“Carole, stop pouring warm syrup all over me,” Helen purred, an honest appraisal that neither stemmed the tide of warm syrup nor inhibited its soothing effect.
Helen began to genuinely relax under the ministrations of her assistant, a cunning, ambitious, manipulative woman who would stab her mother in the heart if it would lead to advancement, but who wisely saw that her own career was tied inexorably to Helen’s. Carole had pushed her boss relentlessly up the corporate ladder, each time climbing to the next vacated rung. Now Helen was a vice-president and Carole had the title of associate vice-president. Helen liked Carole. Carole was smart, funny, and devoted. Helen had always chosen perfect protégés. They worked like sled dogs for her and she saw to it that they were rewarded. Carole was one of the best. She could curse like a sailor and lie like a priest and as long as her career progressed, she was perfectly reliable.
Forgetting, as she did every morning, her plan to quit immediately upon arriving at work, Helen got busy.
Helen worked the way she performed sexual acts — reluctantly, only after much preliminary bitching, and with astonishing expertise. Her superiors, a dimwitted crew of Caucasian men, most of whom were smitten with her anyway, put up with her irreverent attitude, her constant complaining, her chronic lateness, and a host of other employee no-nos because she was smart, talented, hard-working, imaginative, and attentive to details. She was much too good for their pathetic little company and they knew it. They tolerated her parking in the handicapped spot, smoking in her office, and taking massively long lunch hours. They allowed her to hire crazed sycophants as assistants. She worked hard all morning.
Just before noon, Carole appeared in Helen’s doorway. She had an unreadable expression on her face. “There’s a Mr. Wilson here to see you,” she announced in a bland voice but with a nearly imperceptible hesitation that put Helen on alert. Carole, who knew nearly everything about Helen’s professional life, didn’t know what to make of this visitor.
Helen was intrigued, but perplexed. “Who?” She sped through her considerable mental Rolodex for Wilsons.
“Mr. Louis Wilson,” Carole clarified carefully, waiting for an indication that she should deny the visitor admission altogether. “He says it’s personal.” Her look expressed her scepticism.
Helen suddenly made the connection. “Oh, Louie.” She was up and past Carole in a flash. “Louie, come in. Nice to see you. What are you doing in this neck of the woods?”
She escorted the small, ageing black gentleman into her office, past the baffled Carole. She gave Carole a smile and a wink, to show her that this was unexpected but okay. Carole could live with that for the time being. Helen gently but firmly closed the door.
She gestured Louie to a seat. Louie Wilson was a wizened, old-fashioned man — the type who always wore a fedora outdoors and took it off inside and in the presence of a lady. He had worked for Beau since Beau’s first appointment as police chief and had spent the better part of his adult life in the station house. Beau had had his choice, according to the measly budget provided by the county clerks, of a paralegal or an assistant, but not both. A paralegal could write reports, keep track of evidence, and generally assist with the professional nature of Beau’s job. An assistant was a go-fer with a title. An assistant would pick up your dry cleaning, shop for your wife’s anniversary present, and take your car in to the shop. Beau unhesitatingly chose the assistant. He reasoned that he’d gone to college and could write his own reports. He’d rather have somebody get his shirts from the laundry. He hired Louie Wilson. Louie Wilson was more a wife to Beau than Helen was, when it came right down to it. Outside of conversation and sex, Louie was a damn good wife and both Beau and Helen knew it.
Louie knew how much he was valued and appreciated. Louie Wilson was devoted to Beau. In fact, there was only one person on earth who had more of Louie’s loyalty than Beau Goode. And that was Helen. Helen had discovered Louie, nurtured him, and fostered his fine qualities. She had recommended him for the job and seen to it that Beau hired him. Louie knew everything there was to know about both Helen and Beau, and they both trusted him implicitly. He had keys to their house, both their cars, and their safe-deposit box. He knew their birthdays and their passwords at the bank. He knew what prescription drugs they took and which heartburn medicine they preferred. None of the three of them had ever regretted the arrangement for a single minute.
Louie sat where Helen indicated and looked nervous. “What’s going on, Louie? What is it?” Helen asked. She kept her tone light, but she was slightly worried. Louie had never come to Helen’s office before.
“Helen,” Louie began haltingly, “there’s something I think you better know.” He seemed to gather strength and she waited quietly. “I think Beau’s having an affair with Emily Watson.”
Helen gasped a little air and then broke out with a belly laugh that scooted her rolling office chair back a foot. “Emily Watson? Little Emily Watson? Louie, that’s ridiculous. Have you plum lost your mind?”
“No, ma’am. I wouldn’t come here if I wasn’t pretty sure. And I’m not the only one thinks so, either. There’s talk.”
This gave Helen pause and she took a minute to regroup. “But Louie, you must be wrong. Emily Watson works for Beau.” As if no man had ever slept with one of his own office staff. She felt silly the minute she said it. “And anyway, she’s a pathetic little thing, always coming to Beau for advice and encouragement. She’s thinking of going back to school and trying to get a degree as a paralegal. Beau’s been trying to help her. There’s nothing to it. Trust me. I know Beau.”
But Louie stood his ground and shook his head stubbornly. “I know about all that, Helen. That’s what I said at first. But sometimes, after work, after they’ve both left, people been seeing the chief’s big old yellow Buick parked near Emily Watson’s house. Up on Wheeling. By the Greek deli.”
Helen took this in. If a small, dark seed of doubt was planted it wouldn’t do to have Louie Wilson see it. She stood up and came around the desk. “Louie, you just put it right out of your mind. Beau’s no saint, but I don’t leave him any energy for catting around. Hear me?” She gave him one of her most dazzling smiles and he rose, clutching his hat to his chest.
“Yes, ma’am. I thought you should know about the talk, is all.”
“Louie, you know I always want to know about the talk. I want to know every damn thing there is to know. Don’t worry about that.” Helen meant it. She had no intention of scaring off a good source of information, even if it wasn’t always correct. “And I thank you for it.” She gave him a warm hug to show there weren’t any hard feelings. Louie still looked worried, but he nodded his agreement. “Now, what say we go out to Piggy’s and have some pulled-pork sandwiches? What do you say? It’s right around the corner.”
Louie demurred as she knew he would. Helen opened the door and hugged him again so Carole could see. “Next time, we go to Piggy’s. Right, Louie? Promise?”
Back in her office, Helen mulled it over for about thirty seconds. She decided that, one, Louie was probably wrong; two, there was nothing she could do about it anyway; and three, she didn’t want to risk making a fuss to find out. For a moment, she was overwhelmed with an unaccustomed wave of pure love for her husband. Helen was not a sentimental woman and rarely gave way to emotional transports. Her level of affection was usually tempered by her moods, her hormonal state, her socioeconomic needs, and her blood-sugar level.
Helen made the decision to put the whole mess out of her mind. Which didn’t mean she would forget about it.