Things Withered Read Free Page B

white, like all the young people have now, those wonderful teeth, bought and paid for with pre-child disposable income.
    Lacey
?
Really?
Lacey
?
    “Very nice to meet you, Mrs. Lockwood.”
    Richard leaned back on his chair, arms up over his head. He was in shirtsleeves, very relaxed for the middle of the day. As for herself, Lacey leaned against the edge of his desk. It was all very cozy. I wondered if I should slip off my shoes and sit cross-legged on the sofa.
    “I want you to take Lacey around with you, show her how we do things,” Richard said.
    “Oh,” I said. “I’m not sure I understand.”
    Richard sat forward again. “Just take her on some showings with you. I need a senior to train her. She’s going to be a broker.” He smiled baldly at her, and I read into it. How could I not, it was written in neon.
    “Of course,” I said.
    “Thank you, Mrs. Lockwood.”
    Richard said, “You can start tomorrow. Does that work for you? You’re showing something tomorrow, I trust?”
    I was. I had a 10:30 with a couple from Germany. I didn’t have a great deal of faith in the first two apartments I would show them. The apartments were well-placed, but expensive and the couple would only be in the U.S. temporarily while the husband worked through a contract. The wife was along for the ride as far as I could tell.
    “Of course,” I said, and managed to sound a little indignant.
    “Great then, it’s all set.”
    When I left the office, I walked the long hallway back to my desk, in “the pit” at the front of the building, same desk I’d had for twelve years. I had a window, and in fact could remember my argument with my previous boss, Don Marko, to get my desk moved to a window spot. My argument—unimpeachable—was that I’d earned it.
    Between Richard’s office and the pit, there were five offices on either side of the hall. Most of the doors were open, and I could see people at their desks, heads bent over tidy Mac Books, plants on windowsills.
    All new faces.
    I realized that, back then, I should have argued for an office.
    The Bramleys on ten went to the Caribbean at the end of May, and I dragged Ms. Lacey around by the nose for two weeks. The only showing I cut her out of was in my building, The Windemere, and it was as much out of spite as it was out of fear. I showed Stephanie’s friend, Lily, poor Barney Kloss’s apartment, vacant and not on the market officially, since paperwork was such a bitch in these sorts of circumstances. It was not premature, not really, although morally it might have been a jab to poor Myrna, but it wasn’t like I ran up to her apartment and started bragging about my big commission. It was all handled delicately and in the best of taste. And it put my numbers up for May.
    I didn’t take Ms. Lacey on the showing with me because it was likely to be a done deal, a token showing. What I knew from Stephanie was that Lily was very keen to move into the building, and not at all squeamish about living in an apartment someone had died in. Those, of course, were Lily’s own words, from a telephone call. She said, “I’m not squeamish.”
    I also didn’t take Lacey because she was young and looked much more like Lily and Stephanie and that sort, and I was secretly afraid that they’d hit it off. In my paranoid state, I had envisioned all sorts of betrayals—a refusal to use me as broker in favour of Lacey, was one of them—but also an exchange of business cards and secret handshakes and promises of lots of business from Lily’s friends.
    It seemed prudent just to leave her out of it.
    Lily moved in as soon as the paperwork cleared, which was thankfully quick. Someone out there at least, was on my side.
    Blessedly before the month was even up, Richard decided that Ms. Lacey was ready to take on clients of her own and she was off my hands. I celebrated that day with a pulled pork sandwich, dripping with BBQ sauce, not my finest hour, although as glorious as a June day. I