Programmed for Terror, page 4
Jessica saw herself in a restaurant, surrounded by people who would glance at her, then look away, people who could tell she was disgraced, an outcast. But it wasn’t true. No one would know. Besides, she had nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing.
“Okay,” she said with more confidence than she felt.
“What would you like? Chinese, Mexican, steak?”
“How about Chinese?”
“You’re on.” Getting up, he helped her to her feet; then, looking into her eyes, he said: “Everything will be fine, Jessica. You’ll get another job, and life will be completely normal again before you know it.”
I hope so, she thought. Oh, God, I hope so.
FOUR
Jessica drove along a four-lane Kansas City street lined with shops, gas stations, and convenience stores. It was 10:30 in the morning, the sun shining, both the temperature and the humidity in the nineties. Her clothes were sticking to her body.
She’d spent the night at Paul’s place. It had been a sleepless night, with Jessica tossing and turning, clinging to Paul. But this morning she’d climbed out of bed with a new attitude. Though still upset, she no longer felt disgraced because of what had happened yesterday. Now she was angry. She’d been treated ungraciously and unfairly.
After stopping by her apartment to change into some fresh clothes, she’d driven into Kansas City to begin looking for a job. The first two places she’d tried, both advertising agencies, had offered her an employment application and said they’d get in touch if anything came up. She knew enough about job hunting to know that her application would remain on file for a few months, then be tossed out unread. Still, the only way to find work was to go from place to place, fill out the forms, hope.
Jessica wanted badly to get another job as soon as possible, because doing so would be a way of thumbing her nose at her previous employer, a way of saying: See, I got snapped right up. I guess you’re not as smart as you thought you were.
She could survive a month or two without earning any money, she supposed. Her savings account had about a thousand dollars in it, which would pay her rent twice and leave her enough for gasoline for job seeking, provided she ate inexpensive foods. Yeah, she thought, like bread and water.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, Jessica checked for familiar cars, finding none. She wasn’t being followed. And then she wondered why she bothered to check. She’d never actually seen anyone following her. It was just a feeling, just foolishness. Why would anyone go to all that trouble?
No normal person would, she thought. But what about a crazy, someone who wanted to slice you up because you resembled his domineering mother—or for some other insane reason? She forced the notion from her mind.
After turning left onto another four-lane street, Jessica drove for another few blocks and then pulled into the parking lot of a four-story modern building. Getting her portfolio from the back seat, Jessica took the elevator to the second floor and walked into the offices of Cast, Grimsley, and Associates. The receptionist was a young dark-haired woman with a pleasant smile.
“Good morning,” Jessica said. “Could you tell me who’s responsible for hiring personnel for your art department?”
“Mr. Zecker,” the young woman replied without hesitation.
“Is he available?”
“I take it you’re looking for a job as an artist,” the receptionist said, looking at the portfolio under Jessica’s arm.
Jessica nodded, and the woman said: “I guess that was pretty obvious, but I have to be able to tell Mr. Zecker why you want to see him.”
She picked up the phone and dialed, and a few moments later Jessica was shown into a carpeted office. The man behind the desk rose as she entered. He was in his forties, tall, with dark hair that showed a touch of gray.
“Hi,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Walter Zecker.”
“Jessica Russell,” she replied, shaking his hand.
“Have a seat, please.”
When they were both sitting, Jessica said: “I’m here to see whether you have an opening for a commercial artist. I’ve got three years’ experience, and I’ve done the artwork for the Fillmore Foods magazine campaign—that was national—the Midwest Missouri Bank billboards, the newspaper ads for Wembly Broadcasting. I brought some samples of my work along, in case you’d like to see them.”
“Please,” he said, reaching for her portfolio.
She handed it to him, then studied his face as he examined its contents. He maintained a pleasant but noncommittal expression as he looked through the portfolio. When he was done, he closed it, leaning back in his chair.
“You’re very good,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Are you working now?”
“I was until yesterday. At Swanson and Uttley.”
“What happened?”
“Mr. Uttley called me into his office and fired me. He wouldn’t say why.” Jessica had watched Zecker’s face as she spoke, but he’d shown no reaction.
“Hmmm,” he said, frowning. “Just good-bye and no explanations?”
“Just good-bye. I don’t know whether someone else got my job or whether it was eliminated altogether.”
“Well, I guess I’m in no position to hold that against you.” He grinned conspiratorially. “Uttley fired me, too. About four and a half years ago.”
Jessica wondered what the circumstances had been, but Zecker offered no further details. He said:
“May I ask how much they were paying you over there?”
Jessica told him.
“Would you be interested in doing basically the same work here for about the same salary, maybe a few dollars a week more?”
Suddenly Jessica was almost giddy with anticipation. He was on the verge of offering her a job. “Yes,” she replied firmly. “I’d definitely be interested in that.”
“All right,” he said. “You showed up at the right moment. One of our artists has just given notice. She made it to the big time. Madison Avenue. So in about ten days she’ll be off to Fun City, and we’ll have a vacancy. We have some other applicants, but frankly, they’re not in your league. Two are fresh out of school, and the other one’s sort of a scissors-and-paste type, not really a general artist at all.”
He studied her a moment, then continued. “So let’s do this. Let’s say you’re hired, pending a few things like filling out an application. Let’s see, today’s Friday, so why don’t you pick up an application on your way out and fill it in over the weekend. Then bring it with you on Monday, and we’ll settle some of the details, like the exact amount of your salary.”
“Great,” Jessica said. She was beaming; she couldn’t help herself.
When she left the building, the employment application tucked safely into her purse, she felt as though she were floating. She was very lucky, she knew, to get hired at the third place she’d tried. Jessica felt like shouting so that all of Kansas City would know how happy she was.
She thought: Up yours, Uttley.
And then she chuckled. She could hardly wait to tell Paul.
“Do you realize that you spent less than three hours looking for a job?” Paul said, grinning. He was almost as happy about it as she was. They faced each other across a table for two at Sandy’s, a small and very expensive restaurant in downtown Mayfield. Too expensive for ordinary occasions, but tonight they were celebrating.
“I wish now I’d kept those loan applications,” Jessica said. “Now that I’m no longer unemployed, I plan to become the owner of an air-conditioned car as soon as possible.”
For an appetizer they ordered escargots. After teasing one of the snails from its shell, Jessica looked up to find Paul watching her contentedly. “Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” she replied. And with that they had communicated the warmth and happiness they both felt at that moment.
When their meals came—roast lamb for him, fillet of sole in white wine sauce for her—they ate in silence. As she finished hers, Jessica said:
“There’s only one thing that worries me, Paul. What if Zecker checks with Uttley?”
“Do you think Uttley would refuse to recommend you?” he asked, fork poised in midair.
“I don’t know. I don’t know why he fired me.”
“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it. Zecker’s already agreed to hire you. He’s not going to back out now.”
Paul was probably right. Zecker hadn’t seemed too concerned when she’d told him what had happened at her last job. Considering that Uttley had fired him, too, maybe Zecker wouldn’t even check with him. Maybe Zecker disliked him, wouldn’t listen to him no matter what he said.
“You know,” Paul said, looking at her warmly, “we could make this a double celebration tonight.”
“What do you mean?”
“We could be celebrating your new job and our engagement.”
At that instant a part of her wanted to say yes, wanted desperately to say it, but she shook her head. “Please, Paul, please don’t think it’s you. You’re the only man I’ve ever cared this much about, and if I lost you, I don’t know what I’d do. I’m just not ready to make that commitment yet. Before I get married I have to be absolutely certain of what I want to do with my life, and I’m not certain, not yet.”
She searched his eyes, hoping to find some indication that he understood. For a moment they looked at her sadly, revealing very little, and then Paul said: “I’ll wait until you’re sure, Jessica. I think you’re worth it.”
Reaching across the table, she took his hand. “Thank you,” she said, her eyes growing moist. “I think I’d like to spend the weekend with you.” At that moment she loved him so much it hurt.
“You almost always spend the weekend with me,” he said.
“I know.”
He smiled.
And Jessica wondered why she didn’t say yes, why she was so uncertain about what she wanted from life. Was her independence so important to her that she’d give up Paul for it? But it really wasn’t just independence, was it? Paul loved children, and she was uncertain whether she wanted a family. If he gave up on having kids just for her, it might become a thing between them. He might always resent her.
Children meant babies crying in the middle of the night, changing diapers, tending to scraped knees, a house full of toys and noise and confusion. Uncertain how she’d cope with all that, Jessica had a hard time seeing herself as a mother. Nor did she relish the pain of childbirth. I don’t think I could stand it, she thought. I don’t think I could.
And then she wondered whether she was being selfish. Was she so concerned with inconvenience and pain—pain that had been experienced by women since the beginning of the human race—that she’d deny Paul what he most wanted?
But she wouldn’t be denying it to him, she realized then. She’d only be denying him herself. He could marry someone else, someone who shared his love of children. The thought saddened her.
And her attitude wasn’t entirely selfish. Childless marriages were the most happy ones, according to what she’d read. Many couples these days were opting not to have kids. Many women wanted careers more than families—more than children, she corrected herself. A childless couple was still a family, merely a small one.
Then she felt guilty again. I am being selfish, she thought. I am. And she wondered whether she might change her mind about motherhood once she’d tried it. And if she tried it … and didn’t like it? Oh, I don’t know, she thought. I just don’t know.
Jessica realized suddenly that Paul was studying her, and she pushed these thoughts aside. “Are you going to have dessert?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I’m full.”
“Me, too.”
When the check came Jessica reached for it, but Paul was faster. “It’s my turn,” she protested.
“True. But until Monday when you go back and get officially signed up on your new job you’re still unemployed.”
She smiled. “Actually this isn’t a bad arrangement. You pay when we go to places like this, and I’ll pay when we have a Big Mac and fries.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I’ll have you know that I keep complete records, and if at the end of the year you haven’t paid your share, I’ll have to take it out in … well, I’ll think of something.”
“I’ll bet you will,” Jessica said, grinning mischievously. On their way to Paul’s place they stopped by Jessica’s apartment so she could pick up some clothes and toiletries. As they entered the building, Jessica checked her mailbox, finding three ads and a phone bill.
When they reached her apartment Jessica tossed the ads on the coffee table and began opening the phone bill. Suddenly she found herself in Paul’s arms. They kissed lightly, then more seriously, and she dropped the envelope on the table with the others as their kissing became more passionate. After a moment they released each other and stepped apart, their eyes meeting. Paul was looking at her with so much affection it nearly brought tears to her eyes.
If they were his children, I’d have to love them, Jessica thought. “I’ll get my things,” she said.
From her bedroom closet, she got a suitcase, into which she tossed some clean clothes and underwear. From the bathroom she got her comb, toothbrush, makeup, and other things she’d need and added them to the suitcase, which she carried into the living room. Paul was sitting on the couch.
“All ready,” she said.
“Let me run in here before we go,” Paul said, heading for the bathroom.
Absently Jessica picked up the phone bill, finished opening the envelope, and slipped out its contents. She heard herself gasp.
“What is it?” Paul called from the bathroom.
I don’t believe this, Jessica thought.
“You okay?” Paul called.
“It’s my phone bill.”
“What about it?”
“It’s for three thousand, twenty-seven dollars and sixty-three cents.”
“Let me see that,” Paul said, joining her again. Jessica handed it to him, and after studying it a moment, he said: “My God, Jessica, they’ve listed calls here to Egypt, Argentina, the Soviet Union … pages of them. Jesus!”
“It’s all those world leaders wanting to consult with me all the time.”
“You’d think they’d at least be willing to pay for the calls.”
“I’ll get it straightened out on Monday,” Jessica said, resigning herself to the chore. “Somebody probably got my number from the book and charged a bunch of calls to it. The phone company can’t force me to pay for calls I didn’t make.”
Tossing the bill on the table, Paul nodded. As they left her apartment, Jessica pushed the matter from her thoughts. Straightening it out would be a bother, but she could worry about that when the time came. Tonight she was celebrating.
It was a few minutes before eight on Monday morning when Jessica stepped into the elevator that would take her to the second floor of the building in which she’d be working from now on. Zecker hadn’t said what time she should come in, so she’d decided the safest thing to do was to assume that she’d start work immediately and that the workday began at eight. Four people shared the elevator with her: two men in business suits, a gray-haired woman with thick glasses, a thin blonde woman of about twenty. Jessica wondered whether any of them would be her co-workers.
She’d spent the entire weekend with Paul, not returning to her apartment until early this morning. They’d done simple things like playing double solitaire, taking in a movie, taking a Sunday drive in the country. Two wonderful days devoted entirely to enjoying simple pleasures and just being together.
So far at least, the only thing she didn’t like about her new job was the drive into Kansas City during the morning rush. It had taken ten minutes to get to her last job; this morning it had taken nearly an hour in bumper-to-bumper traffic.
Oh, well, such was the plight of the upwardly mobile. And she did think of the new job as a step up. She had good feelings about it.
The two men got off on the second floor along with Jessica, but only one of them walked in the same direction she did, and he stepped into an office across the hall from Cast, Grimsley, and Associates. None of her fellow passengers in the elevator had been people she would be working with.
“Hi,” the receptionist said as Jessica entered the office. “Ready to go to work?”
“As ready as one can be on a Monday morning,” Jessica replied, trying to conceal her first-day-on-the-job jitters, which had intensified considerably since she stepped off the elevator.
The receptionist nodded sagely. “Yes,” she said, “good old Monday mornings.” Then she looked up at Jessica and smiled. “I’m Cynthia Hopewell. If you’re going to be working here, we should get acquainted.”
“Jessica Russell.”
The two women shook hands.
“I’ll let Mr. Zecker know you’re here.” She picked up the phone, dialed, announced Jessica’s arrival, listened a moment, then hung up. “He says he’s tied up at the moment and he wants you to wait.”
“Sure,” Jessica said, taking a seat. Opening her purse, she checked to make sure the completed application was there, which it was. She picked up a magazine and began absently flipping through it. She reached the middle of it before she realized that it was a hunting and fishing magazine, in which there was nothing that could possibly interest her. She exchanged it for a Newsweek. Although her first-day-on-the-job nervousness had abated somewhat while she’d been talking to Cynthia Hopewell, now it was back and in full force. Time passed. Half an hour. Forty-five minutes. An hour.
“I don’t know what’s keeping Mr. Zecker,” Hopewell said apologetically. “If he doesn’t send for you pretty quick, I’ll remind him that you’re here.”
“Thanks,” Jessica said nervously.
Another half-hour passed, during which she looked at the last magazine in the room that didn’t concern hunting or camping or the like. A four-month-old copy of Advertising Age.
Hopewell picked up the phone and dialed, her eyes meeting Jessica’s. A few moments later, she replaced the receiver, saying: “Now he’s out of his office.”
