Audrey's Door Part 8

Simon nodded. "Some of us aren't machines." Simon wanted her job, and had made no secret about sending out his resume when Jill stopped delegating to him and hired Audrey. There was a note she didn't like in his voice, envy or contempt or both. She decided to ignore it.

The rest of the team, Jim, Louis, and Henry, Craig, Mark, and even Collier Steadman, the head of Human Resources, were smiling...Was the watercooler spiked with liquid nitrous or something? "Come on!" David cheered.

They spent sixty decadent minutes at the restaurant. As the only woman at the table, she felt like a star. They pulled her chair out and poured a Bud for her. What could be more fun? "How do you not get caught, going out every day like this?" she asked.

Jim, whose family owned an entire apartment building in SoHo, finished chewing his food, and answered, "We just go. If you ask the b.i.t.c.h, she'll always say no. So don't ask."

"Won't I get fired?"

Collier from Human Resources, who was drinking his vodka-tini with his pinkies outstretched, moaned theatrically. Once, while she'd been filling out 401(k) beneficiary paperwork in his office, he'd broken down in tears because one of his poodles was sick. Bewildered, Audrey had patted him on the back, I'm sure he'll be fine, I'm sure he'll be fine, she'd promised. she'd promised. These vets work miracles. These vets work miracles. He'd grabbed her hard and hugged her as he'd wept. Crazy, but who was she to judge? She talked to a cactus. He'd grabbed her hard and hugged her as he'd wept. Crazy, but who was she to judge? She talked to a cactus.

"Audrey, darling-" Collier scolded like the grand, barrel-chested queen that he was. "You're so delightfully green. It's a law: full-time work requires a sixty-minute break. Also, Jim, Jill Sidenschwandt is not a b.i.t.c.h. Her child is dying, and she's watching it happen. You, however, are a ridiculous person."

Audrey smiled. Collier saluted her with his martini.

"Bi-itch," Jim repeated.

"I second. Motion carries," Mark said.

It occurred to her that men could be catty, too.

Collier sighed. "Repeat. Dying son." He'd sipped a third of his vodka-tini, and looked dizzy.

"No, I'd call her a b.i.t.c.h," David said. "I took this job to learn something. It was a demotion from graphic design. She promised to train me." Audrey frowned. She'd always a.s.sumed he was idle because he was lazy. She'd never guessed he might not know how to do the job. No wonder he was always leaning over her shoulder when he bought her those lunchtime c.o.kes, asking basic questions like, "Which of those dots represents the plumbing?"

"I have nothing to do. It's like I'm f.u.c.king dying inside," Mark said.

"Kafka over there," Louis scolded, then took a gulp of his Taj Mahal. He showed up late every morning and left early, but n.o.body cared, because he never did anything.

"You guys want work?" Audrey asked. "I figured you'd get p.i.s.sed if I asked, because I'm new."

"I'd get p.i.s.sed. Count me out," Craig said, then ordered a third neat gin. The trick, he'd told her when they'd sat down, was ordering something that didn't smell.

Simon dropped his fork and knife so they made a clamor against the aluminum plate. All eyes turned to him. He squinted at Audrey, and she could see that he was trying to contain no small measure of fury. "You're obviously some kind of genius," he spit. "But if you'd screwed up today, don't kid yourself, they'd have fired you. And a few of us would have packed our desks up, too. On paper, you realize, I'm the second-in-command. Not that the b.i.t.c.h cares. I don't know what she says to you in that office. None of us even know half the time whether the plans are the same from week to week. We need something to show for our paychecks, Lucas. We've got families. Christmas around the corner." He glared. n.o.body interrupted him. The idea that they wanted direction had never occurred to her, mostly because she'd never really believed she was in charge. Also, they were grown men: couldn't they have rolled up their sleeves before this and simply found work that needed to be done?

"I'm sorry," she said. "Of course. I didn't think. I've been preoccupied. I'll put something together for each of you as soon as we get back."

"You'd better," Simon said, and she realized that celebration wasn't their only reason for taking her to lunch.

Collier began to clap, which broke the tension. "And that, ladies and gentleman, is our lesson for the day in pa.s.sive aggression. Simon has lots of grumpy little demons to work out. And here's my contribution in aggressive aggression: if you keep using the B word to characterize Ms. Sidenschwandt, I'm going to write you up for disciplinary action."

David hoisted his beer. So did Collier. Then Jim, Craig, Louis, Henry, and Mark. Finally, jealous Simon. "To Audrey. For a job well done, and more work for the rest of us," David said.

She looked around the circular table. For the most part, they were a smiling, convivial group. Was it possible, after all these months, that she'd been at fault, too, and ought to have tried harder to get to know them? Further, what would that sixteen-year-old in torn coveralls have said if she'd seen this dream job snapshot of her own future? She'd have giggled with her hands cupped over her mouth, then given up the ghost of subtlety and jumped for joy.

She elected not to acknowledge that none of them seemed particularly equipped for the work, that only half had requested it, and that they'd probably resent her when they realized how much needed to get done. She decided to save those worries for later, and instead, clinked her half-drunk gla.s.s against Collier's, then David's, then Simon's-one person to the next, and saw this happy moment through a certain sixteen-year-old's eyes.

11.

This Petty Pace from Day to Day The rest of the afternoon was a slog. She delegated the entire lower engineering and plumbing plans to Simon, David, Mark, and Craig, and to her shock they were grateful to have something to do. After that, she sat at her cube, refining the roof-garden plans for the brainstorming session Jill had scheduled for the next morning (they needed to position return drains in a way that kept mold to a minimum), and thought about what had happened during the night. She'd sleepwalked, obviously. It could happen to anyone, given enough stress. Still, those cut wires. That lunatic cardboard door. And the man in the three-piece suit with the bone finger today, at the meeting. She hadn't guessed she was capable of imagining something so bizarre.

She looked down at her paper, and saw that over the mourning wall, she'd drawn a rectangle with a handle. A door.

"That's it," she mumbled aloud, as the plans rolled together, and she visited her health-care plan online. Three local shrinks looked best. She made appointments with each of them. The earliest she could schedule was Wednesday afternoon.

"Sleepwalking? Delusions?...Siamese twins. Like Chang and Eng?" the last woman asked.

"Who? No. Like De Palma. Sisters. Sisters. But forget that part," Audrey whispered. "I'm under some stress, obviously." But forget that part," Audrey whispered. "I'm under some stress, obviously."

"Is there a possibility you'll hurt yourself?" Her accent was Staten Island: Ya gonna hoit yaself?

"I don't know. Is that a thing people know?"

"Yeah. Ya'd know," the woman said.

"Then I doubt it," Audrey told her. "But I do have OCD. The kind that can't be medicated." She whispered this part and made sure no one nearby was listening. It was four o'clock, and everyone was playing with the new espresso machine in the kitchen. It infused chocolate, apparently. Jealous Simon, pleased with the role she'd given him as manager of all nonroof floors, asked her to join them, but she'd decided to make this call instead. "When I got diagnosed, they told me I didn't need pills or therapy. It's psychological only. Not physical," she said to the shrink.

"Who told ya that?" the woman asked.

Audrey prairie dogged over the cube wall, but she didn't see anyone nearby. "My nurse pract.i.tioner in training at the University of Nebraska...about fifteen years ago. She told me I could fix it myself-I'm just a nervous person," she whispered. Even as she said it, she knew her mistake. A diagnosis that serious, you get a second opinion. From a real doctor, and not the kid with the clipboard.

"Sweetie, I don't know what kinda Kool-Aid they fed you, but all obsessive-compulsive disorders are physical."

Audrey blushed. "Really? What about the kind where you're so nervous that you change your own neurons and give yourself the disease because you had a traumatic childhood?"

"That's the nuttiest thing I've heard in...twenty minutes. There's no extraspecial self-created disorder. It's not your fault if you got blue eyes, is it? OCD is OCD. If you've got records, bring them. See you Wednesday, honee."

"Okay," Audrey said. She must have sounded shaken because the woman softened.

"Hey. It's life. Ya learn, right? You can't start off a genius, or there's no point."

"They pay you to be an optimist. That's your job," Audrey said, then squinted. Sweet Jesus, she was socially inappropriate.

"Sure," the lady said. "Between the malpractice insurance and Blue Cross, I'm a billionaire. Take care, and go to the hospital if you have an emergency. Bellevue's the best, if you live near there. If they're full, try NYU at 34th and First." and First."

"Thanks."

Audrey hung up, then looked at the black phone. Her desk walls were adorned with a David Hockney calendar for creative inspiration, two Parkside Plaza sketches, a photo of her and Saraub at the Long Beach Boardwalk in February, and the framed New York Times New York Times twelve-line article about her New York Emerging Voices Award in Architecture. Their sizes varied, but she'd a.s.sembled them so that their corners aligned, and the s.p.a.ces between them were equidistant. Her pens were arrayed in a jar by color and thickness of tip. Her desk reeked of bleach because at least once a day, she swiped it with Clorox. In her lap, she noticed that her hands were not evenly placed. She separated them now, so that each hand held an equal amount of each corresponding thigh, and her thighs were equidistant apart, too. twelve-line article about her New York Emerging Voices Award in Architecture. Their sizes varied, but she'd a.s.sembled them so that their corners aligned, and the s.p.a.ces between them were equidistant. Her pens were arrayed in a jar by color and thickness of tip. Her desk reeked of bleach because at least once a day, she swiped it with Clorox. In her lap, she noticed that her hands were not evenly placed. She separated them now, so that each hand held an equal amount of each corresponding thigh, and her thighs were equidistant apart, too.

"c.r.a.p," she moaned. For how many years had she been like this? Triple-checking that the toaster was unplugged, worrying that the floor would open, lingering in bed some mornings, because she was afraid the day would bring something that she couldn't tame by rearranging it into right angles? Of course this was physical. How could she have gone so long without getting a second opinion?

As if willing it to do so, the black phone rang. She picked it up, a welcome escape. "h.e.l.lo?"

Saraub's voice. "Aud-" She hung up. The phone rang again. She took it off the hook. Her cell phone chirped. She pulled out its battery, too unnerved to spend the time turning it off. It didn't matter what he had to say; apology or condemnation, the sound of his voice would start her bawling.

She put down her drafting pencil and did something she'd sworn she'd never do at any job, ever. Not even when the high-school kids at IHOP smeared her face with Reddi-Whip, or when she'd organized all the Jell-Os at the college dining hall by color, and the fry cook had told her, "You're pretty weird. Like somebody broke you, and you keep trying to put yourself back together, only you do it wrong. You know?"

She ran into the Vesuvius bathroom and cried in a stall. When she got out she saw Jill at the mirror. Her eyes were also red and swollen. They nodded at each other, then Audrey headed out. Before she got to the door, Jill called her back. "Audrey?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you okay?" she asked, wiping her hands on her trousers, because the women's room never had towels.

Audrey shook her head. "No."

"Me, neither," Jill said.

"Well, that's some consolation," Audrey answered.

Jill's somberness cracked, and she gave Audrey a lopsided grin. "Cute," she said, then peeled open her purse and applied a coat of jarring, bright red lipstick, as if to let Audrey know she was excused.

Audrey lingered, thinking about what Collier had said over lunch. "I'm sorry your son is sick," she said, then headed out.

Before she got to the door, Jill stopped her. "Audrey?" she asked.

"Yes?"

"Thank you." She seemed genuinely touched, like it was the first time anyone at the office had offered their sympathy. Audrey nodded, and started out. As she opened the door, Jill called, "Take care of yourself. Whatever it is that's troubling you..." She paused for a second, and Audrey understood that the sentiment bore a specific, human-sized weight: "It will pa.s.s. Good or bad, nothing lasts."

For once, Audrey thought before she acted, and chose not to speak but instead to nod.

When she got back to her desk, she rolled open the plans and began calculating distances between hedges and the building's internal plumbing. She worked until her shaking stopped, and her worries left. After a while, she got lost in it, as only someone with OCD can do.

An hour pa.s.sed. And then another. Pretty soon, she looked up at the clock, and saw that it was eight o'clock. Most of the lights in the office were out, the cleaning staff was vacuuming near her feet, and upon the blueprints, she'd drawn nearly a hundred doors.

12.

Girls' Night Out (Everybody Screws Up, Sometimes) As Audrey keyed her way back into 14B at The Breviary, Jayne came thumping out of 14E on a pair of wooden crutches. On one foot she wore a strappy, three-inch black stiletto. On the other she wore a green wool knee-high sock. Beneath the sock, an Ace bandage peeked. She pointed the socked foot at Audrey's trim waist, like she was challenging her to a karate foot duel. "Lady!" she cried.

Audrey was in no mood. She'd had enough crazy for one day. Besides, this was nutty. Jayne must have been listening for the sound of Audrey's jingling keys all evening.

Jayne wiggled her toes inside her socked foot. "Lady!" she repeated nervously, like this wasn't the first time she'd stalked a new friend, and if she got ignored right now, or insulted, that wouldn't be new, either.

Audrey put her out of her misery. "Tramp!"

At 14C, the same old woman who'd worn the vintage dressing gown this morning opened her door and stuck out her nose. Not her face, but her small, sharp nose, and a spill of glossy white hair. On the other side of 14B, at 14A, another door opened a crack-just enough for Audrey to see the tip of a gender-indeterminate, old, and sun-damaged forehead. The moment was surreal. Just as quickly, both doors closed.

Jayne dropped her socked foot gently to the floor. "I fell," she announced. "Now it's sprained. My knee. I'm a gimp. I'm still appearing at the Laugh Factory Sat.u.r.day night. Wild horses couldn't drag me. This s.h.i.+t happens all the time, but you've got to keep going, you know? You can't ever give up...can you?" Jayne looked up at Audrey with tears in her green eyes and Audrey thought: This woman is a raw nerve of emotions. More aptly put, this woman is plain raw, like skin rubbed so tender it's bleeding. This woman is a raw nerve of emotions. More aptly put, this woman is plain raw, like skin rubbed so tender it's bleeding.

"No. You can't ever give up, Jayne. I'm so sorry. What happened?"

Jayne wiped the water from eyes by running her thumbs just under the skin of her lower lashes so she didn't smudge her makeup, which looked like it might have been applied with a spatula. For the first time in a long while, Audrey was tempted to touch another person. So she did. She put her hand on Jayne's bony shoulder, then wasn't quite sure what to do with it.

Smiling brightly, but with a quivering voice, Jayne said, "Cab hit me on my way to work. I didn't sleep well-I've been having nightmares for a while now. So, anyway, I wasn't looking when I crossed the street. Like an idiot. I'm so stupid!" She shook her head in disgust, still wearing that uncomfortably bright smile. "I rolled over the hood, like a stunt man or something. I'm all sc.r.a.ped up, but nothing serious except a bruised kneecap," she said, then her voice got higher pitched, like at any second it would crack. "Wouldn't you know it? I have a big break on the eve of my big break?"

"That's awful," Rachael said. To her surprise, tears pooled in her own eyes, too. What a c.r.a.ppy thing to happen to such a sweet, fragile girl. "Did they catch the driver?"

"No. Some towel-head Indian guy. They should deport them all back to Iran. Bomb that whole desert into a sheet of gla.s.s."

Audrey frowned. "India, or Iran?"

Jayne nodded. "That's right, I forgot. Indians are from India. Whoever's h.o.a.rding those nukes. That's who hit me...The thing is, I'm so funny, Addie-do you mind if I call you that?"

"I guess not." Audrey dropped her hand from Jayne's shoulder. Bad idea, this touching thing. Bad idea, this touching thing.

"Good. I like Addie better. Audrey's so uptight, and you're so cool."

Audrey smiled. She'd been called a lot of things in her life. Cool was a welcome newcomer.

Jayne kept talking. "You wouldn't believe how funny I am. Really, you wouldn't. This won't slow me down. I'll make it part of the routine. They'll p.i.s.s their pants."

"Of course they will," Audrey said.

Jayne grinned so sweetly that Audrey grinned, too. "I KNEW you were awesome. Are we still having dinner? I'm starved."

The idea was tempting. But she was tired, and not sure she could hold herself erect while Jayne blabber-mouthed her way through an entire meal. "Sure," she finally said, deciding she'd prefer the company.

She opened the door to apartment 14B, then remembered the thing she'd built inside the open closet door and stopped short.

"What's wrong?" Jayne asked.

She let out a breath. Impossible to explain. Still, it was far away, down the long hall and in the den. Maybe she could hide it before Jayne saw. Maybe Jayne was so batty she wouldn't even notice it.

"Is it boys?" Jayne asked.

Audrey was about to shake her head, then realized that yes, in a way, it was boys. "Yeah..."

"Are you okay?"

Audrey looked at the bra.s.s lettering that read 14B. The movers had left a black skid mark, which she wiped clean with the heel of her palm. "No. I don't think I am. I've got obsessive-compulsive disorder, and it makes me do things. I never got treated for it, but I guess I should have. There are other problems, too." This was a perfect stranger. She couldn't believe she'd confessed such a thing. For cripe's sake, she'd never even been able to say it to Saraub. But maybe that was why she was saying it now. Because she should should have told him. have told him.

"Does OCD make you sleep around?" Jayne asked.

Audrey laughed in a quick burst, then sobered when she realized Jayne was serious. She walked into the apartment, and Jayne followed at her heels like an eager puppy, so she broke into a jog, and widened the distance between them. Jayne couldn't keep up.

"Sorry. Was that stupid? I was thinking maybe it compelled you to go home with strangers. That's a compulsion, right?" Jayne called down the long hall.