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Love's Second Verse

By Lee Carver

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Gripped by the desperate need of a mid-life restart, Julia Foster stood at an intersection in downtown Atlanta. Straightening her shoulders, she determined to swim through the southern spring humidity as if it were a sea of confidence. All she had to do was walk into the InterBank building and nail the interview. Today I’ll claim a new job, a whole new level of existence.

An employment clipping radiated hope from her tightly clutched purse. The light turned green. Chin raised, she stepped off the curb.

Screeching tires and a blaring honk got her attention. Too late. The sedan bumped her, knocking her down. The back of her head bonked on the asphalt, sending pain exploding in white blobs that distorted her vision. Dirty water splashed her hair and face.

Ear-ringing seconds passed. Aware that she viewed a car from the tire level, she struggled to lift her spinning head.

A man hurried to her feet from the silver car that hit her. “Are you all right? Can you get up?”

Adrenaline pounded through her veins. Julia fought off white-hot anger that this could occur. Today of all days! She raised her gaze to the well-dressed man in suit and tie. No appropriate words came to mind. A soft answer turns away wrath, but what does dead airtime do?

He squatted in front of her. “Should I call an ambulance?”

“I’m okay. Nothing’s broken.” In the disaster that remained of
her best suit and sensible heels, she pushed to a seated position. “I just bounced off the side of your car.”

He braced his feet, reached under her arms and helped her stand. “Are you sure?” He stepped back an appropriate distance, but kept a hand extended.

She rubbed the back of her head. Her heart whammed so hard she felt it against her soft and now much-stained blouse. This can’t be happening. With no tissue, she wiped at the water that dripped from her face.

He offered his white monogrammed handkerchief. She accepted, but needed a towel.
Worry in his eyes, he studied her face. “I’m so sorry. How can I help?”

With difficulty she found her tongue. “It wasn’t your fault. I crossed without looking. I mean, I looked at the green light, not the pedestrian signal.”

She wouldn’t have blamed him if he sneered contempt. Instead, his features softened from alarm to simple concern. He stood close enough to catch her if she fainted. Judging by how the street sounds were strangely muffled, that possibility still existed.

He glanced toward the stoplight, which marched on in its sequence. “I thought you were waiting. Look, let me pay for the cleaning.” He pulled a bill from his wallet.

“No, thank you. There’s no time. I’ve got to—” She ducked her head and brushed the handkerchief over her skirt. Get it together, girl. She mustn’t lose all composure. She could cry later. Right now, she had to think.

Cars honked, blocked in traffic by the stopped sedan. A driver shouted insults. She checked her discount-special watch and inhaled a quivering breath. “I have a job interview in, ah, twenty minutes. I can’t be late.”

He glanced at his gold Rolex. “Where is it?”

“Right there, across the street.”

“InterBank? Look, hop in the car and I’ll take you through the employees’ parking garage entrance. We’ll get you there with time to spare.”

Julia looked at the car and balked. What if this guy picked up women by knocking them down, then took them away in his car and they were never heard from again? Ludicrous, but she couldn’t get into the man’s car.

She evaluated him with her thought process still scrambled. At least her age, probably older, with a touch of gray at the temples. He wore a well-tailored suit, rimless glasses on an attractive face. Nice fragrance. Businessman? Con man?

“Thank you, but no. I’ll just explain and make the best of it.”

“But ma’am, I can help you.”

Julia pretended not to notice and moved around the car. She would have to go quickly to do damage control before nine o’clock.

He called out to her back, “Do you want my driver’s license number? What’s your name?”

Checking the light this time before crossing, she almost answered, but thought better of it and kept walking.

She passed the elaborate raised planters of blooming fruit trees and dancing fountains in front of InterBank Atlanta’s main entry. At the corner of the monolithic building, she looked back. His car indeed angled toward the employee’s underground parking.

Okay, so he wasn’t a kidnapper.

Julia spun the rotating door, his damp handkerchief still in her hand. Grit stuck to its blue monogrammed “B." She hadn’t meant to keep it.

Fruit tree fragrances changed to the pungency of polishes and carpets. A uniformed security guard scowled when his eyes dipped to her dirty clothes. He motioned her over.

What? I’m going to get a ticket from the dry cleaner police? She took a ragged breath and gripped her purse with both hands to control their shaking.

“You’ll have to sign in, ma’am, and I’ll need to see a photo ID.” She scrambled for her driver’s license.

“Your purse?” He held out his hand.

She didn’t want to give it up. Would he dump out the contents for everyone in the lobby to see?

He put her purse through the security scan as if a woman with her appearance would be carrying at least a letter bomb. Failing that, he gave her a visitor’s badge and directed her to the bank of elevators. “Third floor, on the left.”

Waiting before the brushed steel door and again inside the elevator, she noticed different facial reactions from gathering InterBank employees. Various expressions ran the spectrum from consternation, disapproval, to sympathy, but no one said anything. The massive international bank’s heavy blanket of sophistication suppressed chatter. She swallowed hard and dropped her head.

Father, you know the plans you have for me, plans to do me good, and not harm. You love me, and I can trust you with my life. If you want me to have this job, the meeting will go well anyway.

Another part of her mind bore a frantic image of herself on her knees in the ruined outfit, hair a mess, begging and crying, “Lord, I need this job. Give me a way to support my sons. Pleeeease make this happen.”

Underneath the pleading, Julia’s experience nagged that bad things do happen to good people. Faith and doubt battled in her heart, but she adjusted her face to what she hoped exemplified steeled resolution. She attempted to be as cosmopolitan cool as this worldwide financial institution. It might work if the visitor’s badge on her shoulder would stop quivering.

~~~

The incident left Paul shaky. Though attempting a calm and professional air, his hastily gobbled sausage biscuit threw acid onto his throat. Cautiously crossing lanes to enter employee parking, he kept replaying the accident in his mind. He had the right of way. She didn’t have the pedestrian’s green hand signal to cross. She stepped out without looking. Her fault, and she admitted as much. But he knocked her down.

He had left the scene of the accident. But she left first. She didn’t get his name or driver’s license number. But he did offer his card with the twenty. She refused them. How much trouble was he in?

He’d probably better call Stan. The Corporate Law Sector could at least tell him what to do.

But she said she had an interview with Tom. Yeah, he would go to Personnel and make sure she arrived okay. If she decided later to sue, he would have a better edge if he made the effort to find her even though she didn’t stay to exchange info.

~~~

Arriving at the third floor, Julia spoke to the girl at the front desk. “Is there a ladies’ room where I may clean up? A car splashed my suit.” Sort of true, and made her look better than I stupidly walked into a car and got knocked down in a mud puddle.

The young receptionist gasped and bounced up as dramatically as if Julia were dripping blood from a head wound.

“Come with me.” The young woman whisked her to the restroom and followed her in, making quite a fuss over trying to help. “I’m Tiffany. I think we talked on the phone. You’re the nine o’clock interview for Information Technology?”

“Yes, and I have to look good. I need this position.” Tiffany frowned without commenting.

Startled by the mirror’s clear reflection, Julia saw the dirty line on her cheek and what the water puddle had done to her careful coiffure. No wonder the strangers in the elevator had stared.

In her energetic helpfulness, Tiffany rubbed at Julia’s skirt with paper towels. She streaked the street oil worse and left little fuzzy white paper bits on the fabric.

Julia backed away and flicked at the grit, laughing to avoid crying. Where’s the Undo tab on life?

Together they studied the interesting play of white paper towel shreds contrasted with mud streaks against a periwinkle background. Tiffany shrugged. “Most interviewees wear dark suits.”

This, of course, made Julia feel better. “Navy blue does look better with mud on it. But the lighter blue brought out my eye color, and I thought it looked good with my complexion.”

Tiffany raised her eyes to Julia’s, then higher to the damp hair which should have been her crowning glory. They both turned to look at her reflection in the mirror.
First the crack of a shared smile, and then they burst out laughing, the sound rattling off the tile walls as if school girls were caught doing a prank in the bathroom.

“You do have pretty eyes,” said Tiffany. “And when you laugh like that, your whole face laughs. Like, your eyes and everything. You didn’t do Botox yet, did you?”

“No, it’s real. Laugh lines and all.” So she thinks I need Botox. This sweet young thing is quite a morale booster for my interview. But Lord, I’m in your hands. Let’s do this together.

Julia checked her hair for street trash and sopped up the last moisture with a paper towel. She squared her shoulders toward the mirror and saw a forty-something woman trying to regain her dignity. The limited amount of makeup hadn’t streaked, and she didn’t carry those products in her purse anyway. She drew up a confident smile for Tiffany, then they exited together, all hushed and proper.

Near the end of the passageway, a door opened and two men shook hands. Tiffany did a stage whisper tinged by either fright or awe. “Mr. Braddock.”

To her surprise, Julia realized that the man leaving the office was the guy from the car against which she had nearly killed herself.

He smiled, looking even better when muddy water didn’t block her vision. But thoughts of his pleasant appearance had to be shoved. She presented herself as a job applicant, not a woman.

Right?

Nodding in her direction, he said something low to a heavier gentleman, who stepped farther into the corridor. He also nodded and smiled.

Her non-kidnapper advanced halfway down the carpeted passageway and extended his right hand. “Hello. I’m Paul Braddock. Are you sure you don’t need first aid?”

An air bubble of embarrassment rose to her throat. She took his handshake, not knowing how to respond and wanting to look calm. Stalling, she smiled and he reciprocated.

“Thank you for asking, but I’m fine.”

Was he affronted that she hadn’t accepted his offer of help? She couldn’t second-guess now on making the choice for safety.

The moment hung like worn underwear on a public clothesline.

Like a true professional, Mr. Braddock’s view did not waver from her face. “Good. Let me know, ah, Mr. Chalmers can get in touch with me if you need anything.” He slipped out the corridor’s back door as the other fellow called out to her.

“Julia Foster? Please come on back. I’m Tom Chalmers—just call me Tom—and I’ll be giving you the interview this morning.”

Julia walked her best walk, making eye contact with Mr. Chalmers. A couple of miles a day pays off. Pretend that you’re coordinated and agile. Smile and quit shaking.

Chalmers reached out to shake her hand and smoothly drew her into his office.
Julia inhaled to explain but he spoke first. “Mr. Braddock told me you’ve had a mishap on the way this morning—please have a seat—but that’s not a consideration. Thank you for coming right on up. I’ve got a tight schedule, several applicants. Let’s just get right to it.”

To the fullest extent possible, then, Julia closed the door on that whole unfortunate incident. She concentrated instead on projecting professionalism from her eyes, her mind, and her personality. As they began the introductory comments, Mr. Chalmers took notes on her application form in the folder before him.
Reviewing her education and employment background, he jumped quickly from subject to subject, eyeing her from above his bifocals. His bulldog jowls extended and compressed as he looked from the application to her face, and back down again.

Offsetting the standard dark grey suit and starched blue shirt, he wore a quirky tie. Had he purchased it from the gift shop of the High Museum’s modern art exhibit?

Julia white-knuckled the chair arm to keep her fingers from trembling, then relaxed them in her lap to appear calm. Starting over at this age presented special difficulties. And she had no delusions that life would suddenly be easy if she just had enough money to make all her payments. She could look her sons in the eye, though. They had to respect her for trying.

She responded to the personnel head with a confident air. And then, hoping he didn’t think she glared him down, she glanced toward the wall of windows onto the city.

Tom made another note in a room so quiet that she heard the scrawl of his pen.
Should I jump into the space, or wait for the next question? She waited in the super-cooled quiet.

“Maturity is a very positive factor in the office setting,” Tom droned. The calculated statement gave an applicant no chance to declare age discrimination. “But do you realize that the others in the department will be, ah, somewhat younger? That is to say, they’re trained professionals, but mostly under thirty-five years old. Would that be a problem for you?”

“Not at all. I work well with young people. One of my reference letters mentions that specifically.” She leaned forward earnestly, unfolding her hands that lay meekly in her lap to grasp the smoothly polished, carved arms of the chair. “I am responsible, punctual, and intelligent. And I have clocked enough years to work out some of the problems your younger employees have to deal with.”

Tom raised that eyebrow again, made a note. Had she been too forceful, sounded proud?

The moment of decision crystallized between them. He squinted and focused at a point to the right of Julia, pursing his lips.

Standing abruptly, he crossed to a table bearing several files and opened the one on top.

Julia’s pantyhose, drying on her legs in the purified office air, crawled on her skin. They pulled and bagged in strange ways. Had to hold his attention so he wouldn't notice. Yet she nervously re-crossed her legs, and Mr. Chalmers glanced at the splotched skirt and smiled benignly.

Then he nodded ever so slightly and reached for the phone.

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