Chance Encounter Ch 03

Copyright 2006, 2007

CHAPTER 3 -- A Price Must be Paid

Paul buzzed Marge.

"Marge, come in for a minute, please," Paul spoke into the speaker.

Marge Bates had been Paul's secretary for over a dozen years. When Paul ascended to top management, he brought Marge with him. They were a likely pair. She was a prim and proper type, about the same age as Paul. Marge was quiet and correct at all times. She was tall, neither slender nor stocky. Her usual manner of dress at work was a pleated plaid skirt with a coordinating blazer. Sometimes, she wore a suit. Her brown hair showed some streaks of gray. She wore glasses for reading, which hung on her neck by a chain when she didn't need them.

She was a widow, her husband losing his battle to cancer several years prior to Sally's untimely death. Sally and Paul befriended Marge in those sad times. There wasn't a lot that they could do, but as she had told them, it was enough to know that they cared. When Sally was killed Marge understood Paul's suffering more than anyone else could. She returned the friendship bestowed on her. In his grief, Paul had become preoccupied and forgetful. Marge kept him on track. There were a few times that Marge spotted errors that Paul made, and made sure that no one knew of them.

Marge had excellent technical skills that Paul appreciated, but more than anything else, he knew that would be easier to break into Fort Knox than to induce Marge to betray a confidence. That was what Paul was counting on at that moment.

"Marge, sit down for a second, please," Paul asked as she entered the office.

When Paul said this she knew that she was to be burdened with another secret.

"Marge, I need to let you in on something because this will probably pass by your desk, and I'll need to count on you to keep it between us," Paul started. Marge leaned forward, listening.

"I've started seeing someone—a woman—who lives in Chicago. I have feelings for her. I think that she likes me a little. I'm going to be making calls and traveling from time to time. I might need you to help me with some arrangements."

"Paul, I think that's wonderful!" Marge exclaimed. "Why the big secret? Is there something ... you know ...?"

"Oh, no! She's single and unattached, as I am. Unattached, that is, except to our jobs. We would just like to keep things low-key. It's easier that way. There is a little complication right now that's not of our making. She works for the same university as the one involved in that lawsuit against us. Ted Wilson told me it should be alright. That was a big relief. I'm going to call her and tell her in a few minutes."

"Who else knows, Paul?" she asked.

"Jim Spencer, Harry Carmichael, and Ted Wilson," Paul answered. "I asked each of them to keep it quiet. When the time is right, we'll go public. This lawsuit makes it good sense to keep it under wraps for awhile."

Marge nodded.

Paul settled back in his chair. He grimaced slightly, which made Marge know that he was about to ask a question that was difficult to push past his lips.

"Marge, do you think that I did the right thing in taking up with someone else? After all, Sally's been gone over five years and ..."

"Paul!" Marge interrupted. "Of course it's alright. Everyone, including me, has been wondering why you haven't. You know, Paul, sometimes you just think too much!"

"That's what everyone tells me," laughed Paul. "I thought so, but I needed to hear you say it. You always know what to do."

Marge cast her eyes down, and blushed slightly.

"C'mon, Paul, why would you ask these things of an aging widow?"

"Marge, why didn't you try to find someone after Carl?" Paul asked.

"Who says that I didn't?" she retorted. "The right person just didn't come along."

"Maybe 'yet' should be the operative word." Paul said. "You're still a pretty good looking female."

"Oh, stop it, Paul' you're embarrassing me!" she said, giggling.

They sat across the desk looking at each other for long seconds. Paul knew at that moment, as he had known scores of times before, that he was looking at a unique person that he could not do without. Marge adroitly crossed the line from secretary to friend to confidant, then back again.

"What would I do without you, Marge?" Paul asked. "Wait! Don't answer that. I don't want to know."

Marge waved her hand at him to make light of the compliment.

"Give me that name and number and I'll put that call through for you," she said.

*************

Marge buzzed. "Your call to Miss Mahoney is waiting, Mr. Crane." Marge always used 'Mr. Crane' when she might be overheard.

Paul picked up the phone.

Paul: Glenda, it's Paul. I have to talk to you about something important. Can you give me a minute?"

There was a long silence. Paul waited for a response but there was none. He started speaking, anyway.

Paul: Glenda, there's a lawsuit involving ...

Glenda: I know about that, Paul. I can't talk now. I have to hang up. I'll call you from my home after work. I'm going home early this afternoon. I'll be home at four. I'll speak with you then.

Glenda hung up.

Aside from Glenda's having to put him off, Paul could tell from her voice that she was upset. He knew immediately what it meant. Glenda had the same conversation with her employer that he had with Ted Wilson earlier in the day, but with a different result. The lawsuit would be a problem for them, after all.

Paul had two and a half hours to wait for Glenda's call. The engineer in him made him set about seeking a solution to his and Glenda's problem. The man in him made him angry that unknown parties at Northwestern had thought it necessary to upset Glenda and to impose such a restriction on them. He was sure that it could be resolved. Sure, it might take some time to switch departments, or do what need be done. In the long run, he was convinced; it would be a tempest in a bureaucratic teapot.

He turned his attention to work projects. There was the analysis on the Corpus Christi Plant, the Engineering Standards Project Report, and he reminded himself to get filled-in by Jim Spencer on that junior engineer from the State Environmental Agency that he noticed the other day at the Peoria Plant meeting. Paul put in a call to Jim Spencer. He wasn't there, but left a voicemail. He turned to the recommendations in the Corpus Christi Analysis.

Paul had finished the Corpus Christi analysis and was halfway through the Standards Project Report when Jim Spencer appeared at his door. "Fill me in on that young lady who was at the table at the Peoria Plant meeting on the State side."

"Her name is Audrey Wright." Jim began. "She's not as young as she looks. She has a masters' degree from U of Illinois and has been with the Agency for three years. She came to them right out of school. That would make her about twenty-eight."

"What kind of engineering did she take her degree in?" Paul asked.

"Actually," Jim answered, "she's not an engineer at all. Her degree is in Environmental Science—undergrad in Biology. She's very intelligent."

"Do you think that she knows what Grafton was up to?" Paul asked.

"Hard to say," Jim said. "Before the meeting I would have said 'no', but saying what she did about him going to Montgomery, now I think that she did. I don't think she just blurted it out. That wouldn't be like her. She was pretending to be naïve, but I think that she was really trying to clue us in."

"Do you think that she'd help us get Grafton?" asked Paul.

"I think that she'd be our best hope. She already helped us once," replied Jim. "I wouldn't trust Morehead, though."

Paul nodded. He was determined to take Grafton to task, and if a Grafton-Hopkins-Montgomery link could be shown, it could be helpful to the lawsuit against Dunn Chemicals.

"I'm going to have Marge get a meeting with Wilton set up in Springfield. It will be to 'discuss the lawsuit', for the record." Paul said. "Once she has the date she'll let you know. I want you to call Miss Wright and set me up with her for the day before—secret and off the record. I don't want to be found calling her, myself. By the way, it is 'Miss' Wright?"

Jim nodded, and assured Paul that he would see to it.

"Now, Jim, let's change the subject. I want you to stay on top of the Peoria project, but there won't be much happening soon, because of the lawsuit. In the meantime, take over the Standards Project. Harlow just isn't getting it done. I'll let him know. You can keep him on as your number two man. He's good, technically, but needs better people skills."

By the time Paul finished talking with Harlow it was ten minutes past four and Glenda hadn't called him. Lateness always concerned Paul. In his business, one hitch led to another, then another. He didn't want any more 'hitches' with Glenda. What they had found together had already defied all odds. Paul calculated them.

For example, he thought, what were the chances that Glenda would have spotted him in that store and then recognized him after all these years? What were the chances that they would have blended together so easily after so many years apart? Paul knew the longest odds; it was that he, a widower set in his own difficult ways, could be reopened by any woman. Glenda had untied the Gordian Knot named Paul Crane. He didn't know how she had done it, but she had made it look easy. Paul multiplied the probabilities together. The result made him feel very fortunate, indeed.

Paul's phone rang and it interrupted his brooding. It was four-thirty. Marge told him that Glenda was on the line.

Glenda: Paul, I'm sorry. I told you that I would call you at four. I was putting it off. I just couldn't bring myself to make this call.

Paul: Glenda, I'm sure that this is over the lawsuit. Something can be done to straighten it out.

Glenda: No, Paul, it can't. They told me that if I didn't break it off with you that they would fire me. Paul, I don't want to do it, but I have to.

Paul winced as the he heard the words and Glenda began crying. It struck like a body blow. His vision of a solvable bureaucratic entanglement was destroyed. It would require something of greater proportion to make Glenda act this way.

Paul: Who is 'they', Glenda? Why can't you just ask for a transfer?

Glenda: I asked for a transfer, but they won't do it. It was my boss, Dean Judson. There was another man there. He's the client; his name is Hopkins.

It was all Paul had to hear. It was payback; it was what Hopkins meant by his threat when he called him. Hopkins' vendetta had escaped the bounds of business. It was personal.

Glenda: I would quit, Paul. I could find another job, but I can't do that. I need eighty points to retire at full pay. I'm fifty-four years old and have twenty-four years' service. That's seventy eight points. If I quit now, I'll lose half my retirement. I have no choice. They mean what they say. They even made me sign a paper letting them tap my phone. They might be listening right now. They have me cornered. I can't stand it, but I can't escape them.

Paul: It's my fault, Glenda. Hopkins has a grudge against me. He's getting at me by using you. Look! We can still see each other; we'll just have to careful.

Glenda: Paul, they even have pictures of us swimming nude in the lake!

Paul: In a year you'll have your eighty points. We'll just put it on hold until then.

Glenda: No, no, no! A year is too long. They will think of something else. No, it just has to be this way. I made you promise that you wouldn't try to possess me. That means that I can't do that to you, either. This was just not meant to be.

Paul: Take a few days and think in it. You'll feel differently in a few days. You won't have to use the phone. I'll give you my e-mail address.

Glenda: No, Paul. It won't work. It was never in the cards. I'll never regret that we came together, but now it has to be over. I'm so sorry. Good-bye, Paul.

Paul heard a loud click as Glenda hung up the phone. It rang in his ears like a gunshot. The pain that he felt was only surpassed with that when he was told that Sally had been killed, five years before.

At Glenda's home her phone rang. She knew that it had to be Paul. She picked up the phone.

"Please, Paul," she cried into the phone, "Don't make this harder than it has to be."

"Glenda," the expressionless voice on the line said, "This is Dean Judson. At our meeting we neglected a detail. When you come in tomorrow, we will ask you to sign an additional agreement allowing us to set up a link to your computer that will allow us to monitor your e-mail."

Judson hung up; Glenda gasped. The tap on her phone was already in place. She sat motionless trying to understand what was happening to her. It had all turned upside-down so swiftly. Her memory of the weekend in the cabin with Paul was still fresh in her mind. It was like it hadn't yet ended. In the space of a single afternoon it had all reversed so cruelly.

Humiliation ... isolation ... loss ... confinement ... dependency ... loneliness ... guilt ... injustice ... helplessness ... fear. The emotions descended upon her one by one in a heavy pall of acrid, black smoke that choked hope from her. It dragged her, unwilling but resigned, into compliance. Happiness and survival fought for the same space in her life. How many times had she learned that lesson? She had spoken the truth in the meeting that afternoon: she was a three-time loser.

It was a just result meted out by unjust men, she told herself. The events of her life flashed back to her. She saw the logic. If she had studied harder in high school ... the abortion ... the two divorces. She was convinced of God's retribution and despaired of God's mercy. It was not Paul's fault. She had been wrong to reach out for more. In her mind, she considered herself deserving of the punishment. In her heart, she wondered. Glenda buried her face in her hands, sobbing at first, and then wept for what was, what could have been, and the demise of what she had hoped for.

***********

Paul sat at his desk trying to analyze the ugly turn of events. Hopkins struck at him with such venom that he had not expected. Yes, he had been tough on him after their latest meeting, but it was not enough to explain it. Paul could only fathom that Hopkins had stumbled on an opportunity that he couldn't resist. Paul had never gauged Hopkins' hate, but he should have. Because of his neglect, Glenda was suffering. Paul had no way to help or comfort her. It was a bitter sadness.

Paul knew that his troubles over Glenda conflicted with his responsibilities to the Company. Surrendering on the lawsuit would give him a chance with Glenda, but would be against the interests of the Company. It tore at him. He knew that his personal problems would have to wait. He wondered if he had the integrity to stand up to it.

If Glenda had allowed him, he would have helped her fight her employer's edict. He had his own money to hire lawyers, and contacts to help her find a new job. The pension problems were real enough, but were only the surface of Glenda's agony. The Northwestern position is what she had carved out for herself, starting over two decades ago, from the ashes of what had become her life. Now it was in jeopardy. Worse yet, to save her job she had to accept things that, on a higher level, made the job not worth having.

Paul thought of her, sitting alone in her home in Chicago. Surely, she was in the throes of sorrow. She had no family or friends to help her, or even turn to for a shoulder to cry on. She had given in to tyrants, forced to accept the unacceptable. How could he blame her? Paul missed her already. It hurt to lose her. Loss was an old acquaintance of Paul's. Here it was again, an unwelcome guest—a squatter living again in his soul. It was true that the pain of the loss of Sally five years ago was worse by far. It wasn't the pain that Paul could not bear this time; it was the reintroduction of nothingness. He had finally purged it with so great an effort. Here it was returned. Paul had not wept openly in his adult life, even when Sally died. For the first time since those earlier days of sorrow, he cried internally for the person he knew could not hear him.

Anger ... vulnerability ... impotence ... suffering ... loss ... sorrow ... hate. The escalating feelings boiled in him as he sat brooding in his office. Who was Paul supposed to hate? Surely not Glenda; Hopkins deserved his contempt, but was too small a man to earn Paul's hate. Should he seek revenge and be just like him? He didn't know Judson. Paul reasoned that hatred would never be the answer. Anger would suffice, along with a deep sadness. He would lose, but he was determined that his antagonists would not win.

People often told Paul that he 'thought too much', but sometimes it worked for him.

By the time he finished his meditation is was nearly six-thirty. There was a knock on the door and Marge stepped in and closed the door behind her.

"I haven't seen you for a few hours. It has to mean that the call with Miss Mahoney didn't go well," she said.

"You always know the answer in advance, Marge."

"Only because I know you so well, Paul."

Paul narrated the story.

"I'm so sad for you, Paul. What are you going to do?"

"I don't know, Marge," Paul sighed. "If I knew what to do, I would be doing it now."

"It's so unfair!" Marge said.

"I'm back where I started."

"No, that's not true," Marge countered. "Now you've had a taste of not being alone. It was taken from you so cruelly. You're not even."

"You're not cheering me up, Marge," Paul said.

"Paul, you and I know loneliness like few people do. It's an understanding between us that makes us kindred souls."

What Marge said was so true. She had actually made him feel a little better, despite his protestations. She had said what he was thinking. They touched each other in that way. Paul guessed that it was a kind of therapy for Marge, too.

"Paul, let me make it easier for you. You should not be alone tonight. Let me stay with you."

"Marge, I don't think that would be right."

"Have I aged so much? I didn't think so. I want to be with you. Paul, please say yes."

"Marge, you still have your looks. Looks are not the issue. We've known each other a long time. This could go all wrong. I won't risk it."

"Please, Paul!" she cried. "I haven't been with a man for eight years."

Her eyes welled with tears. Nevertheless, she jumped from her chair and onto Paul, seated behind his desk. Marge crushed her face to his, kissing him deeply and with hunger. Paul told himself to fight her off, but found his arms paralyzed, unable to push her away. Paul felt the wetness of Marge's tears on her skin. He gave in and kissed back. Marge felt good pressed against him. He wondered if the act he was committing was good or evil.

"Please, Paul!" she whispered.

"Follow me home in your car." he said.

*************

Paul lived about fifteen minutes from the office. He drove up his driveway and Marge was right behind. Paul's house sat back on his property, so that Marge could park near the house and not be noticed.

During the drive Paul had reconsidered what was about to happen. It was so tempting. The promise of a human touch after sadness could be a balm to the body, if not the spirit. Glenda had shown him how soothing sex could be, and how it could solve loneliness and many other things.

It was their closeness that tempted him to think that it might work out, just for a night.

He waited for Marge inside the house. He would explain to her why it was all wrong. They would have a few drinks together—maybe a light dinner—and part, still friends. He watched Marge step from her car and then hurry into the house. She came through the door and ran into his arms.