Bad News

“There is nothing more we can do,” the accountant pleaded.

“Come on, Mell!"

“Come on, Charley!”

“You're going let me go to jail?”

“Hey! Don't shoot the messenger! I tried to warn you. ”

Margaret knocked on the partially open door just loudly enough to be heard over the raised voices inside. She waited for her presence to be realized, and when it wasn't, she stuck her head further inside and knocked harder. Both men turned in startlement.

“Look, Mr. Torr---" she began, then stopped herself. "I'm going home, Charley,”

She had never called him 'Charley' before, at least not when anyone else could hear. And she had never, ever gone home early. Late yes. Sometimes very late. Today was Tuesday, and not yet noon.

Charly turned to face her. “Yes, Mags,” he said. "That's fine." His eyes were searching.

Her eyes were steady.

"Go on home," he added, then tried to smile, but she was already gone.

@@@@@


On the bus Margaret stared out the window seeing nothing. She cursed herself for being stupid and needy, but mostly for being naive.

He'll come over tonight, she thought. Drop by. He'll be wanting comfort and kindness and understanding. He'll smell like scotch. Then he'll go home to his wife.

She wondered what Charley was going to say when she answered the door. She wondered what she should wear when she answered the door. Then she decided not to answer the door.

It was time to balance the books.