Mortal Mistakes

  Bob pushed a heavy glass lobby door open with his right hand and at the same time motioned to Stan with his briefcase and his nodding head. Stan stepped through ahead of him. They marched briskly across the marble floor of the lobby toward a bank of three elevators.

  Bob Steen was in his mid-fifties. His hair was mostly gray. The wrinkles on his brow reflected years of management stress that he had experienced managing a high tech, high pressure business. His brow frowned noticeably at Stan’s request.

  "Well Stan, you know Jan and Keith are running behind on the Mid-City Bank project. They've been humping it really hard, trying to catch up." Bob Steen replied. Choosing his next words thoughtfully, he said, "They really need you to lend a hand and get Mid-City back on schedule, soon as you finish Compton." He looked squarely into Stan's searching eyes trying to appear neither too empathetic nor too commanding.

  Stan shifted his eyes toward the elevator controls, trying to hide his disappointment in Bob’s response. He felt wobbly. Stan had not taken a day off since the Compton project began several months earlier. He had worked numerous evenings and Saturdays. Karen had been upset about his work schedule several times.

  A gnawing aftershock of pain was beginning to build deep behind Stan’s eyes, just like the last time, when he broke the lamp. Then, it lasted for three days after the initial eruption of pain. After the initial attack, he felt depressed and lethargic for several days.

  ‘Jan and Keith are behind,’ Stan silently mocked Bob, ‘They've been humping it really hard.’

  ”Bull!” he muttered under his breath.

  Jan Murray had taken a five week leave for a European vacation and Keith Williams had taken three weeks of personal time off in the last six months. Neither of the two had been employed by CTC nearly as long as Stan, nor worked nearly as hard. Stan had been employed by CTC twelve years as of last month; Jan and Keith not nearly as long.

  "I know Mid-City is important, Bob," Stan countered, as they left the elevator on the third floor of the five story building. "But, I'm sure you know I haven't had a day off in a long time, and I really could use a break. Jenny is going on three already and I need to spend some quality time with her, and with Karen too."

  Stan measured Bob's face for any sign that his injection of family into the equation might alter his manager's decision. He was reluctant to inject stress and headaches because he felt that might have made him appear weak.

  Bob Steen's face flushed slightly. He knew that Stan needed a vacation. So did he. Christ, I’ve got a family too, he thought. He reasoned that both he and Stan had been around long enough to understand the demands of their business. He was also well aware that he had exploited Stan's job dedication and superior technical abilities when necessary to achieve important company objectives. Although he was fond of Karen, business came first.

  "I'm sorry Stan. If there were any other alternative—" The words spilled from Bob Steen's mouth and abruptly trailed off as he turned ninety degrees and continued toward his office.

  Stan was left awkwardly alone in the isle that separated his work cubicle, which he shared with Keith Williams, from that of Jan Murray. Stan felt increasing pain deep inside his head. He took a small container of aspirin from his desk and walked to a water fountain to wash down two of the pills. He trudged back to his cubicle and dropped into his swivel chair.

  Chapter 6

  At mid-morning, a commuter train ratcheted itself noisily along the southbound route that terminated at Mid-City Station.

  Overhead, a pair of doves flew side by side, their gray and brown wings gracefully fanning the air beneath them. The return of spring weather encouraged the pair to begin a search for a suitable nesting site. The mournful cooing of the two life mates declared their claim of territory and their intent to reproduce. The peaceful pair watched the train as it stopped to absorb passengers.

  At the North Vernon station, Robert Louis Gatewood waited to board the train from his usual position on the loading platform. He knew where to position himself on the dock so that he could obtain a seat on a car of his choosing. He preferred a car in the middle of the train. He never rode the first nor last car of a train, at least not in the southbound direction. He always had his choice of seats going in that direction because he boarded the train at the third stop of the route. He always tried to sit on a bench seat facing the pneumatic doors of a commuter car. Robert had many well-disciplined habits. He glanced at the two doves above, then stepped onto the train.

  He took his usual seat and amused himself by wondering what the doves that he saw above, might be thinking about the train, or if indeed they thought at all. He imagined that to the pair of birds flying high above, the train might look like a giant, beastly caterpillar that sucked up globs of people at each stop. It might appear to the birds that the beast gorged itself and then accelerated aggressively looking for its next meal. And when it spotted another serving of people, it stopped abruptly and ravenously swallowed them, before accelerating again in a repeating pattern. Further along it’s travel, Robert surmised, it might seem to the birds, that the beast spit out bad tasting globs of people until it finally disappeared into its burrow below massive concrete and glass structures downtown. He smiled at his analysis.

  Halfway toward the downtown terminal, the only vacant seat now remaining in the fourth car was the half bench next to Robert. Fully aware of the car’s seating constraint, he began to consciously squeeze toward his end of the two person seat. He didn’t do so to invite a traveling companion, but rather to avoid intimacy as much as possible, with another person who might share his seat. Robert was not a very outgoing person. He preferred introspection and reflection, over conversation with most people. And he always had a active self-entertaining imagination.

  As usual, Robert sat slumped forward with his toes touching the floor. His heels, pressed against the supporting frame of the bench seat beneath him. He sat with open hands cupped on either side of his chin which showed a two day growth of short, black, stubble. He might have been sitting on a commode in deep thought, except that he wouldn't have been wearing the raincoat. The gray, somewhat soiled apparel was a couple of sizes too long for his height. Robert was a little shorter and stockier than average. The rim of his right coat pocket was marked with a dull blood stain which he had tried to clean with a washrag before he left home. He burped quietly from eating a too hasty breakfast.

  "Robert, you have to start watching what you eat," his sister Marge used to say to him. "You're going to be fat as a hog!"

  Recalling her words, Robert smiled and visualized himself with the huge fat face of a Hampshire hog protruding from his raincoat. His frayed blue baseball cap, cocked as always, a few degrees to the left rested between pointed, half folded, pig ears. And a flat wet nose at the front end of his snout led up to narrow, beady dark eyes. He chuckled to himself as he conjured the image and imagined it sitting in front of a plate at his kitchen table. He envisioned it impatiently pounding a fork and knife on the table as it waited for Marge to serve lunch.

  Where’s the slop, Marge? Hurry it up! This pig‘s starving, he imagined himself saying. His smile widened at his imagined scene.

  Marge used to cook for Robert on Sundays. She made things like pasta or vegetable casseroles. She never cooked meat or gravy, which he really liked. She always scrutinized his fridge and pantry and was critical of his larder. She encouraged him to eat more fruits and vegetables and cautioned him against eating too many starches, sweets and meats, especially pork. However, his sister had little influence on his eating choices now.

  The train’s squealing brakes brought unwelcome thoughts and memories, so Robert pressed his forefingers tight against his ears. He hated loud noises, like squeals, shrieks and screams. Those sounds were painful to him. He forced his thoughts to return to his imaginary hog and pictured it squealing as the train braked for the Elm Street Station. His eyes opened slightly and he
released the pressure of his forefingers against his ears while the train stopped and passengers boarded.

  Jan Murray took a graceful step with her shapely right leg, bridging the short gap between the loading dock and commuter car entrance, and then brought her equally attractive left leg in line with the first. She quickly surveyed the car to the right, then to the left. Several male heads turned in her direction, as usual.

  Christ, only one empty seat, she thought.

  With lightning speed, Jan assessed the attire, grooming and social stature of Robert. He fell short of her criteria for male commuting companionship. Her senses told her to forgo that seating opportunity. She swung her head back toward the door, with a thought of hurrying to the next car. Her short blonde hair swirled past the side of her pretty tanned face. It was too late. The doors whooshed as they closed, and the train was moving. She reluctantly stepped forward and settled into the empty seat.

  She positioned herself as far to the right on the bench as possible, leaving a full ten inches between herself and Robert. That measure, however, was insufficient for her comfort. She started to plant her oversized purse between them as a barrier but having thought better, brought it back to rest on her lap where she tried to cover that portion of her thighs that were unavoidably exposed below her short skirt. The purse was failing it’s assignment, so, she unfolded a newspaper over her lap and placed the purse by her side farthest from Robert.

  There, she thought.

  Still not satisfied, she removed the front section of the newspaper, briefly looked at the front page and then placed it on the bench between them and moved her purse back to her lap. She pretended to read the sports section of the paper which was partially visible beneath her purse.

  BEARS MAY HIRE BYRD, a headline read.

  After a obscure glance to her left at Robert, she drew the buttons of her waist length, plaid wool, jacket toward their intended receptacles. Laws of physics prevented the size four jacket from totally covering the white cashmere sweater with its size six encumbrance. She thought she could detect a faint smell like a open refrigerator coming from Robert's direction. She was thankful that he seemed not to notice her and that he maintained his space in silence. She shifted her position, crossed her legs and leaned even further to the right. Robert continued to stare at the floor.

  Although relieved, Jan Murray was none the less puzzled that he seemed to be totally ignoring her. I guess he's some kind of weirdo, she thought.

  The eleven car train continued to rock and sway south with occasional thumping sounds from imperfect tracks and intermittent squeals and screeches of brakes and bearings. As it sped along, the view through the windows of the train alternated between fast blurs of nearby structures and steadier objects toward the horizon. Sporadic graffiti in various sizes and in every conceivable color, style and degree of commercial appeal appeared on buildings along the way, advertising likes, dislikes, hopes, and affections.

  Using his feet, Robert slowly rocked his upper torso front to back. The motion was barely noticeable to Jan. He was always a little nervous when he was this close to a woman, except Marge. And he was especially timid and on edge being this close to a young woman as attractive as Jan Murray.

  A few barely noticeable crumbs of peanut butter toast were visible near the corner of Robert's mouth. The stale odor of his work clothes mingled with the slight scent of his breath. In his haste, he forgot to brush his teeth after his breakfast snack.

  "Robert do you brush your teeth every day?" Marge always inquired when she visited.

  He resented his sister's constant mothering. Still, he sometimes missed having her around.

  Without raising his head, Robert saw enough of Jan Murray as she stepped into the train, to know that she was very attractive.

  Great legs and body, he thought. Must be a little taller than me. But he was reluctant to sit upright to compare their sitting height. Instead, he continued his blank, hypnotic, gaze at the floor directly in front of his feet. For a brief moment, he considered avenues of conversation that he could pursue. I could tell her that she smells great. He couldn’t remember smelling perfume so captivating since his mother's. His unconscious rocking stopped abruptly. So did his thought about the perfume of his mother who died when he was seven.

  ‘Robert, don’t you ever try to look under a girls dress again!’ He recalled his mother sternly addressing him. ‘The Devil will get you!’ Then she whacked him hard and took his younger sister out of the room. He was six at the time. At that recollection, his vision had drifted to the right and come to rest on Jan Murray’s smooth tanned shins, snapped smartly back to the floor.

  Robert began to slowly and imperceptibly rock his body again. The interior mechanics of his right eye were unconsciously straining to maximize his peripheral vision without visible movement of his pupils. The smell of her perfume and the beauty of her skin were intoxicating to him.

  As in the two mating doves earlier, natural instincts that are programmed into animal and human, were being triggered in Robert.

  Unintended, though not unwelcome, thoughts and desires caused him to consider the origin of instincts. He thought about the intricate arrangement of atoms that are passed through genes, from generation to generation. He wondered if some of the original atoms might have passed from Adam, through Noah, to a German goat farmer, through Napoleon, and countless others, and finally to him. It astounded him to think that some of the very atoms that composed the first human could be in his own body. He reasoned that a precise arrangement of atoms in his brain cells must have been deliberately designed so that certain thoughts and physical responses would be triggered, when he experienced specific smells, sounds, textures, tastes, and sights.

  He questioned to himself the operation of instinct. How does a chemical or molecule or atomic arrangement cause a thought? They’re just atoms and molecules. How does a immaterial thought produce a material physical response, like hormone production? How can a non-material thought cause a material gland or muscle or organ to react? Robert wondered if anyone, anywhere, knew precise answers to those questions.

  His instincts continued to produce desires in spite of his intellectual side track. Struggles took place in his mind. His peripheral vision traced the alluring curve of her smooth tanned calf, from her thin firm ankle, up to the Sports section of her newspaper. And then his peripheral sight continued past that obstruction to catch an inch of visible thigh, and then to the front page of the newspaper barrier that she had erected between them.

  MISSING CHILD AND MOTHER, the bold newspaper headline which faced Robert, exclaimed. He thought about his own mother again.

  "Sound the letters out Bobby," he recalled his mother coaching him, when he was first learning to read. "Ah, bah, ca . . ." It was boring to him. He much preferred playing with insects and rodents in the yard and garden. His favorite entertainment was fastening worms and bugs to sticky cellophane tape so that they couldn’t move. Then he used a knife, which had belonged to his deceased father, to meticulously carve them.

  MM, IH, SIH, SIH. He sounded the letters of the headline in his mind as he scanned the first word with his peripheral vision. He was familiar with the lead story. He brought his attention back to the floor where he disinterestedly followed a fracture in the vinyl surface back toward his feet.

  He quickly shifted the work-shoe on his right foot up and to the left, to cover a dried blood stain on the top of his left shoe, hoping that she hadn't noticed. He hastened the pace of his rocking ever so slightly. He pressed his forefingers tightly against his ears as the train’s squealing brakes, engaged for the Lake Street station. He thought about how long he had hated the sound of squealing. He recalled Marge squealing in the orphanage. The recollection of that sound and the entire incident was painful to him. The sudden movement next to him forced the thought of Marge out of his mind.

  Jan Murray was on her feet before the train came to a comple
te stop. She had plenty of time to make the transfer to a west bound train. But she was anxious to distance herself from the stranger with whom she had shared the seat. She didn't bother collecting the front section of her newspaper which still lay on the bench after she rose.

  "You forgot your paper," Robert anxiously hailed her, waving it gracefully in the air with his left hand as though it were a bouquet of roses.

  His eyes were barely visible beneath the baseball cap.

  "I'm through with it," she blurted, agitated that her swift departure had been hindered.

  "Okay. I'll throw it away for you. Have a good day," he offered, as he raised his right hand to lift the front of his baseball cap. His eyes focused a little to the left of Jan‘s face. He always had difficulty making direct eye contact with a member of the opposite sex. Still, with his practiced peripheral vision, he saw that Jan had a beautiful square jawed face with silky smooth skin, deep blue eyes, and full tempting lips. Her body was perfectly proportioned. She appeared to him to be in her early to mid-twenties.

  She made no effort to acknowledge his farewell remark and instead accelerated her movement toward the exit. There was no smile on her face, no expression of appreciation for his parting gesture; only a quick, slightly puzzled glance back over her shoulder.

  Robert allowed his right foot to slide back to the floor as Jan Murray left the train. He paid no further attention to the blood stain on his other shoe that he had so carefully masked.

  He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose to capture the fragrance of her that lingered on the bench seat. He was two train stops from his destination. From there he would walk eleven blocks to Scotty's and begin his day's work. He held the newspaper to his face and hid a roguish smile as he inhaled Jan Murray's intoxicating perfume that remained on the paper.