His Favorite
The following is a work of short fiction I wrote for a class I'm taking. I hope you enjoy reading it.
Note: It is not based on personal experience.
The pathology report didn’t come back until after the funeral. They’d stood around the oak coffin, his young wife sobbing, the baby asleep in her arms. The office staff rimmed the inner circle of family members, their heels sinking into the soft earth as the pastor spoke. “Too early this passing,” the clergy intoned, “this man struck down in his prime, so successful in work, so loving in life.” The dead man’s partner, Lester Borgus, his assistant, Mara, junior partners, and paralegals stood solemn in their listening. A heart attack. It must have been. When the service was over, the fatherly Borgus shepherded his staff into the waiting cars, imagining what the office would be like now without his charismatic partner.
At the reception the man’s widow hosted afterward at their gated estate, his employees huddled in the library exchanging the tsks of sorrow so common in homes of the newly dead. What would happen to the firm, they wondered, how would things be different now that Dennis Halliwell, founding partner of Halliwell & Borgus, was gone from the helm? He was the one who had secured them the glamour accounts; the high profile, highly profitable cases the media was frenzied for. Newspapers put Mr. Halliwell’s chiseled face on the front page knowing what view the public craved with its crime. Justice served up with dimples.
Mara avoided the office speculation about the pathology report. Two weeks later they knew. Not a heart attack, Lester Borgus informed the staff. Something called anaphylaxis, or anaphylactic shock. He gathered them in the lunchroom, clumsy in forgetting that this was where it had happened, where Halliwell had stopped speaking and started to claw at his silk tie, dropping his plate of food with a splat. He’d gone down right over there, right on top of the Chinese takeout Mara had ordered in celebration of the People vs. Hanson verdict. “OMIGOD!” their voices screamed at once as Halliwell grabbed at his jacket, his hands tearing at the inside pocket until it ripped open, the Cross pen skidding away from him on the floor. “PEN!” he yelled, his breath chalky, spindly, disappearing. “PEN!” Borgus had scooped up the pen and held it triumphantly in the air, foolish with panic. Halliwell flailed his head from side to side. No dying man needs a Cross pen, Mara thought.
She had been surprised how warm her hands were sweeping the takeout boxes off the table into the trash. She thought they’d be colder. The ambulance siren faded in the distance along with Halliwell’s stricken form. Mara knelt down with paper towels and cleaned the spot where her boss had fallen. One of the cute paramedics had slipped on the noodles. He could have hurt himself, she thought. She finished cleaning the lunchroom and carefully tied the trash bag with a snug knot before bringing it out to the dumpster. On her way back in, she met Lester Borgus, who thanked her for keeping her wits about her and taking care of things. Everyone was in such a state, he said. He was going to the hospital now; he would call the office with news of his partner’s condition. “Thank you, Mara,” he repeated. “We’re so lucky to have you.” Mara ran her warm hand over the pen in her pocket.
One morning weeks after, Mara could hear the widow’s voice in Borgus’s office. “I don’t understand why he didn’t have it with him. He always kept it in the inside pocket of his jacket just in case.” She was describing what it looked like, the dose of epinephrine encapsulated in a pen-like cartridge. Borgus answered, his voice wilted. Yes, he knew all about the food allergy, everyone knew. It just never crossed his mind that day. He didn’t know to look for another pen in his partner’s jacket. They were celebrating, happy, maybe in all the excitement. . . But Mara had ordered the lunch herself. She always put Halliwell’s name in big letters on his food so there could be no mix-up. Yes, said the widow, Mara was a treasure. Dennis always said so.
From her desk outside the doorway, Mara stared at nothing as the widow’s voice washed over her. She wondered if that voice made the same soft moans hers did under Dennis’s outstretched body, his hot breath in her ear, his hand on her breast. Had he told this clingy wife she was the sole keeper of his love? Did she know how he resented her pregnancy, his entrapment in a life of boredom? Or was Mara the only one he told. He had brought his wife to an office holiday party, and Mara had the satisfaction of seeing for herself the mousey little woman with the big trust fund who had snared her boss before Mara had the chance to meet him. From the litany of misery Dennis confided while locked in her embrace, Mara imagined his life away from her unbearable. Then came word that the mouse was pregnant, and Mara lay next to her lover soothing his despair over never being free of her.
Then the baby arrived, followed by pictures the proud father showed around with a smile so big it almost broke his face. He began leaving the office early, eager to get home. An 8x10 of the new family appeared on his desk in a sterling frame engraved with their first names. He came to Mara less and less, until all she had was her wooden emptiness at being left by another man determined to leave. He had stood behind his desk, hands in pockets, and shrugged his handsome smile at her burning hurt. These things happen, he said.
Yes, they do, she thought to herself now. Mr. Borgus had promoted one of the junior partners. Julian Long sat comfortably behind Halliwell’s mahogany desk and buzzed Mara on the intercom to fetch some files. A nice looking man, Mara thought, as she placed the folders neatly on his desk. He looked up.
“Thank you, Mara. I have something here from the accounting department. Mr. Halliwell authorized a raise for you the week before he. . . well, you know. I’m not sure if he spoke to you about it, but I have your new paycheck.” Smiling to herself, Mara turned the envelope over in her hands feeling the smooth embossed lettering of the firm’s return address. She really was his favorite.
“Thank you, Mr. Long. I’m so grateful you decided to keep me as your assistant. I hope you will always count on me as Mr. Halliwell did.” Mara bowed her head slightly and returned to her desk. What a gem, thought Julian Long. She opened her top drawer and laid the envelope inside, pushing the missing pen all the way to the back.
Daughter’s Fotos are from Babel Code at Mighty Tanaka
infinity
graph paper
time in the middle of it all
on the roof
Note: It is not based on personal experience.
The pathology report didn’t come back until after the funeral. They’d stood around the oak coffin, his young wife sobbing, the baby asleep in her arms. The office staff rimmed the inner circle of family members, their heels sinking into the soft earth as the pastor spoke. “Too early this passing,” the clergy intoned, “this man struck down in his prime, so successful in work, so loving in life.” The dead man’s partner, Lester Borgus, his assistant, Mara, junior partners, and paralegals stood solemn in their listening. A heart attack. It must have been. When the service was over, the fatherly Borgus shepherded his staff into the waiting cars, imagining what the office would be like now without his charismatic partner.
At the reception the man’s widow hosted afterward at their gated estate, his employees huddled in the library exchanging the tsks of sorrow so common in homes of the newly dead. What would happen to the firm, they wondered, how would things be different now that Dennis Halliwell, founding partner of Halliwell & Borgus, was gone from the helm? He was the one who had secured them the glamour accounts; the high profile, highly profitable cases the media was frenzied for. Newspapers put Mr. Halliwell’s chiseled face on the front page knowing what view the public craved with its crime. Justice served up with dimples.
Mara avoided the office speculation about the pathology report. Two weeks later they knew. Not a heart attack, Lester Borgus informed the staff. Something called anaphylaxis, or anaphylactic shock. He gathered them in the lunchroom, clumsy in forgetting that this was where it had happened, where Halliwell had stopped speaking and started to claw at his silk tie, dropping his plate of food with a splat. He’d gone down right over there, right on top of the Chinese takeout Mara had ordered in celebration of the People vs. Hanson verdict. “OMIGOD!” their voices screamed at once as Halliwell grabbed at his jacket, his hands tearing at the inside pocket until it ripped open, the Cross pen skidding away from him on the floor. “PEN!” he yelled, his breath chalky, spindly, disappearing. “PEN!” Borgus had scooped up the pen and held it triumphantly in the air, foolish with panic. Halliwell flailed his head from side to side. No dying man needs a Cross pen, Mara thought.
She had been surprised how warm her hands were sweeping the takeout boxes off the table into the trash. She thought they’d be colder. The ambulance siren faded in the distance along with Halliwell’s stricken form. Mara knelt down with paper towels and cleaned the spot where her boss had fallen. One of the cute paramedics had slipped on the noodles. He could have hurt himself, she thought. She finished cleaning the lunchroom and carefully tied the trash bag with a snug knot before bringing it out to the dumpster. On her way back in, she met Lester Borgus, who thanked her for keeping her wits about her and taking care of things. Everyone was in such a state, he said. He was going to the hospital now; he would call the office with news of his partner’s condition. “Thank you, Mara,” he repeated. “We’re so lucky to have you.” Mara ran her warm hand over the pen in her pocket.
One morning weeks after, Mara could hear the widow’s voice in Borgus’s office. “I don’t understand why he didn’t have it with him. He always kept it in the inside pocket of his jacket just in case.” She was describing what it looked like, the dose of epinephrine encapsulated in a pen-like cartridge. Borgus answered, his voice wilted. Yes, he knew all about the food allergy, everyone knew. It just never crossed his mind that day. He didn’t know to look for another pen in his partner’s jacket. They were celebrating, happy, maybe in all the excitement. . . But Mara had ordered the lunch herself. She always put Halliwell’s name in big letters on his food so there could be no mix-up. Yes, said the widow, Mara was a treasure. Dennis always said so.
From her desk outside the doorway, Mara stared at nothing as the widow’s voice washed over her. She wondered if that voice made the same soft moans hers did under Dennis’s outstretched body, his hot breath in her ear, his hand on her breast. Had he told this clingy wife she was the sole keeper of his love? Did she know how he resented her pregnancy, his entrapment in a life of boredom? Or was Mara the only one he told. He had brought his wife to an office holiday party, and Mara had the satisfaction of seeing for herself the mousey little woman with the big trust fund who had snared her boss before Mara had the chance to meet him. From the litany of misery Dennis confided while locked in her embrace, Mara imagined his life away from her unbearable. Then came word that the mouse was pregnant, and Mara lay next to her lover soothing his despair over never being free of her.
Then the baby arrived, followed by pictures the proud father showed around with a smile so big it almost broke his face. He began leaving the office early, eager to get home. An 8x10 of the new family appeared on his desk in a sterling frame engraved with their first names. He came to Mara less and less, until all she had was her wooden emptiness at being left by another man determined to leave. He had stood behind his desk, hands in pockets, and shrugged his handsome smile at her burning hurt. These things happen, he said.
Yes, they do, she thought to herself now. Mr. Borgus had promoted one of the junior partners. Julian Long sat comfortably behind Halliwell’s mahogany desk and buzzed Mara on the intercom to fetch some files. A nice looking man, Mara thought, as she placed the folders neatly on his desk. He looked up.
“Thank you, Mara. I have something here from the accounting department. Mr. Halliwell authorized a raise for you the week before he. . . well, you know. I’m not sure if he spoke to you about it, but I have your new paycheck.” Smiling to herself, Mara turned the envelope over in her hands feeling the smooth embossed lettering of the firm’s return address. She really was his favorite.
“Thank you, Mr. Long. I’m so grateful you decided to keep me as your assistant. I hope you will always count on me as Mr. Halliwell did.” Mara bowed her head slightly and returned to her desk. What a gem, thought Julian Long. She opened her top drawer and laid the envelope inside, pushing the missing pen all the way to the back.
Daughter’s Fotos are from Babel Code at Mighty Tanaka
infinity
graph paper
time in the middle of it all
on the roof
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