Authors: Tara McTiernan
"Ready as I can be."
"Good. I'll go enjoy the fabulous toiletry experience of O'Malley's now. Where did I put my clothespin?" Sharon said as she got to her feet, referring to the smelly ladies room that Lucie had already visited before they got their onion rings and where Sharon would be hiding for the first portion of Operation Molly.
"Wish me luck."
"You can do it. No luck necessary."
Sharon gave Lucie an assured nod and walked away. Lucie moved to take her seat on the other side of the booth where she could watch the door and see Molly's entrance. At five past eight, Molly walked into the bar and stopped just inside the door, her face screwed up like she smelled something bad. Lucie waved at her and Molly, not abandoning her look of disgust, crossed the room to her, weaving between the now-crowded tables and holding her purse in front of her like a shield. She also held a manila folder which contained the reason for their meeting.
Molly stopped in front of Lucie and looked down at her with her lips still curled downward, clearly reveling in the moment and enjoying her dominant physical position as she loomed over Lucie.
"Hi, Molly. Thanks for coming."
"It worked, huh? No more little catering business for you. Too bad," Molly sang.
"So it was you? Please sit. Make yourself comfortable."
"Here? In this dump? That's a laugh. But I'll sit," Molly said, sliding into the booth across from Lucie.
"Were you the one to spread all those lies, about the food poisoning?" Lucie asked, helpless anger charging through her and making her shake.
"I didn't say that. I won't say a thing. I don't have to. I'm just here to get your signature," Molly said, adopting a haughty attitude and pushing the folder she was holding across the table to Lucie. "Do you have a pen, or do you need mine?"
Lucie looked down at the folder and then into Molly's gleeful eyes. "You lie a lot, don't you Molly?"
"No. I don't. You do. You're the one who tried to make me look bad, lied to do it. Why? Wasn't I nice enough to you? Did you need me to coddle you like a little baby?" Molly made a little simpering face.
"No," Lucie said, gripping the edge of her leather upholstered seat to keep from launching across the table at Molly and throttling her. "And you know that's not what happened. You were the one that sent that email."
"You have no proof of that. I worked hard that night after Abe contacted me to show that it was you, in fact, who had a problem with Jews in the office."
"Then why do you need me to sign this document of yours?"
"I just do. Come on, let's take care of this," Molly said, nodding at the folder. "I'm not here for a social hour."
"Actually," Lucie said, feeling a thrill of fear run through her, picked up the first item in their arsenal and put it in front of Molly, a folder containing a letter Sharon and Lucie had co-written. "You're the one who's going to be doing some signing tonight."
Molly jerked a little, glancing down at the folder. "What?"
"It's a reference, a glowing one. It refers to my outstanding catering abilities and says that you've hired me for multiple parties that were all enormous successes. No mention of food poisoning, of course."
"Ha! You're kidding."
"No, I'm not. And you're going to stop with the whole rumor-mill business. All you're going to do is overflow with praise for me. You're going to tell everyone you know to hire me."
Molly made a grimace of disbelief, let out another bark of laughter, and pushed the folder back at Lucie. "Go to hell. Why would I do that? Are you signing, or are you not?"
Sharon walked up to the table, causing Molly to do a double take. "Sharon? What are you doing here?"
"Payback is a bitch, just like you. Lucie, scoot over. I don't want to sit next to the creature-feature."
Lucie grinned and scooted. Once seated, Sharon placed the small tape recorder she'd been holding in her hand on the table and said, "Guess what this is?"
Molly looked at the recorder and then at Sharon. "What
is
this? I'm going to leave. I don't have time for this," she said, starting to reach for her purse.
"Ah, ah, ah?" Sharon said, wagging a finger at Molly and then pointing at the recorder. "You might want to stay and hear this? I think you'll be very interested. And, you know what? I think the upper management at TMB would be fascinated, too! What do you think, Lucie?"
Lucie nodded. "Definitely. Deeply."
Molly froze. "What? What about upper management?"
Sharon said, "What do you say we play it and find out how very riveting it is?" Then she pressed the play button, the volume on high. Molly's voice rang out, tinny sounding but easily recognizable as she drunkenly detailed her hatred of Jewish people, listing every small-minded clichéd prejudice out there and then a few creative and even more heinous ones.
Molly's eyes grew wide before she snatched at the recorder, fumbled with it to shut it off, and flipping it open, grabbed at the tape. "I'll burn it. No, why wait?" Molly said, and started tearing the tape from the cassette and ripping it.
Sharon and Lucie, both smiling, shook their heads slowly at Molly's frantic efforts. Molly, realizing that the two women weren't acting upset, looked up, mid-tear, strips of shiny black tape on the table in front of her.
"What?" Molly said.
"You don't think we wouldn't make copies, do you? We're a little smarter than that," Sharon said.
Lucie pushed the folder back at Molly. "Sign this and do what I said, spreading the good word about Petite Soiree, and we'll never send a copy to anyone at TMB. Otherwise..."
"Everyone, every last manager, will get a copy," Sharon said, smiling wickedly.
Molly's face became very pale and then took on a faint green hue, her hand flying up and covering her mouth before she mewled, "Excuse me!" Then she jumped up, looked around, and ran for the bathroom, ostensibly to throw up. A muffled retching sound could be heard a few minutes later coming from the small ladies room, confirming.
Sharon turned to Lucie. "That seemed to go well, don't you think?"
Lucie grinned, still tingling from the confrontation, and said, "She's going to sign. I really think she will!"
"Oh, ho, ho!" Sharon said. "Does she have a choice?"
The two girls high-fived each other and waited for Molly. When she finally did return, looking washed-out and deflated, it became clear, as she sat down and slowly pulled Lucie's file closer and opened it, that Molly agreed.
Vodka Martini
Sharon pulled into Alan's driveway at just past ten. His house was dark, not a single light shining within. She flicked off her headlights and turned the key in the ignition, quieting the rumble of the motor so that it would not wake him. Waves of cricket song poured in through her open car windows and she could smell the comforting sweetness of fresh grass clippings in the air. That was it: Alan had been out mowing the lawn when she'd called, had forgotten to check his messages. Everything was fine.
Still, it was good to be here, taking Lucie's advice. Sharon got out of her car, careful to lightly shut her car door, and walked toward the garage. In a minute, standing on tiptoes, she would see the gleam of Alan's car's body in the shadows of his garage and be able to fully relax. If only it could be easier than this. If only he would check his messages religiously like he used to. He didn't even use his cell anymore. Instead, it had become a car phone as soon as he was forced into retirement, kept in his glove compartment for roadside emergencies. "What do I need it for?" Alan had said, elaborately casual in his shrugging indifference. "No one needs to reach me these days except telemarketers and peppy volunteers working fund drives."
Peering through one of the garage door's squares of glass, she widened her eyes, trying to see his car. It wasn't there. Margie's old car sat parked in its bay in the two-car garage, a green Volkswagen Beetle that Alan refused to sell, but his bay was empty, a few oil stains punctuating the floor. Sharon fell back on her heels, stung. Where was he? Maybe his car was in the shop for repairs?
She turned and marched around to the front door. She would have to knock, wake him. He would be angry. She couldn't help it. She had to know he was safe and sober at home. If he was out at this hour, there was only one possibility: he had fallen off of the wagon, had gone out to a bar and started slamming down the drinks as if the world was going to run out of gin and he wanted in on the few remaining bottles.
She knocked and rang the doorbell repetitively for five minutes. No lights snapped on inside, nothing moved. Sharon backed away from the house, looking up at the bedroom windows. The shades weren't drawn. He wasn't asleep. He wouldn't be angry. Because he wasn't home.
Twirling on her heel, Sharon ran to her car. Then she stopped. Where would she even look? The only bar that she knew he frequented was O'Malley's, and she'd just come from there. She'd call anyway.
"O'Malley's!"
"Jimmy? It's Sharon."
"Sharon? What's up?"
"Alan isn't there, is he?"
"What? No. He hasn't been here since the night you drove him home. Not once. Why? Is something wrong?"
"He's not at home. He didn't answer when I called earlier, either. We have this daily check-in thing. I just...I was hoping he was there, that's all."
"Sorry, sweetheart. No dice. Let me take your number and I'll call you if he shows up."
Sharon gave Jimmy her number, hung up and then checked her messages again even though she knew better. Nothing. Where was he? He would have told her if he was going somewhere, even if he was annoyed with her recently. Unless her fears were right and he really was drinking. But why? He was doing so well, she'd been sure he was coming out from under it after all.
"Why, Alan?" she said, looking around the darkened yard that was so neatly kept, the lawn thriving and lush under Alan's care. Then she sighed raggedly, climbed into her car, and slowly backed out of the driveway while desperately hoping that his car would pull up then, Alan at the wheel and irritable with her babysitting, sober as a judge. When she had pulled all the way out and paused there on the street in front of his house, she realized she was waiting and pulled away, swearing under her breath.
She drove home using back roads and made it all the way to her street, a winding road that cut through farmland and was utterly dark due the lack of streetlights, without a single idea of what to do. Tomorrow she would call him again, visit him after work if she had to; that's all she had. As she took the last curve near her house she saw the shape of a car's bumper jutting out of the long watery ditch made by a small creek that ran along the road. It was a silver Toyota Avalon. Slowing down, Sharon saw the jazz station's bumper sticker. Alan.
Swerving over to the embankment on the other side of the road, Sharon started saying, "Oh, my God," repetitively under her breath, a frantic prayer. She leapt from the car and ran across the road to the Alan's car. It had plowed into the creek's ditch, which was rocky and shallow, crushing the front of the car. A shape was motionless against the wheel, resting against what looked like a circular pillow: the airbag. Oh, Alan!
Sharon climbed down into the ditch, glad she'd worn jeans and sneakers instead of heels and a dress, and made it over to Alan's car door. It wasn't damaged and opened easily. Resting against the inflated airbag, Alan groaned.
"Oh, thank God!" Sharon said, switching from prayer to praise. He was alive. It looked as if he had just been hit by the airbag, but she couldn't really see his injuries, even with the light from one of car's headlights reflecting off of the nearby greenery. The other headlight was out, probably smashed.