Shere's mind reeled with the memory. He had been
cheated, his children had been cheated. Shere had a tendency to think of
his life as a business deal, and August's death was the fine print he had
forgotten to read. She was going back to England for a weekend to hear
a new band she was considering signing. He could still hear her say, "Oh,
they're wonderful, Shere! Sure to be a huge hit. You wouldn't mind taking
care of the girls for the weekend, would you?"
Of course not, be replied.
When she boarded the plane
a sinking feeling had come over him but he ignored it.
"Good-bye, mother," Sarabi
had said, four years old. "Have a good trip."
August knelt down and said
sternly, "Take care of your father."
That was their version of
"I love you".
Orly was two, and she leapt
into her mother's arms, kisisng her face with a chorus of "I love you,
Mommies.'
"I love you too, sweetheart,"
she replied. 'Take care of your sister."
She looked up to Shere and
smiled, put her arms around his neck, and gave him a kiss that went straight
down into his toes; the one kiss he would never, ever forget as long as
he lived.
"You take care of yourself,"
she purred. "At least until I get back."
And she boarded the plane.
And to that very day, he
was still taking care of himself, because his wife never returned.
The plane went down over
the Atlantic. The engine stalled and, apparently, the pilot was so panicked
that his heart gave out. There were no survivors. He heard the tape of
the black box when it was found. He heard her shriek out , "Shere!" before
the plane plummeted out into the water.
The next few days were fuzzy
in Shere's mind, a flurry of images; Sarabi's unmoved face when she heard
of her mother's death and Shere wondering for a split second if she had
a soul; trying to explain things to little Orly, too young to understand
why her mother wasn't there to tuck her in Monday night, asking why Mommy
didn't love her, Shere replying that Mommy loved her, Mommy loved her,
but Mommy wasn't coming back.
Mommy was never coming back.
For months, it seemed, Shere
refused to see anyone and sat at his desk while a fleet of nannies tended
to the children. For hours upon hours he drove a steel penknife into the
wood, carving hole upon hole, thinking that this was penance, wasn't it,
this was penance for the way he had lived his life. He could have everything
he wanted but August; well, he could only have her until he was used to
her, until it would rip his soul apart to have her taken from him. Right
at the cusp of life, leaving him to raise the two children and be reminded
of her in their faces every day for the rest of his life.
Penance.
He couldn't handle that
thought. So he avoided it.
And God, he missed her.
He missed her arms around him, her curled body against his with the moon
out the window. He missed the way she was allergic to tomatoes and grumbled
when she had to feed Orly late at night. He missed the comfort of having
someone to talk to at the end of the day, or just someone to sit with.
He missed kissing her, making love to her. The absence of his wife bored
holes into him; she was a part of him, and he could never retrieve her.
Everything paled in comparison to that.
Shere bought out the airline
that had killed August and had all the planes impounded.
Later he heard the band
that August was supposed to hear. He gave them the coziest record deal
in the history of music and every album they put out went triple platinum.
Their gold records hung somewhere in the building and he thought of her
every time he passed them. The band members were fat and happy in a large
mansion somewhere, and he remembered the brief moment when he, of all people,
actually tried to explain to them that money didn't guarantee happiness.
They just laughed.
And Shere wanted to kick
himself for letting that side show.
Sarabi was well aware that her father's employees called she and
her sister "The Princesses", and that they meant it favorably when it came
to Orly, but not when it came to her. Orly, they loved. She, they feared.
But she was well used to that. Everybody feared her.
She walked about the building
with her head held high and her cold blue eyes overlooking all, like some
sort of watchful reptile. Employees cleared the way when they saw her coming.
Of course, it never struck Sarabi as strange that she got this sort of
respect from everyone around her, even the other kids at school. She had
always gotten it, ever since she was born.
She had overheard one of
the employees describing her as "soulless" once.
Good.
That was good.
For when she took over the
company for her father one day, she wanted to be known that way. She wanted
her competition trembling. She wanted them to tremble before her even more
than they trembled before her father. She was planning on building Kahn
Industries into such a world monopoly that no one would dare touch it.
She would live up to everything her father expected of her, everything
she expected of herself, and beyond that.
She was on her royal way
to a filing office to check up on something. It was a great room that took
up half a floor, filled with filing cabinets containing thousands of old
documents. She finally came to the door, opened it, charged right through
as she always did, and slammed right into a handsome young black panther
who was mopping the floor.
"Offf!" he exclaimed. "Hey,
watch it there!" His voice was friendly.
"It's not a good idea to
mop near the door," Sarabi replied, straightening her navy blue suit. She
knew this boy. He was one of the employee's sons who had taken the job
as janitor for some extra pocket money. She had seen him mopping about
for the past six weeks and had said maybe one or two words to him in passing.
But she often noticed him looking at her. He would look at her and smile.
She would, in return, ignore him.
"Just doing my job."
He had some jumpy big band music playing on a phonograph in the back of
the room. He paused for a minute, studying her. "What are you looking for,
Ms. Sarabi?"
She was put off by the way
he called her "Ms. Sarabi". Most people called her Miss Kahn.
"Nothing of your concern,"
she answered, opening a drawer.
"Whatever you say. I'll
just mop."
"Please do."
Of course, that didn't last
long. He was talkative. "How've you been?"
Sarabi gave him a peculiar
look. "What do you mean?"
"What do you think I mean?
I mean how have you been?"
She raised her eyebrow.
"What do you want, Mr...."
"James. Call me James."
She leafed through files.
"Fine James, what do you want?"
"Hey, I just wanted to know
how you are. Is that so much to ask?" She glanced up and he smiled at her.
He wore a denim shirt and backwards baseball cap, and his eyes were a bright
green, like Orly's. He had a nice smile as well. In fact, Sarabi began
to wonder if Orly had seen this boy. She 'd probably fall in love instantly.
She rolled her eyes at the thought. Orly always had time for that nonsense.
But oftentimes, she knew,
in the very back of her soul, she interposed her own feelings about things
on Orly, especially when it came to romantic issues. She briefly wondered
if she were doing this now. And when she looked up at him and saw him smile
at her, she acknowledged the possibility - she found herself thinking that
he WAS, after all, quite handsome - but then quickly stuffed
the notion down.
"Can I help you find
anything?" he asked, stepping behind her, far too near for her comfort.
She could almost feel his breath on the back of her neck. It made the fur
on her arms raise in an odd way.
"No," she said, stepping
away from him. "I found it."
She began to leave. "Wait!"
he called to her.
She turned at the door,
annoyed. "What now?"
He looked away slightly,
to the wall, and to the floor. The mop handle switched hands. "Listen,
um...." his voice drifted off.
"I'm running out of time
and patience, Mr. James. I have things to do."
He looked up and took a
quick breath. 'Well, all right then. If you're busy, it would be the wrong
time for this anyway. You, um, you have a good day now, Ms. Sarabi."
She raised her eyebrow at
him and replied, "I'll be sure to," and walked out the door.
"My God, you're incredible,"
James said underneath his breath.
