Page 28 - WTP Vol. XI #2

Sugar (continued from preceding page)
When I think everything is going fine as it could be under the circumstances, I pull a letter from the Part- nership out of my mailbox.
“Dear Mrs. Worley,” it goes. “Requesting your pres- ence at the office on Friday, August 14 at one o’clock sharp. Be on time.”
That’s tomorrow. Lord oh Lord. This is it then, I say to myself. I try to calm myself while walking into the trailer court. Once I get home I hold onto the wood- en rail Lloyd built there for extra safety. I count up all the things they might know about me and E. M. Hunter, whatever his initials stand for. It’s so hot, so bright out there. All I can do is drink a glass of cold water from the fridge. I sit at the kitchen table looking out where Hunter stares all the time wait- ing for calls from men named Tank and Pete. Way in the distance over the hilltops there’s the city of Phoenix. At night the lights there make a dome that flashes back at the stars. How can anyone see to make a wish anymore?
After supper I walk towards the Rec Center to turn on the night lights and see if Hunter needs any extra
help with his car. That’s when Mr. Sanchez walks right up beside me and hands me a piece of paper.
“What do you know about this?” he says.
Up close in the last of the daylight I see the hazel color of his eyes and the dark wedges of his nostrils.
“It’s a receipt. She went and spent eighty dollars I don’t have on a vacuum I don’t need,” he says. “I don’t like what’s going on around here.”
My heart fills up my entire chest. I can’t talk in my regular voice. “I’ll be glad to reimburse you. I’ve been needing a new one myself.” My voice wavers against his. He’s hard inside, that man, hard as a winter toma- to. “I’ll have your money in cash for you tomorrow.”
I’m shaking when he leaves. Hunter is still working on his car so I go on to bed. I start to list the things the Partnership might know about now: unauthor- ized parking, Hunter selling door-to-door, too many repairs to account for. Are there more ways to be careless? I wait in the darkness for Hunter. I mean to tell him he cannot stay any longer, at least not under these circumstances. But nothing of the kind starts out of my mouth.
In the morning Hunter gets up ahead of me and takes a box of tools from the Rec Center over to his car. I dress quickly and get my paperwork together for the meet-
ing. The drive to the Partnership is complicated by miles of construction. The road back will be just as bad, I’m thinking, only hotter for the drive home. I pull up in the parking lot at one o’clock without bringing any water. I forgot it in my rush to be on time.
I’ve been here only twice before. Once with Lloyd to apply for the job, once after he passed, and now this time to answer for actions in regard to Hunter. If I cannot speak for myself, I will lose my job. That’s all there is to it. I’ll have to move in shame and weak- ness. Plus there’s the matter of references. Where are you without references? I cannot fault Mr. Sanchez
or the busybodies in the court or even Hunter. I can only fault myself for breaking the rules and pretend- ing the contrary.
I sit and wait while the teenage girl at the counter announces me through the phone system. Her nails are as long as Willie’s. I listen to them clicking on the typewriter until it drives me crazy sitting there. Lord oh Lord.
“Mrs. Worley, come in please,”Mr. Donaldson says. “Always a pleasure.” Since I last saw him he’s got more salt in his hair than pepper and new lines around his eyes. Does he see the same things about me? I enter the room and step to a round table where another gentleman is standing with his hand out. I shake it and sit down as indicated.
Mr. Marshall, I can remember that name. I sit there trying to think of the words I memorized on the way over here. I know if I just get the first part out the rest will come on its own. I will let the record speak for itself.
Mr. Donaldson begins by thanking me—and Lloyd, too, even though he’s not with us anymore. There’s been many improvements and so on. I’m waiting for the mention of Hunter’s name, the Pinto, the expired plates, the vacuum Mrs. Sanchez bought. Instead
he nods at Mr. Marshall who begins talking and pointing to a map of our trailer court but with trees ringed around it and some adjustments in the spaces shaded in.
“Welcome to Desert Hills Estates,” Mr. Marshall says, tapping the map with a pointer stick. He talks about new doublewides coming in, new landscaping and a new office building with up-to-date security. “What do you think, Mrs. Worley?”
“It sure is something” I say. No other words come. Then Mr. Donaldson says, “Certainly our present ten-
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