The ankle doctor said she might be depressed. After that all Annie could remember was his laugh at the end. Was it something she had said? Was he laughing at her? Had she made joke in spite of herself, or to prove to him she wasn’t depressed?
She asked Joan to check out a joke book from the library, along with a stack of novels—titles collected from book reviews. Maybe jokes or the relaxation of good literature would hasten the healing of her ankle. She had sprained this ankle once before years ago when she had been in love with Buddy. Buddy who had a wife. Buddy who had lain in her bed once a week for 7 years without fail unless one of them was sick. It was a kind of faithfulness she appreciated until he moved away. Butterball was her pet name for pudgy Buddy. She went by his work and they said they had no forwarding address. She hadn’t tried to search the Internet--it smacked pruient. What would she do, call his wife and dangle the details of the affair? She hated to use that word. It was ugly. Buddy and she never talked about Mable, as if she just a figment. And now no one named their girls Mable, her heyday had come and gone.
Annie imagined herself returned to work with a few great jokes to show how well she was doing, to entertain her favorite partner and the other secretaries. No one but law firms had secretaries anymore. She was part of a dead breed, like office managers. Executive assistants and tech support had taken over. In other professions, people already missed her kind. They needed the new kind of problem solvers, but guardian angels would always be in vogue.
She represented institutional knowledge at William Page. She had helped save their butts, bury the bodies, elderly Mr William said in the privacy of the office he visited once a week for a morning. There were only 3 others who had her years of service. What had they done with their bonuses—probably god awful Las Vegas or Disneyland. People’s taste was so unrefined these days. Even if she liked these old work friends who had called her twice since she returned. Paul the only male secretary at the firm sent a card and the firm sent flowers first on her return and then after the broken ankle. They spent less on the second arrangement. It was really a plant with red carnations stuck in. She plucked them and threw them away, thinking the plant deserved to be alone in its greenness, unfettered.
In the basement was a box of old diaries maybe she should read them to remember what of her past she had forgotten. Probably no more than everyone, right. The doctor said it was short term amnesia and that her memory would return. She never told the doctor that she had always had holes in her short term memory, now it was just a bigger hole, like the ozone hole over the Artic pole. The diaries would have to wait until the cast was off. For years she had kept a diary, and then out grown it, wanted to live life instead of document it. It was after Buddy left that she had stopped writing, unable to face the page. Perhaps it was time to keeo a diary again, to work on retaining the minutia as some sort of exercise for her memory, employing lightweight details.
Annie pulled the curtains on rainy or gray days and turned on all the lights and left the TV on without sound if she was reading. She began her new diary on old legal pads--the dregs brought home from work--by listing the books she was reading, the programs she was watching, the number of birds and kinds, the people who called, and her reactions to all these. “Joan called again today at 10:43 saying she had more books and did I need any returned. I’m wearing my fleecy reindeer top still in bed surrounded by 8 pillows. Joan wants to come over, she knows the key is inside the green turtle sculpture in the back yard perennial bed that will need to be clean up before spring. Annie starts a to do list for the late winter.
‘Are you planning to sue?’ Joan intones. Paul asked the same thing the week before. No, Annie said and thought, I live in a sue river, it’s what’s wrong with this country, on the top 25. I’ve had enough suing in my life. Such a thing would blur the boundaries between work and personal life. Mercifully, Joan did not reask to come over.
Annie could hear the rain coming down on the house, belting her roof and she began crying. It was the first time since all this began. The wretched loneliness of life. The emptiness of forgetting filled her with a noxious feeling. You were supposed to return from vacations filled with wonderment of the world, not a hole inside yourself where one didn’t belong. She wanted a cat. Blueberry had died last year, and had seen her through other tears. Engagement with the natural world was like a panacea for something else—religion, love, children. She had none of these things, just a desire to see Penguins. Annie had always loved penguins, took a course in college on animal behavior. But she knew that in stopping her tears she was avoiding something she would have to look at later.
That night Annie dreamed of penguins, that she was a penguin and when she looked down she was pink and mauve. Then she dove into water and her fir began to run like dye. She woke at 12:47 from the dream. It was a relief to find herself alive and warm.
The curtains revealed a blue sky washed by the night's rain, crisp and brilliant, just as she had imagined the ocean horizon was going to be in below the Tropic of Capricon, heading to the Antartic Circle. With the money she would get back from her failed vacation she decided to upgrade. All this time in the bedroom and sitting room made her realize things were worn and faded, a drab suddenly seemed apparent when it had not before. She might not wait for the money, just count on it coming. Use her no interest credit card. Online, she researched window treatments. It was fun to window shop in the figurative sense—not a feeling she had often. She was not a normal American. She hated malls, America’s other church.
She asked Joan to check out a joke book from the library, along with a stack of novels—titles collected from book reviews. Maybe jokes or the relaxation of good literature would hasten the healing of her ankle. She had sprained this ankle once before years ago when she had been in love with Buddy. Buddy who had a wife. Buddy who had lain in her bed once a week for 7 years without fail unless one of them was sick. It was a kind of faithfulness she appreciated until he moved away. Butterball was her pet name for pudgy Buddy. She went by his work and they said they had no forwarding address. She hadn’t tried to search the Internet--it smacked pruient. What would she do, call his wife and dangle the details of the affair? She hated to use that word. It was ugly. Buddy and she never talked about Mable, as if she just a figment. And now no one named their girls Mable, her heyday had come and gone.
Annie imagined herself returned to work with a few great jokes to show how well she was doing, to entertain her favorite partner and the other secretaries. No one but law firms had secretaries anymore. She was part of a dead breed, like office managers. Executive assistants and tech support had taken over. In other professions, people already missed her kind. They needed the new kind of problem solvers, but guardian angels would always be in vogue.
She represented institutional knowledge at William Page. She had helped save their butts, bury the bodies, elderly Mr William said in the privacy of the office he visited once a week for a morning. There were only 3 others who had her years of service. What had they done with their bonuses—probably god awful Las Vegas or Disneyland. People’s taste was so unrefined these days. Even if she liked these old work friends who had called her twice since she returned. Paul the only male secretary at the firm sent a card and the firm sent flowers first on her return and then after the broken ankle. They spent less on the second arrangement. It was really a plant with red carnations stuck in. She plucked them and threw them away, thinking the plant deserved to be alone in its greenness, unfettered.
In the basement was a box of old diaries maybe she should read them to remember what of her past she had forgotten. Probably no more than everyone, right. The doctor said it was short term amnesia and that her memory would return. She never told the doctor that she had always had holes in her short term memory, now it was just a bigger hole, like the ozone hole over the Artic pole. The diaries would have to wait until the cast was off. For years she had kept a diary, and then out grown it, wanted to live life instead of document it. It was after Buddy left that she had stopped writing, unable to face the page. Perhaps it was time to keeo a diary again, to work on retaining the minutia as some sort of exercise for her memory, employing lightweight details.
Annie pulled the curtains on rainy or gray days and turned on all the lights and left the TV on without sound if she was reading. She began her new diary on old legal pads--the dregs brought home from work--by listing the books she was reading, the programs she was watching, the number of birds and kinds, the people who called, and her reactions to all these. “Joan called again today at 10:43 saying she had more books and did I need any returned. I’m wearing my fleecy reindeer top still in bed surrounded by 8 pillows. Joan wants to come over, she knows the key is inside the green turtle sculpture in the back yard perennial bed that will need to be clean up before spring. Annie starts a to do list for the late winter.
‘Are you planning to sue?’ Joan intones. Paul asked the same thing the week before. No, Annie said and thought, I live in a sue river, it’s what’s wrong with this country, on the top 25. I’ve had enough suing in my life. Such a thing would blur the boundaries between work and personal life. Mercifully, Joan did not reask to come over.
Annie could hear the rain coming down on the house, belting her roof and she began crying. It was the first time since all this began. The wretched loneliness of life. The emptiness of forgetting filled her with a noxious feeling. You were supposed to return from vacations filled with wonderment of the world, not a hole inside yourself where one didn’t belong. She wanted a cat. Blueberry had died last year, and had seen her through other tears. Engagement with the natural world was like a panacea for something else—religion, love, children. She had none of these things, just a desire to see Penguins. Annie had always loved penguins, took a course in college on animal behavior. But she knew that in stopping her tears she was avoiding something she would have to look at later.
That night Annie dreamed of penguins, that she was a penguin and when she looked down she was pink and mauve. Then she dove into water and her fir began to run like dye. She woke at 12:47 from the dream. It was a relief to find herself alive and warm.
The curtains revealed a blue sky washed by the night's rain, crisp and brilliant, just as she had imagined the ocean horizon was going to be in below the Tropic of Capricon, heading to the Antartic Circle. With the money she would get back from her failed vacation she decided to upgrade. All this time in the bedroom and sitting room made her realize things were worn and faded, a drab suddenly seemed apparent when it had not before. She might not wait for the money, just count on it coming. Use her no interest credit card. Online, she researched window treatments. It was fun to window shop in the figurative sense—not a feeling she had often. She was not a normal American. She hated malls, America’s other church.
DRAFT STORY BY ROSIE DEMPSEY
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