He cracked open the seal on a fresh bottle of Mylanta and took a swig. As the soothing liquid coated his throat, he typed out a memo to send both as an email and post by all exits. “Any employee responding to media questions is expected to follow the official Adena statement of ‘No Comment.’ If pressed for further details on ANY matter, send them to the corporate website.”
With a few more strokes on his keyboard, he completed the website change requisition form to redirect the Adena media page to the Fordham, Fordham, and Schmidt page.
Satisfied with the clarity, he strode to the intercom.
“Grace?”
“Yes?”
“I have a memo that needs printed and distributed in all possible places employees can exit the building, and anywhere else they might congregate, ASAP. It also needs to be email blasted to all employees. I sent you the file.”
“Found it. I’ll start on this right away.”
“Good. Also, could you please arrange a four-person security escort for me at the end of the day?”
“Certainly.”
She popped her head into his office a few minutes later. Her lips were a flat line under rapidly blinking eyes.
“Sorry, sir.”
“What do you mean? Did we run out of paper?”
“The memo went out by email and the mail room supervisor is posting the document by the doors, but as for the other, there’s not enough staff available for a four-person escort.”
“Fine. Two people?”
“No can do. Apparently, security all came down with food poising over lunch. The only man available is Hank and he can’t leave the front desk unmanned during business hours.”
He sighed. “Thanks for trying, Grace. That will be all.”
The computer pinged an alert to a fresh email from IT. Great. He’d expected at least an hour before a response. He clicked on it.
Due to increased workloads on decreased staff, estimated time to complete this task is 46 hours.
He sat at his desk and rubbed his temples. Sometime after last week’s staff reduction, IT found enough time to passively aggressively update the automated reply. He chugged the rest of his Mylanta, silently cursing all the uselessness around him.
Food poisoning. How convenient. This was no coincidence. When he ran the numbers on train related expenses, he discovered how much overtime the company paid. Some of the security staff earned the equivalent of half a year’s pay during the course of six weeks. This was a sick out. If this pattern persisted, he could be in real trouble, because hourlies in other departments also historically picked up extra work in those six weeks.
His focus wandered all afternoon. Stupid emotions tugged at rational thoughts and pulled them off track. His father wouldn’t be able to pull this off without help, and why had he bothered calling? He had no interest in helping. His advice, especially regarding Claire, was mean spirited and petty. Then again, so was flaming dog poop.
A knock on the door startled him.
“Mr. Fordham, it’s six. I’ve stayed late enough.”
“Good night, Grace. See you tomorrow.”
Her departure reminded him it was time to go home and monitor the media. He tried slipping out the back door, but the camera found him as he neared his car. He held his briefcase high enough to hide his face, knowing if the footage reached the airwaves, he’d appear guilty of something. At this point, he didn’t care. He wanted to get home; except he knew that wasn’t quite enough.
He needed to see Claire. Yesterday he gave her space, room to let her anger go before she accepted this was merely a business decision, nothing personal. If anything, the last day and a half taught him how much he needed her. If she was behind this, she could stop it. If she wasn’t behind this, and he didn’t think she was, well, she understood this town in a way he did not and would know how to fix the outside chaos. Besides, she was one hell of a kisser.
After finding an in-town address for Evans in the phone book, he drove past her house. It was easy to find and clearly hers. A huge paper banner with the words “Save our trains” stretched across the front yard. Other handmade posters proclaimed, “Fordham sucks!” and “We love tiny trains.” Some looked like children’s drawing.
The proverbial cookies in his stomach begged to be tossed. He pulled into the driveway, anyway. Balloons bouncing in his peripheral vision drew his attention to the mailbox, shaped like an old-fashioned red caboose. He assumed her grandfather put it up. That seemed like something an older guy would do, someone like Walter, not an attractive woman. Even if she dabbled in some silly hobby.
He rang the bell but saw no movement within the house. Another car sat in the driveway in front of a detached yellow garage. She was probably home. He tried the back of the house, since there was no fence to stop him. Nothing. The inside looked dark. The corner of his mouth tugged upward. Claire liked to walk. She said as much. He dialed her number. No response. As he turned toward the driveway, a gigantic dog sprang in front of him and growled.
“Hey trespasser, you have 15 seconds before I call the police.” A man yelled out.
“Yeah, 15 seconds. One Mississippi, Two Mississippi...” The child’s voice kept counting.
“Could you call off the dog so I can get to my car?”
“Daisy.” The Great Dane bounced off. James slunk around the corner and to his car. An average looking man wearing a baby carrier stood next to the giant dog and a small girl whose glare was almost as menacing as the dog’s. They stood clustered and glaring as he backed out of the driveway and went down the street. Even people he had never seen before looked ready to murder him.
Unnerved, he drove to the drugstore on Main street to restock his medicine cabinet. Cars lined both sides of the street. He circled twice. By
