Alex gazed distractedly about the room. His eyes came to rest on the new computer and dot matrix printer they used for processing the continuous-feed payroll slips. That set him back a good penny. Now he had to fork over another three hundred dollars to the Peachtree software company that designed the automated accounting program. Every couple of years they came out with an updated program that rendered what Alex was currently using obsolete. “Little do they know.”
“Do you like Clarice?”
Phyllis Moon gawked at him with a quizzical expression. “You put me in an awkward spot with a question like that.”
A homemaker wearing a green smock came to pick up directions plus pay slips for a new client. “It’s not a trick question,” Alex groused when the homemaker was gone. “Either you like my future wife or not.”
Phyllis removed her dark-frame glasses, sprayed the lenses with a pocket-size cleaner then wiped the surface dry with a tissue. “You just went from dating to cohabitating to wedding bells.”
Before he could respond, a dark blue Toyota sedan with a moon roof pulled up in front of the building, and, what was turning out to be a totally crumby day suddenly got a whole lot worse. “Oh, God!” Alex muttered. “That’s Jessica Stern from the Department of Health.”
Every year without notice the Brandenberg Department of Health bushwhacked the home care agencies with an unscheduled visit. The purpose ostensibly was to make sure that paperwork was in order, employees’ medical records up to date and agencies were following regulations. That was the stated purpose for the inspections. But Jessica Stern always brought a secondary agenda. The dour woman would dig and dig and dig and dig until she found some petty indiscretion, lapse of bureaucratic procedure or infinitesimal sin of omission. Then, like a gladiator in the Roman coliseum, Jessica Stern launched a full frontal attack.
Alex set the inspector up in a small vestibule off the entryway. Five minutes into her visit Jessica flagged him down. “The elder abuse hotline number on the patient bill of rights form is incorrect,” she said in a pinched tone. The woman was tall, over six feet, with a wide jaw and meticulously combed auburn hair. “What you have here,” she repeated “is an outdated number.”
“We were never notified of the changed,” he replied weakly.
“The Department of Health contacted every provider.” Jessica gave him a withering look that precluded any further discussion of the matter. “When did you print these forms?”
“Just last week. We ordered fifteen hundred.”
“They’ll all have to be destroyed, and every client issued a new one with the correct telephone number before the end of the month.” “This is totally unacceptable!” she added for good measure. “Where’s your Emergency Disaster Control Plan?”
“Disaster Control Plan,” Alex repeated dully. Three years earlier, following the 911 terrorist attack, the state told all health care providers to draw up a written plan detailing how they would continue to operate following a national catastrophe – germ warfare, nuclear explosion, earthquake, flood, holocaust, God-knows-what. Alex had dutifully churned out ten pages of surrealistic drivel over the better part of a week. The original document was buried in his computer hard drive, the printed version filed away somewhere in the office.
Alex rummaged through the three-ring folders and manuals lining the credenza. No luck. He sat down. A fat bumblebee just outside the window was circling the mouth of an orangey tiger lily. Across the street the driver of a Pepsi Cola van was stacking crates of soda on a hand truck to be wheeled into the grocery market.
Alex allowed himself one colossal, ignominious blunder per year. Every three hundred and sixty-five days, give or take a month, he could transgress, do something so utterly regrettable that he cringed with mortal embarrassment.
One stupendously stupid blunder per year. In less than an hour he had tripled the quota! Alex groaned inwardly. Why did he tell Phyllis they were moving in together? And, worse yet, why did he describe Clarice as his future wife? One lie heaped on another. A fetid pile of deceit! Was Alex even capable of being truthful anymore?
Yes, his soon-to-be ex-girlfriend was a fatuous airhead, but he, the owner of Caring Hearts Home Care was a pathological liar incapable of stringing two modestly truthful statements back to back. And now he couldn’t find the goddamn Emergency Disaster Control Plan.
The Emergency Disaster Control Plan read like bad science fiction. Militant Pakistanis had just dropped a nuclear bomb on downtown Brandenberg. Alex would of course ignore immediate family and rush back to the demolished home care agency. To do what? To insure that Sarah Cohen from Scenic View Apartments got her pussy toe lanced by the podiatrist; to make a side trip to the drug store (if it hadn’t already burnt to the ground or been looted) to purchase an organic laxative for the lady with fecal impactions. The town had just been incinerated on a scale similar to Nagasaki and Hiroshima, but the bureaucratic master plan trumped all mundane considerations.
So what did he really want? Alex wanted someone like Phyllis Moon, the home care receptionist. Phyllis or a close facsimile. The near-sighted woman with the self-effacing manner wasn’t a sexual firecracker. She was a plain Jane—pleasant, reliable, dependable, durable, forthright, stolid and on and on and on and ….
She was also spoken for.
Phyllis had a steady boyfriend, Donald. Alex assumed the pudgy man with the swarthy, pock-marked face was either Arab or Hispanic. Always polite, with a gently, self-effacing smile, Donald stopped by the office occasionally to take Phyllis out to lunch. Though she never discussed her personal life, Alex assumed they were engaged.
“Did you check the blue binder?”
Alex looked up. Phyllis was leaning against the door jamb.
“That’s where we store the telephone logs.”
“Yes, but you have a tendency to cram all sorts of junk in there.” She opened the folder and thumbed through the blue binder, section by section. “Yes, here it is. Right where you filed it away three years ago.” She pried the metal rings apart, extricating the Emergency Disaster Control Plan. “I’ll bring it out to Mrs. Stern.” She hurried off.
When Jessica Stern was gone, Alex called the Brandenberg Department of Health. “This is Alex over at Caring Hearts Home Care. We need the new Elder Abuse Hotline number.”
“Yes, I have that right here,” the woman on the other end of the line replied. “Eight, four, nine,… nine, six, five, three.”
Alex felt like he had been sucker punched in the solar plexus. “No that’s the number we presently have. It’s been replaced, updated.”
“One minute please.” After a lengthy pause the receptionist returned. “I’m so sorry. The correct number is six, one, five …”
“Well that went well,” Alex said bleakly. He told Phyllis about the comedy of errors with the outdated telephone number. “Jessica Stern is writing us up… giving the agency a deficiency.”
Phyllis smirked. “Sort of like high school, when you flunk a test or get caught smoking in the bathroom.”
“A lot more costly,” Alex observed. “Those forms we have to scrap cost over a hundred bucks.”
“What are you doing this weekend?” he asked.
“I’m camping in the White Mountains,” she replied. “Gonna hike the trails and maybe do some fly-fishing.”
“You don’t strike me as the outdoors type.”
“Is that so?” There was no immediate reply. “What’s my name?” Alex stared at her queerly. Between Clarice and Jessica Stern, he was too washed out to respond. “What’s my name?” she prodded.
“Phyllis. Phyllis Moon.”
“I was born Phyllis Half Moon. When I moved east from the reservation in Butte Montana I dropped the ‘Half’.”
“I would like to think,” there was neither any hint of rebuke or anger in her voice, “that a full-blooded Blackfoot Indian should know a thing or two
about communing with Mother Nature.”
Later that night, Alex called Phyllis at home. “You work for me five years and only just now get around to telling me about your heritage?”
“What the heck do you know about my heritage?” She had never spoken to him in that way and the caustic tone brought him up short. “How many tribes make up the Blackfoot Nation?” This time she didn’t bother to wait for a reply. “Four – the North and South Peigans, the Kinai Nation, also known as the Bloods, and the Siksika.”
What did Alex know about the American Indians? In his junior year in high school the history teacher touched briefly on the ugly legacy of Manifest Destiny. In the far west, the Spanish wanted to convert all the Indians to their way of life and, on the whole they were surprisingly successful. The English never tried to make Englishman out of the Indians. Instead they saw the red man as part of the wilderness that they aimed to clear away.
“I want to go camping with you in the White Mountains."
The remarked was greeted with a whooping belly laugh. “That’s ridiculous! You’re virtually engaged to Clarice.”
“Not so,” he protested. “And, anyway, I just need to get away.”
“A vision quest,” Phyllis said tongue in cheek.
“What’s that?”
“A young Indian wanders off into the wilderness alone and fast. After three or four days of mortification of the flesh, the Great Spirit sends a message. Or maybe nothing at all.”
“Sounds a little intense. Can I go with you to the White Mountain?”
“No,” she hissed. “Absolutely not.”
“For my mental well being, I got to get away.”
Alex watched the second hand on the wall clock tick ten, fifteen, twenty-five seconds. Out in the street, an ambulance or fire truck sped by red light and siren. “Separate tents. No funny stuff. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, of course. So what do I need to bring?”
“I’ll do up a list. What about Clarice?”
“I’ll just say I’m going away on business.”
“You’ll do no such thing. You can tell her that you’re camping in the White Mountains with friends.”
“What if she demands particulars?”
“That’s none of my business, because I’ll be driving up alone,” she replied and hung up the phone.
The rest of the week flew by. Jessica Stern mailed a list of infractions and deficiencies which required a written plan of corrections within ten days. Thursday afternoon Clarice called. “I’m three blocks from your apartment.”
Alex immediately hung up and began rehearsing his we-need-to-talk spiel, but when Clarice arrived the issue never came up. “My father had emergency surgery to remove a blood clot in his leg.”
“When was this?” Alex felt a huge sense of relief.
“Earlier this morning.” I’m flying out tonight to be with my mother. Won’t be back until sometime the middle of next week.”
“Need a lift to Logan?”
“You’re so sweet.” She slipped her arms around his waist and leaned forward. “Want to grab a quickie before I go?”
By the scattered tone and the way her eyes flitted distractedly about the room, Alex understood the offer as more formality than a matter of sexual need. “Not necessary.”
She kissed his cheek then wiped the wetness away with the heel of her hand. “Poor boy, you’ll be all alone this weekend.”
Alex felt a queer rush of joy tinged with anticipation. “Oh, I’ll just have to make do.” “By the way,” he added, shifting gears, “Howie Tittlebaum stopped by the office Monday.”
“The accountant.”
“He claims I’ve been spending too much time growing revenue when I should be focusing on profit.”
Clarice picked at a cuticle. “What’s the difference?” He repeated the comparison Howie had made between home care and the garment industry. “You earn over a million dollars,” she spoke slowly measuring her words, “but you’re still a pauper?”
“The agency rakes in tons of money,” Alex said, “but the after-tax profit is pitifully low.”
She flashed him a sick look. “I’m sure you’ll figure something. And I got to get to Logan Airport in less than two hours.”
Friday afternoon Alex told Phyllis about Clarice’s abrupt departure. “Is Donald joining us?”
“Joining me,” Phyllis corrected. “No. He has a drinking problem and we’re not dating anymore.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Alex said. “For the life of me, I don’t see why we can’t drive up together.”
“Because,” Phyllis’ stony expression never wavered, “to do so would be crass and smarmy.”
“I’m not two-timing Clarice.”
“No,” Phyllis replied evenly, “but you’re not being terribly honest either.”
“I still don’t see why we can’t drive up in one car.”
Phyllis turned away. “Clearly you didn’t hear a solitary thing I said.”
Saturday morning, Alex drove north through Boston, where he caught the Route 93 Interstate to the New Hampshire state line. He continued on through Plymouth and Compton, skirting to the west of Lake Winnipesauke. The campground was well over two hours away and the unsavory thought had occurred to Alex even before he left Brandenberg that Phyllis might pull a practical joke and not show up. Then what would he do? Check into a motel for the night? Now that made perfect sense! He bought a tent, sleeping bag and lengthy list of necessities that Phyllis Moon (or was it Half Moon?) recommended, but would end up spending the night in some dumpy, flea-bitten motel before driving back like a total fool.
At Holdeness he entered the southern tip of the White Mountains National Forest and continued on for another thirty miles veering off the interstate onto route 112 heading east to Loon Mountain. At the third set of traffic lights he pulled over at a small coffee shop; Phyllis was waiting near a picnic table sipping a cup of coffee. She was dressed sensibly – a pair of heavy-soled hiking boots, khaki shorts and a plaid blouse.
“Is there anything you need?” He shook his head. “The campground is two miles up on the right. You can follow me.” She climbed into a tan Subaru sedan and edged out into traffic.
Phyllis had called ahead earlier in the week to reserved a space near the lake. “You’ll want to get the gear set up and campsite arranged to your liking.”
Once they lugged their supplies down to the water, Phyllis started unpacking. Alex was in no great hurry. Instead, he wandered down to the lake then doubled back to the registration office where he picked up a few brochures describing local attractions. “Is that a tent or a Mediterranean villa?”
Phyllis, who was pounding a metal stake into the spongy earth, nudged her glasses up on the bridge of her nose and grinned. The elongated tent featured two doors with a massive vestibule plus a six-pocket gear loft. The poles were anodized aluminum with a mesh canopy and overhead vents to eliminate condensation. “It’s the Big Agnes Emerald Mountain model.” “The design is particularly good,” she added as she pounded away at the last stake, “weathering high wind situations.” Having finished she ran a hand over the bed of pine needles carpeting the earth. “Where’s your hatchet?”
“I forgot to bring one.”
“Here, use this.” She handed him the one at her feet. “I’m going back to the car to get the rest of my stuff.”
It took Phyllis Moon three leisurely trips back and forth to her car to retrieve the rest of her camping gear. She brought a sleeping bag, flashlight with extra batteries, a kerosene lantern, transistor radio and folding chair. The bug spray and plastic cooler she left under a shaggy hemlock tree. Other items such as the mess kit, plastic cups, pot holders, a slightly scorched aluminum pan and spatula she arranged in the vestibule of the Big Agnes.
“What’s the bucket
for?” Alex asked.
“Hauling water.” Phyllis wound a plastic alarm clock and set it just inside the front tent flap. “We can cook simple meals over the fire,” she pointed to a blackened dirt cooking pit ringed by large stones, “but there’s a pizza joint and breakfast nook three miles down on the right so, if the weather turns bad, we don’t have to starve.” She took a short handled spade. “I’m going to dig a shallow hole over behind that stand of birch trees. Do your business in the hole.” Rummaging about in one of her waterproof storage sacks she removed a roll of fluffy toilet paper. “Don’t throw the paper in the hole. Put it here.” She held up a Ziploc storage bag with a plastic clip. “I’ll hang it beside the hole.”
When Alex’s tent was erected and sleeping bag unrolled, Phyllis announced that she was going for a walk. “Did you bring extra socks?” Alex shook his head up and down. “How many pair?”
“Three.”
“That’s good. I’ve got a clothesline and detergent just in case.”
“Was there anything you didn’t bring?” She cracked a tepid smile and headed away from the lake toward the main trail.
The campground was shot through with an endless series of ponds, bogs and rocky hillocks that weaved around the lake. They came up over a gravelly hill. Phyllis knelt down and fingered a dull pink flower with feathery tendrils bursting from the center. “Blazing star,” she pointed to a charred tree trunk nearby. “They don’t like shade and tend to appear after the land has been scorched by fire.”
Further on she pointed at a scattering of wildflowers sprouting on a rocky granite outcrops. “Be careful not to step on any of those.”
Alex studied the delicate rather homely looking plant with its tiny pastel pink buds. “And why’s that?”
“Silverlings have been disappearing here in the Northeast and some blame recreational hikers.” They reached a clearing where the dense pine trees no longer hemmed them in. The sky was clear with a scattering of cumulus clouds. A brown hawk was circling on an updraft, searching for prey. “I climbed that mountain directly ahead last summer. At the summit, there were balsam fir and black spruce only thigh-high like miniature clumps of bonsai trees.”