He’d be fine. He almost always was. And surely they were about to wrap up. The Malten people had to drive back to Green County, after all.
Becky went into the ladies’ to check her lipstick. In the mirror she tugged at her suit jacket so the frayed lining stayed hidden. How would one cash in a wastewater treatment service? she wondered.
She flicked water at the mirror to obscure her reflection. She could act all high and mighty for not taking bribes, but she’d taken from Pierson, with that doubled check. Acting out like that had been childish, irresponsible. Not to mention incredibly dangerous. Even as she slid back into her seat—plates cleared, finally—Becky breathed a tight little prayer of gratitude, yet again, that she hadn’t been caught. If only she could pay it back, that stupid $542. Even though the town accounts would never actually miss that mistaken refund.
She would never, never, never again risk so much for so little. A painting. Of a stormy day. In exchange for her job, this promotion, her new office: an actual office! (Shared.) Even these dinners became unbearably precious when viewed in that light. Not to mention the paycheck, which was the only thin wall propped against the bills bombarding their mailbox every week, every day.
The problem was—and here Becky’s eyes slid automatically around the walls of the restaurant even as she smiled at Karl’s “You didn’t fall in, did you?”—paintings were everywhere. Art was everywhere, once you were awake to it. Not great art, granted, but even the weaker stuff held interest if you looked. These landscapes ringing Mama Sofia’s, for example—fuzzy Mount Vesuvius from a dozen vantage points, each in off-putting shades of muddy brown and fake teal. Each with a perspective error, and a large, cheap-looking, gold-tinted frame.
The Tribune, the Sun-Times, even the Rockford Register ran articles about and reviews of shows in Chicago. Becky read these over toast and margarine at home, turning to sections of the paper she’d never before opened. The reprinted images were of terrible quality, so she had to squint at the ink, trying to remake the copy of the copy in her own mind, trying to see it for real. She heard ads for estate sales or gallery openings on public radio. Not that she could go to any of those. (Could she?)
The worst part was her own painting. How much she still loved it and how much it made her want another one. One night in a fury of guilt and self-loathing Becky had taken the thing right off its hanger and put it into her closet facing the wall. But by the next morning it was back up and even worse—she rehung it slightly to the right. Making room for something else.
“Stop it,” Becky said. When the reps and Karl glanced up in surprise she pushed her fork away emphatically. “I swear if I take one more bite . . .” They laughed and continued to demolish the tiramisu and a piece of chocolate mousse cake.
Forty-five glacial minutes later Karl had signed the credit card slip, and Becky loaded up her arms with brochures and files and reports the Malden reps had pressed on them—Karl took nothing—and somehow managed to unlock her car, dump everything in the front passenger seat, and turn on the engine.
Then a face at her window made her jump. Bill. Christ, hadn’t they had enough? The goodbyes and jokes and let’s set something up soon had taken forever standing in the cold dark parking lot. He motioned for her to roll down her window.
“Forget something?” she asked, trying to keep the bitchiness at bay. Karl had already zoomed off in his Acura.
“Just this,” Bill said, slipping an envelope over the glass ridge. “I didn’t want to say anything to make you uncomfortable, but, well . . . it’s a small world and we’ve all heard about how much you’re doing for your father these days.”
“Oh.” She was caught off guard. But of course everyone knew everything in this place.
“Times are tough all over. We just want you to know that Malten cares about you.” Bill smiled, still stooped over.
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can. Think of it as a boost from friends. Completely unrelated to everything else.”
“Uh huh.” Becky handed the envelope back out the window. Bill stepped away and let it drop onto the pavement as his fellow rep pulled up behind him.
“That’s the kind of company we are!” Bill called, getting into the car. “A community, not just a company.”
Becky waited a long time after they drove off. Other customers exited Mama Sofia’s, almost always with takeaway cartons, and walked slowly to their own cars.
After a while, she opened the driver side door. There it was, an unmarked white envelope, still on the ground. She picked it up and peeked in at the crisp fifties, ten of them. She placed the envelope on the topmost brochure (“Wastewater: What You Need to Know”). She would slip it into one of the accounts somehow. God knows, no one would argue against a credit. Then—her heart pumped—she and Pierson would be even. Dirty money from the rep’s bribe to pay back dirty money she’d found for her painting; poetic justice, you could call it. In any case, she’d be clean.
The next day Becky leaned into Karl’s office. As usual, she felt groggy from too much food too late at night while he looked exactly the same: crisp in a short-sleeved shirt and tie, well-shaped Afro, whistling a tune between his teeth.
“That was fun,” she said. “They enjoyed it, I think.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” Karl beamed. Becky knew he relished this moment, so she gave it to him every next morning. “And we even got a little business done, before the tiramisu.” He patted his belly. “Thanks to you, always keeping my nose to the grindstone.”
Becky smiled. “I just need the receipts.” The Malten visit had included coffee and snacks in the afternoon, beers at McSweeney’s Grill, and then dinner.
“I gave them to you.”
“I don’t think so.” He definitely hadn’t and this wasn’t the first time, either.
Karl patted around his waist pockets as if last night’s dinner check would suddenly materialize in today’s pants. “Got to be here somewhere.” He lifted up a folder.
“I’ll call Visa,” Becky said. Again. It took three weeks for a copy to be mailed out.
“Foo. Just type something up and I’ll sign it.”
“Mrs. Shinner needs receipts for any reimburse—”
Karl waved his hand. “We been signing off on charges long before that lady joined the party. You’ll see. Type up what you want.”
“All right.” Becky couldn’t keep disapproval out of her voice. Did no one in this office share her meticulous habits?
“Just leave out that extra side of garlic bread,” Karl said, “or I’ll get in trouble with the calorie cops.” He meant his wife, Cherie, who once told Becky to swap out all the break room sodas for diet and to make her the bad guy if it came to that.
Becky left Karl’s office, bitterly thinking, He who has all thumbs never has to lift a finger. At her typewriter she rolled in a fresh sheet of letterhead and tapped out “Client entertainment: Malten Industries, two employees, two Pierson City employees, Thursday, September 6, 1984.”
First coffee and pastries ordered in from French’s Diner. She’d paid cash for that, she remembered. And had the receipt. She fished it out, entered $15.59. For dinner, she started to itemize the appetizers, carefully notating the antipasti they’d ordered. Wait. First there had been beers across the street. She should have added that in the first line.