Abigail's Secret

Abigail’s Secret

“Hate him, hate him, hate him!” she abruptly cried out as her neck twisted, her jaw clenched, and her chin jerked up toward the ceiling, simultaneously. Almost just as quickly, she pulled her chin back down and recovered. “Don’t say it out loud,” She whispered, a bit too loudly.

“Don’t say what out loud?” Tim asked in a booming voice, especially projecting volume on the word “loud.” How long had he been here?

“Fudge! Fudge, fudge!” she shouted, and jumped in her chair. She felt like she had been zapped by someone who had dragged their feet across carpet in rubber-soled shoes on a dry day; her heart skipped a beat. She jerked her head up from her work—she hated that she was seated and had to look up to address him, although it would have been the same if she was standing—at 5’3” tall, she was shorter than almost everyone in the office, and at 73 years of age and 90 pounds, she was a wisp of a person—she had even overheard the word “frail” whispered in passing by some young person who probably thought she had “old lady” hearing. Ironic, then, that people—most of them—tended to avoid her.

Not Tim, though. He seemed to consider it a mark of honor to confront and attack her each morning.

He stood with his arms crossed and his legs at shoulder length in an imitation of a military person’s stance, all the swagger of a young man who had thus far never struggled at or been held accountable for anything in his life, and probably never would—or if he did, wouldn’t learn anything from the experience, anyway. He arched an eyebrow and smirked, cradling his chin in one hand. “’Fudge?’ Is that what we’re not saying out loud? Like fudge brownies or fudging your Depends?” He changed his expression from smirk to stern frown. “You need to get yourself together, honey. The day’s just starting and you’re already making me regret that they hired you. They might have hired you, but I’m responsible for you. So get your act together. I don’t care if you’re old, and I don’t care if you have some psycho mental condition, as long as you deliver excellence in your work. Perform or die. Do we understand each other?”

She looked away and nodded perfunctorily, lips pressed tight, face blazing red. She cast her eyes back to her work, waiting for him to go away.

He didn’t. He stayed for several more seconds, before saying in an even more booming voice. “Abigail,” he said, “I said, Do we understand each other?’ Yes or no, please.”

Abigail looked up. “Yes.”

He nodded, the glower on his face still intense. “Good. That’s all I ask.” Without waiting for her response, he strode away to his office.

She waited till his back was turned and felt around in the bottom of her oversized tote bag, until she felt what she was searching for. She wrapped her hand around the smooth, cold metal blades of the scissors she’d stolen from the supply closet earlier that day.

Well, “stolen” was harsh. She was just borrowing them. Indefinitely and without permission, but she was going to return them, eventually. Probably.

When she was done with them. After she stabbed Tim a thousand times with it or until he said he was sorry for being such a mean-spirited, bullying, snot-nosed, arrogant—“JERK!” she shouted, “Jerk! Jerk!” She looked down the hall, panicked, but Tim’s office door was closed, and remained so.

Most days she daydreamed about the many ways she could torture her boss. Most weekdays, anyway. Her musings often started the same way—she would approach him at the end of the workday and ask him for a few minutes of his time, when everyone else was preparing to leave the building. She’d have to make use of what was readily available…

On more than one occasion she pictured herself grabbing his black Swingline and stapling his snotty, smug face.

Some days, she’d diligently work to string an entire 100 count box of paper clips into a chain, ideating on how best to facilitate strangling him with it. Other times she’d let her mind wander as she stood at the copier. She’d think about grabbing a ream of paper and wonder if 500 paper cuts would do the trick. After a particularly rough day, she might fantasize about stabbing him repeatedly with a rudimentary spear she would fashion from a mop, duct tape, and a couple of handfuls of sharpened pencils.

She knew she would never do anything so drastic. She was passive-aggressive, not aggressive-aggressive.

No, she took her vengeance in a much more subtle way. She enjoyed the power she felt when she squandered office supplies with depraved wastefulness. As many as she could. This way she had the benefit of avoiding all confrontations with Tim while expressing her creativity.

Many an hour she wiled away while twisting paper clips into various things. Once, she had forgotten to put on her earrings before she left the house, so as soon as she arrived at work, she quickly crafted a pair from vinyl paper clips which most coordinated with her suit. By late morning, she had fashioned a bracelet to match. During lunch, while she sat at the small table with only one chair way at the back, she made herself a ring. And, by the end of the day, she completed the set with a necklace.

Ben, Tim’s dad and the owner of the company, had chuckled when he saw them, and complimented her. He was always such a gentleman, always so kind and respectful to everyone; nothing like Tim, whose behavior caused Ben to physically tense, his face tightened and his hands to clench at his sides.

Once, she overheard them arguing in Tim’s office, and she heard Ben say with an edgy voice, “Tim, if you weren’t my son…”

She used Post-it notes willy nilly. It didn’t matter which size. In fact, the bigger, the better. Sometimes she left unnecessary reminders on the coffee pot (“last pour was for you? Time to brew anew!”) and light switch plates (“Don’t forget to turn me off when you leave the room!”) or left affirmations on the refrigerator— “You’re doing the best you can! “Positive affirmations work!” or her favorite, “It’s okay to start over and try again,” because, on top of the fact that she liked the message, she thought it encouraged her to find new ways to waste office supplies.

Tim hated all of it, and harangued the staff about it in morning meetings, but he somehow never knew that Abigail was the source of it, and it was unimaginably hard—almost impossible, given her condition—for her to keep the secret to herself. Her trick was to imagine herself at some tropical vacation destination, peacefully working a crossword with some ice-cold fruity drink or another melting in her hand.

Tim’s office door opened, and he strode out, golf bag slung over one shoulder. “Gotta hit the links, honey,” he said, making her skin crawl, and strode out the door without a glance her way. She should have known. He would never drag himself into work on Saturday—even though he had personally singled her out to come in and work that day.

She seethed. Maybe this job wasn’t so important to her, after all. She had worked for Ben for years and had enjoyed it. He was always a gentleman to her, warm and pleasant, and tolerant of her condition. But it was a family business, and Tim was being groomed to take over, now that Ben was nearing retirement. What could she do?

Well, she thought, I can just take my little vacation right here. She fetched her bottle of orange juice (tropical fruity drink, check) and her magazine (crossword puzzle, check) and leaned back in her chair, letting the fluorescent light shine on her like office sunlight. “This is the life,” she said, with a bitter laugh.

She flipped open the magazine, looking for the crossword, and ran across a page with a photo of Ryan Reynolds, smiling in a tuxedo, posing on the red carpet. Such a handsome young man, she thought, with the same look of playful mischief her grandson had.

“He’d be a nice man to work for, I bet,” Abigail said, then she looked at Ryan’s mischievous boyish face and felt her own sense of mischief rising in her. Why shouldn’t she have Ryan Reynolds for a boss? Why not make that happen?

She shut off her desk lamp and walked to the copier, magazine in one hand and orange juice in the other and opened the door where the paper was stored. She smiled. Plenty of paper. She fired up the copier and got to work.

An hour later, Ryan was ten times bigger than he was. She didn’t realize how challenging this would be, but she wasn’t going to give up. After another hour, he was twenty times his original size. She needed another roll of Scotch tape. And, of course, her scissors.

Four hours later, he was done. A glorious six-foot tall Ryan Reynolds smiled back at her. Her new boss. She carefully transported him from the copier and into Tim’s office. She placed him lovingly in Tim’s chair. “Will there be anything else, Mr. Reynolds?” she asked, almost giddy, then frowned at the sight of a sheet of paper near his feet.

Did a piece of tape come undone? That wouldn’t do. She knelt to pick it up and blinked at what she saw.

“Your Family Tree Inc.”, “Results for Tim Jablansky”, “Confidence Extremely High, Janice Jablansky, nee Janice Courtland, is your mother. Confidence Extremely High, Benjamin Jablansky, is not your father.”

Tim, if you weren’t my son…

Monday couldn’t come too soon. Abigail waited in anxious anticipation for the Monday meeting to start. Everyone filed in, chatty about their weekends. Ben, as always, came in early. Tim, as always, came in late, the last in.

Tim began the meeting, speaking with his usual obnoxious corporate-speak, and Abigail let go of her tropical paradise image and the words came tumbling out, “Bastard!” she yelled, “Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!”