And It'll Never Bring Me a Dime

More thinking, more critique forum input, more thinking again about my problem-child chapters in my work-in-revision Free Souls.

One reason they’re weak, I’ve decided, is because they’re trying to answer the wrong question.  I’d had my main character verbalize it as “Why am I so afraid?’  That misses the mark.  The real issue for her is,

“What do I love so much about the status quo between myself and [the hero], and why am I afraid for it to change?’

That got me thinking about what her status quo is.  Ah, yes, she’s his office wife.  No sweet nothings and no actual sex, but plenty of secret thrills for her whenever they’re working literally close together.

This poses a question for me, the author:  Do the prior relationships I’ve given her logically bring her to a point where she’d settle for that and not want to see it jeopardized?

Yes.

Next question:  Does she have a reasonable fear that it might be jeopardized, as the draft is currently written?

Hmmm.  Come to think of it, I don’t know.  Where did we leave her in Chapter 9?  The hero has paid her a personal compliment or two; he’s offered her a promotion and she’s grudgingly accepted it.  Maybe she’s just borrowing trouble when she fears that either of those will disturb the homeostasis she has established!

Ooooh.  Not good drama.  Not effective in holding the reader.

Let me think some more.  How to ramp up the drama?

Well . . . I could expand a couple of paragraphs in earlier chapters of the book, to make readers more aware of the happy status quo with the hero and how much she enjoys it and what’s at stake for her if it ends.  Don’t spell it out, show it.  Yeah.

And maybe I could intensify the conflict in Chapter 9, in the car where he offers her the promotion.  Leave her acceptance of it up in the air, and make it clear that if she refuses, things will not go back to the way they were.  That should increase and justify her anxiety.

That might do it.

You see what this means, don’t you?  Last November when I started serializing this old novella of mine on my WordPress blog I figured I’d slam it up, with a little tarting up here and there. I wasn’t going to publish Free Souls anywhere else.  I can't market it for publication, since it's available online gratis.  Now here am I, treating it like a real work of art.  And neglecting my “real” novel, Singing Lake Farm.  

I’m committed to this stupid book, chained, stuck, and my income tax return isn’t even done.  

Aaaaaaaaagggghhhhh!

Free Souls, Chapter 18

"Damn!"

Sandy looked with disgust at the empty plastic container.  It was 3:00 AM one night a week or so past the middle of April and she had a project due at noon that same day.

"What is it?" asked Mike, who sat the next table over.  "You put a hole in your vellum?"

"No, I'm out of F leads.  You have any I can borrow?"

"No, I prefer HBs.  The store downstairs should be unlocked, with all the studios that have deadlines tomorrow."  He grinned.  "They trust us not to steal the place blind, I can't imagine why!"

"I guess so," Sandy said.  "Thanks."

She ran down to the basement, alone, to buy what she needed.  Her money had just clinked into the lock box on the counter when she turned and there was Jeff Chesters, of all people, standing with his hand on the knob of the now-closed door.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, in a voice that was slightly slurred. “If it isn’t little Sandy Beichten.”

She couldn’t speak. Immediately she knew it was all wrong. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be, how he was supposed to be.

“Hi, Jeff,” she finally managed to croak out. “I, uh, came down for– I mean, congratulations on your– I have a deadline, I need to– ”

But before she could move he’d taken three strides across the little room and had pinned her against the wooden counter. “Little Sandy Beichten,” he said again. “I’ve seen how you look at me. You’re horny for me. You want me, don’t you?”

She shook her head dumbly. Not like this. Not like this!

“You’re lying,” he said, his face close to hers, his voice rasping in her ear. She could smell the weed on his breath as the stubble of his beard abraded her cheek. “You want me, and tonight I’m going to give you what you want, right here, right now!”

She was trapped, bent backwards between the hardness of his body on one side and the cruel edge of the counter on the other. She tried to push him away but he caught her wrists in a single iron grip.

“It’s no use trying to leave,” he said with a leer. “I locked the door, the key's in my pocket, and there’s nobody down here anyway.”

Even so, she tried to scream, but her voice, her limbs, every part of her was paralyzed. Her breath came in short gasps; no, of course she couldn’t breathe, he was pressing the breath out of her. Pinning her arms behind her, he shifted his weight and thrust his hand into her jeans.

It couldn’t be happening. Gone, flown into non-existence were all the romantic visions of art and love; she only knew this outrage couldn’t go on. “You like that,” he was muttering. “And that, don’t you? Your first time, isn’t it? I can tell!” His other hand was entangled in her long hair, tilting her head painfully back; he was trying to kiss her, and the marijuana smell from his arrogant, wet-lipped mouth was making her retch. She tried to turn her face away, and as she did, out of the corner of her eye she saw an open X-Acto knife lying on the store counter. Absorbed by his own performance, Jeff didn’t notice as she wrenched her right arm free, grabbed the razor-sharp blade, and plunged it with all her strength into his left biceps.

He screamed in pain and jumped away from her. “You filthy bitch!” he said, his tone low and ominous as a snake ready to strike. “Just for that, I’ll tear you. I’ll tear you bad!”

“Hey, what’s going on in there?”  A male voice, out in the corridor.  Whoever it was shook the door handle, trying the lock.

Sandy held the blood-smeared knife up where Jeff could see it. “Leave,” she said in a whisper. “Leave now, or I’ll scream. Or I’ll cut you again.”

Clutching his bleeding arm, Jeff looked at her hard, as if to decide if she really meant it. Then he called to whomever it was outside, “It’s ok, I just tripped over something in here, nothing serious. Door must’ve locked on me when I came in, sorry.”

“Chesters, is that you?” the voice said again. “We were looking for you. We’re going to make a donut run. You in for it?”

“Sure,” he responded easily. “I’m right behind you.” In the corridor, the footsteps shuffled. Thank God, whoever it was was waiting.

Sandy stood out of the line of sight of the door as he opened it and stepped into the hall. As he did, he turned on her a look of sheer hatred, then he was gone.

She was never sure how she completed her design that night. She only knew that that night and the rest of the semester she threw herself into her work, trying to blot out the memory, trying to forget.

She never told anyone what happened, not even Tracey, certainly not her friends back home. And neither, to her knowledge, did he. She had no idea how he explained the wound in his bicep and she didn’t care. A month or two later he graduated and moved to New York City or someplace she never intended to work, and now she could only wonder how many other women he’d abused in the same way in the years since then.

She should have reported it, she knew that. But back then, at eighteen, it simply wasn’t possible. She had been afraid she’d be expelled for stabbing him. And even without that, how could she let anyone guess what Jeff had taken from her? The attempted rape of her body had been appalling enough: the destruction of her dreams was more unbearable still.

______________________________

by Catrin Lewis, 1983; revised 2013 & 2014.  All rights reserved

Free Souls, Chapter 9

“You look very nice,” he’d finally said.

Such a statement was prosaic enough to be borne, so Sandy had accepted it with equally prosaic grace. She tried to immerse herself in the study of Rembrandt’s portrait of his mistress Hendrickje Stoffels, though every cell in her body seemed to be a separate antenna picking up the frequency of Eric’s continued presence behind her.  There had been poetry in what he had said before, but she dared not credit that from him. Hers was too fragile a hope to be founded on such ephemera: she had miscalculated on men's feelings towards her before; she dared not risk error now.

The safest explanation was that something was going on.  Turning back to him she asked, "Has something happened since Friday afternoon that I shouldn't know about?"

"Absolutely not! I mean, yes, you should know about it." And he told her about the new commissions for the Ryersons' family room and the FirstCon Packaging building. "I won't know all the details till Tuesday night, and probably not then. But I'd say for sure they're ours."

"Oh, Eric, that's wonderful! And you say Mrs. Ryerson and Mrs. Felder and everyone got together and agreed to close down the rumor mill?"

"Seems that way. And if what Sheila told me later is any indication, that same mill might grind out still more little jobs for us!"

"I love it! Nick Hardt hoist with his own petard!" Her tone became confidential. "Eric, I wasn't sure how you'd feel about this, but it's my career at stake as well as yours, and I figured I should take the chance while I had it. Um, the president of the local AIA chapter, Mr. Byfield, goes to my church, and this morning after the service I spoke with him."

She paused, Eric made no comment, so she went on. "I explained that I knew he couldn't send out any edicts or decrees, but I asked whether he couldn't circulate the report, the truth, I mean, among the local firms that, well, that we're good upstanding little children 'in whom no iniquity is found' and so on, and ask that our colleagues treat us the way they'd like to be treated. He agreed to do it, and it may work. He's got enough influence."

Eric considered this. "He'll just drop a word here and there? No soapbox lectures against unfounded gossip?"

"Goodness, no! He'll do it discreetly, don't worry. He's not AIA president for nothing, and besides, he's a Christian gentleman."

"Hmmm," was Eric's initial reply to this last.  "Well," he said presently, "I'm glad you acted on your impulse. If things work out, we may be saved on both fronts."

"I hope so."

"Well, enough of this. Have you seen the exhibit?"

"Not all of it."

"Did you see that Raeburn in the other room? Come on, I'll show it to you."

She followed docilely and indeed, the portrait was very beautiful. He accompanied her through the rest of the exhibit, he elucidating the fine artistic points of the paintings, she illuminating him on the religious or mythical backgrounds of many of their subjects.

After awhile, they came to the Spanish gallery, where Eric was drawn away by a remarkable Velasquez. Sandy, in her turn, stood fascinated before a large canvas by El Greco.

Its subject was a young Spanish saint, a soldier by his dress, with that peculiar attenuation of the bone structure so characteristic of the artist’s work. The young man stood on a high, weather-shrouded hill, the relics of his martyrdom in his hand, and on his face an expression as of the hope of eternal joy mingled with an awareness of the futilities of the world. It took her breath away: as a work of art, certainly; but also because if he had been born a 16th century Spaniard while yet remaining himself, she would have sworn the young soldier-saint was Eric Baumann. It was all there: the face, the hands, even the attitude of the body. The only thing missing in Eric was the look of spiritual assurance, something she knew the Lord alone could supply. In that moment if it had been proposed that Eric had been transported to the late 1500s and sat for the artist, or that El Greco had time-travelled to the 20th century that he might paint him, she would have accepted it without doubt or question.

A hand was laid gently on her shoulder. She turned and in a kind of delicious shock recognized the seeming original of the painting. “I’m not the only one who looks like an Old Master . . . ,” she murmured with soft recklessness.

If Eric heard he gave no sign. “Do you like this El Greco?”

“Yes, I do. Very much.”

“If I had the money I’d buy if for you.”

“My God, he’s serious,” she thought. She rummaged through the ragbag of her social experience to find something appropriate to say, but against his confusing onslaught could muster no defense but levity.

“Well, yeah,” she laughed, “but if you had the money you’d probably live in a château in France and never would’ve known me anyway!”

“Yes,” he continued with what she decided to label maddening obstinacy, “but if I lived there I’d probably have tours. You might come over, I’d meet you, and then I would certainly give it to you.”

“This is not working,” she thought. Congratulating herself on her control of the situation, she asked steadily, “What did you think of the Velasquez?”

The treacherous mood was broken. “Oh, yes, come and see it!”

He pointed out its salient features with proper enthusiasm, but after her appreciative responses had died away silence closed around them. They did the rest of the exhibition with hardly a word, marking each other’s reactions only by the curving of a mouth, the widening of an eye, the gesture of a hand.

He did not touch her again, but she was ever conscious of the impression of his long hand upon her shoulder. Increasingly distracted from the masterworks, she resolved to come again, alone, for now her rebellious energies demanded leave to flow out to the man at her side, and it was fear and pride, as much as prudence, that with difficulty kept them dammed in.

Eric for his part threw himself headlong into the paintings, trying to disregard the odd sensation that had so inexplicably come upon him. Ah, yes, here was one of Moses and the burning bush. But it offered him no security. He recalled his mother’s Bible stories in that drab little walk-up in Bismarck: “‘I will turn aside and consider this great marvel . . . ’” What great marvel? Just an ordinary bush, the kind you see every day, the kind you take for granted (and almost against his will he glanced down at the young woman standing next to him) . . . take for granted, until you notice it’s on fire, but not burned, and that it has the voice of God or at least of an angel sounding forth from it.

When they were through Eric asked quietly, “How were you planning to get home?”

“I thought I’d get the bus, as usual.”

“On a Sunday evening? Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll be standing there in the cold for an hour. Come on, get your things. I’ll drive you home.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied in a tone that was an almost perfect counterfeit of her normal workday voice. Eric started at the slight difference, then forced himself to put it out of his mind.

* * * * * * *

They rode mutely through the still November dusk, till he suddenly said, “You know, if we have these new jobs we’ll have to hire some new people in the office.”

Oh,” thought Sandy, feeling the point of the knife to her ribs, “so this is it. I’m losing my place and privileges as his sole assistant and he’s being nice to me to make up for it.” She lectured herself roughly: “Listen, girl, you knew this day was going to come from the word Go. It’s part of the profession and all you have is a professional relationship, understand?”

He was still speaking. “We have time yet before the office building project will start. I’ll interview a few people and submit them to your judgement. If you find anything wrong with them, they’re not hired, ok?”

“Eric, look, you’re the boss,” she replied ungraciously. “You know better than I do what you want in an employee!”

“Sandy, you know I respect your opinion! What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry. I’m tired, I guess. Long day.”

“Long weekend,” he agreed. “But you’re right, I do know what I want in employees, and one of those things is that they be agreeable to you. I also know what I want in an associate.”

The blade began to explore her vitals. “Oh,” she tried to say evenly, “you have an old college friend or something who’s coming back to join the firm?”

“No,” and he looked at her curiously. “I thought you’d just assume. You don’t think you can handle a promotion?”

“What– me?”

“Well, yes!” He grinned. “With a raise and all the rest of it, providing the office building goes through. The room next to ours is empty; I’ll see if I can rent it. We can put the catalogs and the help back there.”

“What a marvellously dehumanizing way of speaking of them! ‘The catalogs and the help’!”

“Well, you know me!” he answered cheerfully. “A regular Simon Legree. We’ll put the huddled masses of whatever type back there; I think it’s best you and I stayed up front for the time being. At any rate, we won’t know for sure until I speak to the Ryersons and Delkirk Tuesday night.”

“I think it’ll work out . . . ,” she said, as much to herself as to him.

"I was hoping to do this for awhile," he went on, "but we didn't have enough work.  I think this FirstCon project once it gets into the building phase should give you some good opportunities to get out of the office and get some good experience in construction management."

"I guess so," Sandy replied, a little flatly.

"You don't seem all that enthusiastic," he said with some surprise.  "I thought you'd like being more independent.  And if your portfolio was any indication, you've got a lot of ideas under that hat that I'm sure you're dying to bring to light.  There will be new projects, I'm sure, that you'll be able to handle on your own.  I can't see you playing second fiddle forever."

"Oh, Eric, I am excited, I really am.  It's just that, well, I'm-- "

"Tired," he concluded for her.  "That's all right.  And it's a big step.  I remember how I felt when I was first made associate.  It can be overwhelming.  You'll feel clearer about it in the morning."

But Sandy wasn't sure she would ever feel more clear about the matter than she did right now.  It was one thing to gain a promotion with all the powers, privileges, and emoluments pertaining thereunto.  It was another thing to be convinced that the duties of that new position were inevitably going to separate you from the one whose presence you valued more than anything else in the world, and to feel that he somehow had planned it that way.

____________________________________

by Catrin Lewis, 1983, revised 2013, all rights reserved)

Free Souls, Chapter 7

But it took no effort on their part to come to conclusions; conclusions leapt upon them like grasshoppers on ripening grain. 

In the next few weeks, they received calls from Eric's clients from his years with Richardson & Greene, ran into people in stores and on the street, were subjected to "meaningful" looks from building materials representatives, all bearing some delightfully shocking if unsubstantiated tidbit that reflected badly on Eric and Sandy's professional reputations. None of their current clients cancelled their agreements, but neither did the firm seem to be getting anything more in. Perhaps a month's worth of drawing remained on the Weisman cabinetry, but after that, who could tell?

There was nothing to prove a Nick Hardt connection with the rumor campaign, and Eric felt it'd be like tracking a ghost, or a demon, to try to run him down.

He felt better in anticipation of a travelling exhibition of Old Masters from the National Gallery in London. Though a fine connoisseur of the moderns, he bore a lively enthusiasm for their predecessors, and as a member of the Civic Museum's Fine Arts Guild he was invited to attend the inaugural reception the night before the exhibit officially opened.

The November night was cool without being cold and he decided to walk over and prolong his sense of expectation.  He thought of Sandy: Should he have asked her to accompany him to this? But no, it wouldn't be a good idea, going out with one's employee. 

Still, there had been that evening with Bach at his place. They'd heard the Magnificat, most of the Brandenburgs, some organ fugues, and at last, neglecting the turntable, they'd discussed the music until the lateness of the hour had been laughable. Where, he wondered, had she developed that knack of expressing his very thought, not parrotlike, but even before the idea had coalesced into English in his own head? And wasn't it remarkable how her serious Christianity breathed new life into the religious works and made him better appreciate Bach's intention in the music? "Soli Deo gloria . . .  "  He was an agnostic, certainly, but, as he reflected now, that meant "I don't know, not "I won't know."

His meditations scattered like birds at a shot as he entered the Museum's reception hall and Sheila Ryerson descended on him with a look of satisfied accomplishment in her eye. "Eric!" she trumpeted. "I was wondering if you were coming! Let's get you some wine and some of these nice sandwiches, and then I have something to tell you!''

"What?" he said drily. "Somebody's hundred-year-old foundation has caved in and it's all my fault?"

"No, you silly boy! As for that, I got together with a group of my friends, who are also your clients, and we compared notes. We'd all heard the most disastrous stories about each others' houses, and as you may expect, not a word of any of them was true. We agreed that somebody is spreading pernicious gossip about you and resolved not to let them get away with it.''

"That's very good of you all.''

"You don't know who it could be?" Sheila inquired narrowly.

"No. Yes. Well, we have our suspicions, but they can't be proven.  Don't worry, Sheila, it's nobody in your circle."

"Well, that's a relief! Oh! What was I going to tell you?  Oh, yes!   You know that family room we'd just had redecorated when you started working for us and we wouldn't let you touch?"

"Yes, what about it?"

"Well, Jacob and I enjoy your part of the house so much, we feel so comfortable in it, that frankly, we hate going into that room.  It's hardly been used for six months. The kids play in there occasionally, but even they complain that it's gloomy. We've even moved the TV to the spare bedroom."

Eric knew that family room well and winced to remember it.  It was the sole blaring sour note in the finely-tuned symphony of his redesign: monstrous and dark with its over-stained panelling, ponderous brick fireplace, shag carpet that could have been the progeny of an English sheepdog outraged by a Las Vegas stageset, and black fiberboard beams traversing the oppressively-low dropped ceiling.  He wondered why it'd taken them so long to be repelled by it.

"Well," Sheila went on, "I've talked to Jacob, and especially after all this vile gossip, and knowing how painful that room is to you-- no, don't deny it, I know-- we decided you deserved a chance to bring it up to the level of the rest of the house."

His ingrained modesty compelled him to veil his excitement.  "Sheila, I'd be happy to make whatever improvements you like in your family room."

"Oh, improvements, shimprovements!  Rip the whole damn thing out!  It's moribund anyway!"

"What's moribund?" inquired Jacob Ryerson, strolling up beside his wife.

"Our family room," she informed him.

"Oh, yes, that. Absolutely.  Say, Eric, sorry about all those rumors flying about you.  Though I can't say if I'd be all that sorry if one of them is true, if I were you."

"Which one?" he asked equably, though with some apprehension.

"Why, didn't I hear you'd gotten your secretary pregnant?"

"That's ridiculous.  I don't have a secretary!"

"Well, then, What's-'er-name, your assistant, Miss B-- "

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Ryerson!" Eric could not forbear himself. "Alexandra Beichten is a fine Christian woman who would die before she'd do anything of the sort and I think it's disgusting you'd even insinuate such a thing!"

A bomb thrown in their midst could not have transfixed them in a more appalling glare. The Ryersons were Jewish and Eric was paralyzed, aghast at what his assertion had implied.

A voice was speaking, a woman's, saying sensible, commonplace things:  "Well, Eric," it said, "When would you like to come over and discuss the family room with us?"

"Oh, yes-- Sheila, next week, I'm-- Jacob,  I'm terribly sorry, that must've been extremely offensive to you."

"No," replied the older man heartily, "the offense was mine.  I had no business talking about that girl like that.  I mean, she may be a prude, but-- "  His wife shot him a warning look and he faltered.  "Well, Eric, let's call it even, both debts cancelled. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

"And Sheila's right.  You must come to dinner and tell us what to do with that room.  It's unusable as it is," he went on, obviously still embarrassed.  "And oh, yes, I have something for you as well, as soon as I can run down Delkirk.  Oh, there he is!"

Jacob waylaid and led back to them a short man with reddish whiskers and a cheerful aspect.  "You know my partner, Sam Delkirk?  Sam, this is Eric Baumann, the architect."

Greetings duly exchanged, Jacob said, "Sam, you do the honors, all right?

"Certainly.  Eric, as you know, Jacob and I have run our firm, FirstCon Packaging, out of rented offices for many years now. Well, due to a merger with a smaller firm and some judicious financial dealings, we find that it's high time we moved into a building of our own."

"You have a building in mind?"

"No," said Jacob with great satisfaction.  "And that's where you come in. We have the land. The building we want you to design and build."

Eric was overwhelmed.  Their first large-scale project!  He knew he could do it: he'd managed other such jobs at Richardson and Greene.  But now, after the apprehension of the past weeks-- !

"It'll be only two or three storeys," Mr. Delkirk was saying, "but we think you could keep yourself busy with it.  I've seen your work, Baumann, and it's as good as any I've seen in New York or Boston.  Maybe better."

"It's settled, then!" said Sheila with cheerful finality.  "Eric, you and Sam come over for dinner Tuesday night and we'll discuss the great new inroads we're going to make in local architecture!"

They all laughed, a toast was proposed, and the bargain was sealed.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

Walking home that night, Eric considered how amazingly things had turned around for them.  Perhaps he should call Sandy with the news?  No, it could wait till Monday.

He felt strangely elated knowing the danger he had run for her, risking the loss of a prime client by going to her defense.  He loved Architecture better than anything else on earth or in heaven, and to hazard it, for her sake, should have been a thing foreign to him.  Yet he had done it.  Absurd, how much it pleased him.

But of course, he finally decided, it was a debt paid.  He'd made up for not having challenged Nick Hardt when he'd called her that foul name a few weeks ago.  Nick Hardt . . . .  but in his mood the thought of the man was like the tail of a lizard that whips into a crack of a sunlit wall and is gone.  A benevolent if slightly idiotic spirit was dancing about his brain repeating gleefully, "Virtue is its own reward! Virtue is its own reward!"

But still . . . was that really why he had risked alienating the Ryersons in her defense? Somehow, the mask of beneficent paternalism kept slipping away, half-revealing the face of something unknown but decidedly intriguing. The matter bore thought, Eric concluded, a great deal of it.

______________________________

by Catrin Lewis, 1983, revised 2013, all rights reserved

Free Souls, Chapter 5

Their moment of truth came sooner than they anticipated. Nick Hardt appeared the very next day, swung himself with his version of insouciance into 'his' conference chair-- and directly noticed the ten thousand dollar check lying exactly as he had tossed it down the afternoon before.

"What's this?" His eyes narrowed.

Eric spoke with resolution. "Mr. Hardt, we can't do your job for you."

"You mean you're incapable."

"No, we're not incapable, not in the sense you mean. But we can't do it from a legal, and a moral, standpoint. And I'd advise you against pursuing it further yourself."

"Don't be a damned imbecile. You seemed eager enough before. What's got into you? Unless . . . Is it that bitch you use for an assistant?"

Sandy sucked in her breath.

"Damn you, Baumann, if she's in the way, get rid of her.  If you don't have the guts, I'll get rid of her for you. Be a man!  I will have this job done, and you're going to do it!"

Beaming Sandy a look of comfort, Eric repeated quietly, reasonably, even pleasantly, "I'm sorry, Mr. Hardt. We will not do this job. That is final."

"You have the sense of this doorknob!  Listen to me. You know too much, both of you. Believe it, refuse me and you'll never have another client in this city!" The words speared in like the swordblade of unalterable truth. "I can arrange it. Don't trifle with me. You work for me, or I'll ruin you. I'll ruin you!"

"Mr. Hardt, we will not do this job. Kindly take your check and go."

His face a stone mask, his rage darting only from his uncanny eyes, Nick Hardt stood up, crumpling the check between his fingers. This time, they heard him go, stalking furiously off down the hall and out to the elevators.

"Well, at least he is human," Sandy whispered irrelevantly.

Eric closed the door as against a dreaded pestilence and sat down in his chair, hard, his head in his hands. "Oh god, oh, god!" he groaned.

Finally looking up he said, "I'm sorry about what he called you. And that I didn't, well, defend your honor. I had to keep on the subject, you know. You're a brave woman."

"You're a brave man. You did wonderfully."

"Not as much as you. You saw it a long time ago, didn't you? You were right. I don't think I could ever work for that man, even if what he wanted was squeaky-clean legal." He shuddered with horror. "Better the firm should fail than survive on someone like that."

"Eric," she ventured, "what about what he said about, you know . . . ?"

"About driving off the clients? I don't know. He was in earnest, I could tell. But whether he has the influence to pull it off, I really can't say.  We'll just have to wait and see."

"'Jump off that bridge when we get to it'?"

"Exactly!" His laugh made fair approach to merriment. "Hey, listen, we've been through a hell of a lot this afternoon. Why don't we go get us a hamburger and go to my place and listen to some Bach? I could use cleaning out my soul.''

"'Magnificat anima mea Dominum'," she replied, softly. "My soul doth magnify the Lord!"

"The Magnificat? Yes, we could listen to that if you like.''

He had not understood her, but standing there loving him she knew exactly what she had meant.

_________________________________

by Catrin Lewis, 1983, revised 2013, all rights reserved)

Free Souls, Chapter 4

The phone was ringing. Eric, intent on his work, ignored it, so Sandy sprang to the task. "Eric Baumann's office! . . . Oh, hello, Leah," she said with a pleasantness that was remarkably unforced. "Yes, Eric's here.

"Eric, it's for you. Leah."

"Oh, hello, Leah! . . . What? Yeah, I saw it.  It was great, wasn't it?"

His voice was gay, enthusiastic, and Sandy labored to beat down an upstart jealousy.  She was well aware that Eric and Leah had been carrying on an off-again, on-again romance since well before she'd met him.  But Leah Matthews wasn't the type of woman who would be content to let her boyfriend put her second or third after his work; she also had a strong grasp on reality. Since he'd started the new office and it began to consume most of his time, she had let their relationship lapse into mere friendship.

Even so, they were still close friends and if anyone had the right to be resentful of another woman's demands on his attention, it was Miss Matthews.  Funny, then, how it was Sandy who felt her rights infringed upon whenever Leah would call.  It was silly, she knew, and she wasn't going to afflict Eric with it.  But neither would she deny her own feelings.

He and Leah talked for awhile and then Sandy heard him say, "What?  Next Friday night? I really can't, I have a deadline like you wouldn't believe . . . . You would believe? Well, yeah, you know me . . . "

Charity was a lost cause as she smugly contemplated the magazine design award submission he would be devoting his weekend to-- instead of to Leah Matthews. It was painfully true that he didn't take her out, either; he'd ruled that out as unprofessional. Their relationship, Sandy knew, would have to be much more or much less than it was for him to see her socially.  But as it was, his work prevented him from seeing much of anyone socially, and she was an intrinsic part of his work.

"Yes," he now said, "We should do that sometime. No, I can't say when . . . Well, you go and tell me about it later. I'm sure you'll enjoy it. I'm sorry I can't go myself."

"I'm not!" thought Sandy with unholy glee. He'd asked yesterday if she would be willing to come up to the office that weekend to help crank out the competition presentation.  As if her willingness were in question!  "Sorry, Leah, that'll give me even more time with him!"  It was unchristian of her to feel such self-satisfaction: she allowed that. Nevertheless, when Eric went down to the snack bar she permitted herself a nice greasy wallow in it. "I'd better watch out," she thought luxuriously. "I'm liable to be punished for this."

A shadow towards the doorway startled her. Eric returning with their candy?  But no. It was Nick Hardt, but this time he'd stopped not just inside the door but, exuding a defiant pride of ownership, had settled himself into one of their conference chairs.

"Vengeance is swift," Sandy thought ruefully. If all the powers of the universe had not interdicted, she would have sworn aloud.  Instead, "Salva me, fons pietatis!" was her inward cry as she made herself advance to greet him.

"Where's Baumann?" the man snapped.

"He's stepped out for a moment, sir."

"He's got to learn not to waste my time. If I didn't think he was the only architect for this job, I'd . . . "

"I'll fetch him for you, if you like, sir."  And without waiting for a reply she darted into the hallway.

She met Eric by the elevator. "Eric, guess who's here?"

"Um, Santa Claus?"

"No.  Mephistopheles."

"Who?"

"Mephistopheles. I mean, Nick Hardt.  I mean-- good grief, he's like the devil in The Damnation of Faust: pops in, pops out, looks so contemptuous, and acts like he owns everything!"

"What an imagination! Well, I suppose he'd like to speak with me? Really, Sandy, you are being polite to him?"

"Of course!"

"Well, I want you to be, because we need this job. We can overcome our distaste for a client's personality if his project gives us a chance to do some good architecture-- and to keep ourselves above water.  Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

They were back at the office.  "Good afternoon, Mr. Hardt. What can I do for you?"

"About time," the man muttered as Eric seated himself across the table. "Listen, couldn't--no, I remember, you told me that girl's in on everything. She may as well hear now as later; she can stay."

"Well, I hope so!" Sandy thought as she went back to her drawing. Eric, she could tell, was trying to look friendly, even amused.

"I've brought you my requirements for the house I want. Take it all down; I won't waste my time or yours on repetitions."

Careful not to be obvious about it, Sandy listened as much as she could while continuing with her work. It intrigued her how, in describing the grand vision for his subterranean house, Nick Hardt kindled from sullenness into a manner that was expansive, even fervent. Clearly this was to be no ordinary home. The large meeting room, the extensive kitchen, the many bed cubicles reminded her more of a college dormitory than of a private residence. But hadn't he said he was to live there alone?

Hardt paused for breath and Eric offered, helpfully, "Will you be requiring much storage space, sir?"

"Ah, yes, you anticipate me!  Indeed, storage space! And not just little broom closets, either. I want storage space!"

"A wine cellar, perhaps?"

"Yes, dammit, yes: space for wine, for food, for general supplies and provisions-- enough for weeks, no, months at a time. And there is to be a tunnel, running from just inside my property line, into the deepest, remotest part of the house. Just off that tunnel will be--my gun room, Baumann!"

Sandy stole a glance over. She didn't like the perfervid look in Hardt's eyes. But Eric just said stolidly, "Gun room, Mr. Hardt?"

"Yes, gun room. No ordinary gun room, either. I want-- I need-- room to properly store at least a thousand carbines, the same number of repeating rifles, two thousand automatic pistols . . . "

Sandy stiffened as he recited his index of high-powered weapons, most of which were forbidden to private citizens. Eric seemed wary, too, though he hid it admirably.

" . . . and room for more in boxes in rooms adjacent, and of course several thousand rounds of ammunition for all of them. Do you understand?”

"Yes. Uh, sir, do you hunt?''

"Do I hunt?" he repeated, his tone again grown steely cold. "Yes, Baumann, I hunt, and when I hunt, I don't fool around.  It may be awhile, but when I hunt, you'll hear about it, believe me.''

"Yes, sir, I see.''

"You see what? You'll see what I want you to see. I think you can do this job; you're probably the only one I'd see doing it. Don't worry about a contractor: I have men of my own, men I trust, that I'll use. And in case you were wondering, yes, you may see the site, but I'm afraid you'll have to go there in a closed van.  Just you.  Not even Miss. . . um, anyway," he dismissed her.

Eric cleared his throat. Before he could speak, Hardt ripped off a check and threw it on the table. "There. That's your retainer. Don't worry, I have enough for this, if that's what's bothering you. You'll get more when the job gets underway."

"No, Mr. Hardt, but we need to consult with each other to decide if we're capable of taking on a job this large.  This extensive an underground house . . . well, the technology required is really vast. I appreciate your confidence in our abilities, and we'd hate to get started and then disappoint you."

"No," Hardt said steadily, "I will not be disappointed." Why did it sound more like a threat than a commendation? "I'll be back soon to learn when you can start."

And with a slight nod, his sole condescension to politesse, he scraped back his chair and silently left.

Sandy rose from her seat. "How much is it for?" she asked, coming around to stare at the check lying baldly on the table.

"Ten thousand dollars. And he's right.  I made a couple of calls last night: He can afford this. He may be mad but he's not just a dreamer."

"Mad? You mean, you felt it, too?”

"Oh, yes. But don't worry. Men like this usually leave the business relations to an underling once things get going. I figure we won't have to deal with him personally much after this."

"I don't want to deal with him at all."

"Oh, you won't have to.  You heard what he said."

"You didn't hear what I said.  I meant I don't think either of us should have anything to do with him, or this project, either."

He stared at her, astonished. "Sandy, be reasonable! You like your job, don't you?  Can't you get over your distaste for the sake of keeping the business afloat?"

"It's not distaste, Eric!" she almost exploded, poised precariously on the verge of anger.  "It's-- well, I've tried to keep my behavior as free from religiosity as I could while still giving this job the benefit of my Christianity.  But I can't be tactful or discreet about this.  What he wants us to do is not only illegal, it's immoral.  You heard what he wants to store in that hellhole!  Possession of most of those is illegal, and even if it weren't, those weapons have only one purpose-- to kill people! A great many people!  And don't tell me he'll be keeping them for self-defense, either," she added bitterly.  "All that about hunting.  You know it's not animals he wants to go after.  He intends something, something terrible, and how you of all people could think of helping him, I-- !"  She broke off helplessly, her hands extended to him in appeal.

"Sandy, be reasonable!"

"I am being reasonable! You can fire me or throw me out or whatever, but I can't and won't do this job and I don't want you to do it, either!"

He refused to reply. Silence slammed its icy barrier between them as the advance check, so brazenly lying there, mocked them from the table’s surface. Eric put out a hand to pick it up, but abruptly pulling back he stomped back to his drawing board and with ostentatious busyness returned to work.

The frigid stillness imprisoned them in the the room, bristling bayonets at point, for one hour, two hours . . . so oppressive that she wished to flee, but so ominous that she dared not go even to the restroom, lest she return to find the door locked unappealably against her. She prayed within herself frantically, her thoughts refusing to cohere. “Oh, God, don’t let him– Make him– Please, God, oh, in Jesus’ name, please– !”

The late September day had nearly expired when Eric decisively arose. Sandy cringed. "Here it comes. I've had it. I'll be a martyr for the faith." But the absurdity of such melodrama struck her so that she was forced to giggle despite her anxiety.

"What's so funny?" Eric inquired, and she was amazed to see he was smiling, too.

" Oh, me. Wallowing in self-pity."

"I'm afraid you've had no monopoly on that this afternoon. I want to apologize and say you're right: we can't do that job for Nick Hardt.  Questions of Christian morality aside--I'm an agnostic, remember-- it probably is illegal. 'Accessory before the fact,' I think it's called.  Things might be rough not taking this job but they'd be a lot rougher if the government found out we'd connived at his little scheme.  And believe me, they'd find out."

"Thank God! Listen, I'll take a cut in pay, anything, to make it up to you. But we just can't--"

"Don't be an idiot. A cut in pay? I tell you you're right. I'll tell Hardt next time I see him, ok?"

"You're not mad at me, then?"

"Certainly not. You've probably saved us from a Fate Worse than Death.  And speaking of which, this day has about had it. Are you ready to go home?"

"Yes, but oh, I almost forgot. Here's something I got for you yesterday."  And she pulled out the sack containing the little mechanical dog.

"It's wonderful! Where'd you get it?"

"At that little store on 34th off Adams Street."

"Oh, I know it; they have fascinating stuff, don't they? This'll make a great 'watch' dog.  Look, you wind him up in just the same way!"

And they looked and laughed as the little contraption hopped and yelped with mechanized ferocity about Eric's table.

"Look at how the ears and tail spin!" he said.  "What shall we name it?"

"Up to you. He's your dog!"

"Oh, come on."

"How about . . . no . . . oh, wasn't it Le Corbusier who called a house a 'machine for living'? Well, this is a 'machine for dogging.'  Let's call him Corb!"

"Well," responded Eric, smiling, "I don't know if that's quite an appropriate memorial, but yes, the point is well-taken.  His name is Corb."

Sandy looked up at him as he watched the toy, his face again clear and serene.  She knew he would do as he had promised.  The ice was melted; she had him back.

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by Catrin Lewis, 1983, revised 2013, all rights reserved