pencils were lined up. The in and out boxes were swept clean of any
stray dust particle, any scrap of trash. There wasn’t a rogue paper clip behind the desk or in the bottom of her spotless
wastebasket. She kept her rubber bands banded together with rubber bands. The files in her filing cabinets were orderly, subdivided
to avoid bowing, the old faxes were photocopied so that they wouldn’t disintegrate. The photos on the walls (Mansionweddings past) were nondescript and pedestrian. There was nothing intimate about the decoration at all. I knew about most
of this stuff from the moments when she ordered me into that cubicle to dress me down, but this was different. Now we were
getting a sustained look at Glenda’s personal effects.
Linda took particular delight in Glenda’s cassette player (it was atop one of the black filing cabinets) —a cassette player
that none of us had ever heard play not even once. Linda admired the selection of recordings there. A complete set of cut-out
budget series:
Greatest Hits of Baroque, Greatest Hits of Swing, Greatest Hits of Broadway, Greatest Hits of Disco
and so forth. Just as she was about to pronounce Glenda a rank philistine where music was concerned, Linda located there,
in a shattered case, a copy of
Greatest Hits of the Blues.
We devoured the green M&Ms while we were busy with our reconnaissance. And I kept reminding Linda not to get any of the green
dye on anything. I repeatedly checked surfaces for fingerprints. I even overturned Linda’s hands (it made me happy while doing
it), to make sure they were free of emerald smudges. Because if Glenda found out we were in her office, we’d both be submitting
applications at the Hot Bird of Troy. Nonetheless, Linda carelessly put down her handful of M&Ms, on top of a filing cabinet,
to look over the track listings for
Greatest Hits of the Blues.
This budget anthology was released the year Linda was born, in 1974. Coincidentally, the year you too were born, Sis. I remember
driving with you to the tunes of Lightnin’ Hopkins or Howlin’ Wolf. I remember your preference for the most bereaved of acoustic
blues, the most ramshackle of musics.What better soundtrack for the Adirondacks? For our meandering drives in the mountains, into Corinth or around Lake Luzerne?
What more lonesome sound for a state park the size of Rhode Island where wolves and bears still come to hunt? Linda cranked
the greatest hits of heartbreak and we sat down on the carpeted floor to listen. I missed you.
I pulled open that bottom file drawer by chance. I wanted to rest my arm on something. There was a powerful allure in the
moment. I wasn’t going to kiss Linda, and probably her desperate effort to find somebody to liberate her from her foreshortened
economic prospects and her unpronounceable surname wouldn’t come to much, but she was a good friend. Maybe a better friend
than I was admitting to myself. It was in this expansive mood that I opened the file drawer at the bottom of one stack (the
J
through
P
stack), otherwise empty, to find that it was full of a half-dozen, maybe even more, of those circular packages
of birth-control pills,
the color-coated pills, you know, those multihued pills and placebos that are a journey through the amorous calendars of
women. All unused. Not a one of them even opened. Not a one of the white, yellow, brown or green pills liberated from its
package.
—Must be chilly in Schenectady, Linda mumbled.
Was there another way to read the strange bottom drawer? Was there a way to look at it beyond or outside of my exhausting
tendency to discover only facts that would prop up darker prognostications? The file drawer contained the pills, it contained
a bottle of vodka, it contained a cache of family pictures and missives the likes of which were never displayed or mentioned
or even alluded to by Glenda. Even I, for all my resentments, wasn’t up to reading the letters. But what of
stray dust particle, any scrap of trash. There wasn’t a rogue paper clip behind the desk or in the bottom of her spotless
wastebasket. She kept her rubber bands banded together with rubber bands. The files in her filing cabinets were orderly, subdivided
to avoid bowing, the old faxes were photocopied so that they wouldn’t disintegrate. The photos on the walls (Mansionweddings past) were nondescript and pedestrian. There was nothing intimate about the decoration at all. I knew about most
of this stuff from the moments when she ordered me into that cubicle to dress me down, but this was different. Now we were
getting a sustained look at Glenda’s personal effects.
Linda took particular delight in Glenda’s cassette player (it was atop one of the black filing cabinets) —a cassette player
that none of us had ever heard play not even once. Linda admired the selection of recordings there. A complete set of cut-out
budget series:
Greatest Hits of Baroque, Greatest Hits of Swing, Greatest Hits of Broadway, Greatest Hits of Disco
and so forth. Just as she was about to pronounce Glenda a rank philistine where music was concerned, Linda located there,
in a shattered case, a copy of
Greatest Hits of the Blues.
We devoured the green M&Ms while we were busy with our reconnaissance. And I kept reminding Linda not to get any of the green
dye on anything. I repeatedly checked surfaces for fingerprints. I even overturned Linda’s hands (it made me happy while doing
it), to make sure they were free of emerald smudges. Because if Glenda found out we were in her office, we’d both be submitting
applications at the Hot Bird of Troy. Nonetheless, Linda carelessly put down her handful of M&Ms, on top of a filing cabinet,
to look over the track listings for
Greatest Hits of the Blues.
This budget anthology was released the year Linda was born, in 1974. Coincidentally, the year you too were born, Sis. I remember
driving with you to the tunes of Lightnin’ Hopkins or Howlin’ Wolf. I remember your preference for the most bereaved of acoustic
blues, the most ramshackle of musics.What better soundtrack for the Adirondacks? For our meandering drives in the mountains, into Corinth or around Lake Luzerne?
What more lonesome sound for a state park the size of Rhode Island where wolves and bears still come to hunt? Linda cranked
the greatest hits of heartbreak and we sat down on the carpeted floor to listen. I missed you.
I pulled open that bottom file drawer by chance. I wanted to rest my arm on something. There was a powerful allure in the
moment. I wasn’t going to kiss Linda, and probably her desperate effort to find somebody to liberate her from her foreshortened
economic prospects and her unpronounceable surname wouldn’t come to much, but she was a good friend. Maybe a better friend
than I was admitting to myself. It was in this expansive mood that I opened the file drawer at the bottom of one stack (the
J
through
P
stack), otherwise empty, to find that it was full of a half-dozen, maybe even more, of those circular packages
of birth-control pills,
the color-coated pills, you know, those multihued pills and placebos that are a journey through the amorous calendars of
women. All unused. Not a one of them even opened. Not a one of the white, yellow, brown or green pills liberated from its
package.
—Must be chilly in Schenectady, Linda mumbled.
Was there another way to read the strange bottom drawer? Was there a way to look at it beyond or outside of my exhausting
tendency to discover only facts that would prop up darker prognostications? The file drawer contained the pills, it contained
a bottle of vodka, it contained a cache of family pictures and missives the likes of which were never displayed or mentioned
or even alluded to by Glenda. Even I, for all my resentments, wasn’t up to reading the letters. But what of
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