly, vicariously she tries to see what he sees; she strains forward wishing society did not prevent her from rushing through the window, across the street, and up to him, to demand, why? Why he sedately gives up his umbrella, why as she drives away does he turn his face to the sky, letting the rain wash over him without turning to go back inside. Even as cars splash past barely missing his khaki pants, he stands relaxed before the furry of the wind and rain, the perfect image of masculine youth vibrant and fresh. Finally at some unseen cue he turns and goes back inside. purplexed Anna turns back to her desk.
If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
Plopping down she picks her phone up and dials the secretary that she shares with the other junior editors.
“Marlene, it’s Anna, um, could you tell me who was working on this manuscript before me?” She pauses as Marlene shuffles through some papers on the other end of the phone. “Uh huh, oh, I didn’t know that, did he leave any contact information when he left? No it can wait if you want to email it over to me when you have a second I would really a… appreciate it. Thanks.” Anna despised how she stuttered when speaking to new people, if only her words spoken aloud could be as smooth as those marching orderly line by line row by row from her writing, she hung up the phone quickly, unsure how to give orders without a proper rank structure to define her role. She sighed, missing the certainty of the Marine Corps each day in her civilian office.
Unconsciously she massaged the front of her shin and knee; the six plates and 38 screws there always ached when it rained. Her mind flashed back to her car accident nearly 10 years ago. The throbbing in her leg seemed to intensify with the memory, a chance event that ended her dreams of becoming a prima ballerina.
Anxious to be doing something, she started unpacking her box of office memorabilia. On to the walls she hung certificates “Graduation from basic training, certification of completion for combat medical personnel, graduating class 203, 1 of 24 in combat photography.” Next she hung up her various medals and awards given out to everyone who served in a combat zone, then her few framed photos that had been published, including one of her in her body armour and combat fatigues, lastly her purple heart medal that had ended her last tour of duty in Afghanistan.
Anna wondered about her luck, the last day on base in the blazing desert, she was photographing new incoming personnel as they ran out of the Air Force’s jet and into their barracks; mortar shells had rained down from the hills just outside the barbed wire fences, no Intel had heard even a murmur of the sudden attack. Explosions wracked the plane and it gunned its engines and started moving away, stunned ground troops clung onto the netting inside, the pilot closed the cargo bay doors and the plane lifted off again getting to the safety of higher elevation. Then a white flash threw her off her feet and thankfully she knew nothing until she woke up in the hospital
Onto her desk she placed her small potted tree, a bonsai trained in the classic style to wind in a sinuous coil up from the tiny moss covered rocks it was planted in. she had needed something to occupy her time while stuck in the hospital to recover and fix her ankle again. She had taught herself the art of miniature trees over the 13 months she spent trapped inside, with only her school work to spend her time on she had needed some other focus to ease the tedium of physical therapy sessions. She reorganized her writing supplies and checked her inbox every time the clock on the wall ticked a minute away.
Finally out of busy work, Anna unlocked her desk and pulled out the bundle of papers that the novel had come with. Flipping through offers, estimates and due dates she found the large manila envelope the manuscript must have arrived in. there was no postage, no return address, nothing but “Martin Bates office 104” written in cramped print on the front. Even more intrigued now she pulled out a pair of reading glasses she had found when scrubbing down her desk and used them to magnify the envelope and study every square inch of it.
“Ah ha!” she exclaimed “got you now.” She had found a single finger print on the back corner in faded yellowing ink, not a clear finger print just a smudge from a thumb. Next she smelled the envelope trying to detect anything significant about it, she hovered over the finger print and realized it smelt of earth rather than ink. A smudge of mud she determined.
She dashed out of her chair to the look out her window and the soupy alley way still torn up from construction. The rain had turned the excavation into thick sticky yellow mud.
Her email chimed the arrival of the email she wanted, she turned back to her computer and opened the missive Bartholomeus Grant it read with his phone number and address. Excitedly Anna dialed her desk phone and waited breathlessly, after five rings his voice mail picked up, unsure what to say she hung up and dialed back. This time it went straight to voice mail. Disconcerted she dialed a third time and again went straight to voice mail. Stymied she began to pace her small office, she placed her pine bonsai on the shallow window ledge, barely wide enough for even its tiny shallow pot, at least now it would get some sun she thought.
After several fruitless hours of scrounging the internet all she had found was a barely completed public Facebook account and a few articles he had written to various publishing magazines.
A Bang on her door frame made her nearly jump out of her skin; she repressed her startle response, but her hand still twitched aching to rest on the pistol she had worn for years on her right side. Calmly she looked up at her door. Mr. Bates and a man she assumed was James peered in at her, he was about the same height as the shadow on the door from earlier.
“Yes?” she asked innocently of them.
“James and I are going for dinner would you like to come? Or can we bring you coffee on the way back?” Mr. Bates was painfully courteous to all his female employees in a charming old fashioned way.
“Oh how rude of me, Anna Clemet this is James Goldgilts the owner of the publishing house.” Mr. Bates said while unfixing the strap on his black umbrella with its golden cap.
“An honor to meet you sir.” Anna said quickly standing up and shaking his offered hand.
“I’m hardly worthy of such honor, or so my ex-wives would tell you.” He said smiling to relieve her nerves; startling a laugh from her.
“No thank you sirs, I want to finish this up before my deadline.” Anna said both men nodded their heads, nearly a bow from James and both turned to leave. Mr. Bates waited for James to leave before speaking softly to her.
“Oh Ms. Anna, I received a call from Bartholomew, he seemed to think that I was trying to reach him and offer him his job back. I haven’t called him recently, have you? Marlene mentioned something about your asking for his number?” Bates asked questioningly.
Anna’s porcelain skin turned scarlet as she struggled for what to say. She had completely forgotten that the calls from her office phone would simply show up as the department and company names on caller ID. She her face slowly heated to crimson as she apologized without explaining her reason for calling, Mr. Bates nodded without smiling.
“Well unofficial calls should be from your cell phone not the office line” Bates said over his shoulder as they left.
“Maybe next time...” She she trailed off longingly under her breadth, the unknown author still tugged at her imagination as she locked the incomplete complete novel into her drawer for the night; as procedure required. Tonight she would comb through the internet for more about her mystery aurthor, she vowed to herself.