Part 20 (1/2)

I'd started twelve-hour s.h.i.+fts six weeks before so Lora could take a lower-paying job at an adult group home. She'd decided to continue her education and get a Ph.D. in psychology, and the experience at the home was invaluable. Longer hours were my way of supporting her, but my body wasn't adjusting well to the change.

Monday nights in the archive room were the worst. I'd already worked thirty-six hours since Friday and been in cla.s.s all morning. To beat it all, seven of my main storage units had stuck drawers, and I had to zap them with WD-40 every time I tried to cram another lab report into the folders.

I yanked at the top drawer of the filing cabinet near the counter. It didn't budge, which added to my frustration. I spent several minutes of pulling, tugging, and cursing before the drawer skidded out with an ear-piercing screech.

There's got to be a better way, I thought, as I peered at the workings. Another half-inch here, better balance there, and it would all be so much easier. Plus, if the thingamabob that connected the whatchamacallit to the doohickey was a little wider, the whole thing would slide like grease on a doork.n.o.b.

Not certain what I hoped to accomplish, I found an old measuring tape in the desk drawer and jotted down the cabinet's dimensions. I then attempted to sketch a design that would solve the sticking problem. At the time, building a better mousetrapor filing cabinet in my case didn't seem like a fork in my career road, only a way to make my s.h.i.+fts more manageable. However, my artistic skills left much to be desired, and the design ended up looking like the guts of a wrecked Chevy. I dropped it on the counter.

127.

I glanced at the rows of filing cabinets behind me. They didn't look much better than my pitiful sketch, like big green dominoes that might tumble down at the slightest provocation.

I took a long breath and sat down at the desk to sort birth certificates. The archive room was always quiet, and the ticking of the old Seth Thomas clock was lulling me to sleep. I put my head on the desk and closed my eyes.

When the door flew open, I jumped and pretended to be busy, but the girl who came in and dropped an armload of manila folders on the counter didn't seem to notice I'd been napping.

”So you're the night girl. I've heard about you,” she said.

I stood up and went toward her, observing this stranger. She was pretty, with her hair cut short around her ears and in the back but longer on top. The sandy mop softened her face and brought out her high cheekbones.

”What have you heard?” I asked with a yawn.

”I hear you've got this place in tip-top shape for a change.” She leaned over and propped her elbows on the counter that separated us.

Something in her gaze told me I should be wary. We'd never met, but she was reading me like a roadmap.

”If alphabetical order is tip-top shape, then it's far from it.” I gathered the folders and placed them on the corner of the desk.

She tapped a finger on the drawing I'd attempted of the filing cabinet. ”What's this?”

”I'm trying to figure out how to make these filing cabinets open easier, but I can't draw worth a c.r.a.p.”

She picked up a pen. ”Maybe I can help. What is it you want to change?”

”The drawers roll fine when they're empty, but the folders weigh them down, especially when they get crammed full like this one.” I pointed to the bottom of the open drawer. ”This latch catches on the roller. If you moved it over just a little and extended this bar about a quarter of an inch, it could handle the weight, no matter how much we squeeze in there.”

”I see what you're saying. I can do that.” As she started to sketch, the phone rang and I picked it up ”Archive room.”

”Hey, how's your night going?” Lora's voice was distant and faint.

”Same. How about you?” I replied, still watching the girl at the counter. She looked at the picture, then at the drawer, and kept drawing.

128.

”Doreen s.h.i.+t her bed again. Took me an hour to clean up the mess, and she's still crying about it.”

It was beyond me why Lora would rather be up to her elbows in excrement than earning good tips at the restaurant, but she loved her new job. Every night she came home with a story about how she'd worked with a resident, helping her learn to pick up after herself or hugging her after someone had made a rude comment.

I glanced back at the stranger, who was inspecting her work. ”I'd better go, honey. Someone's here.”

”Okay,” Lora said. ”I love you.”

”Me, too.”

When I hung up the phone, I saw the girl watching me, her elbows once more propped on the counter. ”Heard that new song by Madonna?”

she asked. The finished sketch lay before her.

”All fluff. In two years, no one will even remember her.”

I picked up the picture and was amazed at its quality. In three minutes, she'd created a perfect rendition of what I'd wrestled with for a half hour. ”This is just what I had in mind. How'd you do it?”

”Got a knack for drawing, that's all.” The girl stood silent for a long moment. She looked at the clock on the wall, glanced at the growing pile of paperwork to be filed, and tugged at the gold earring in her left lobe.

”So where are you from?” she asked.

”Franklin.”

”Hmm. I think I've been there once.”

She'd never seen me, but in two minutes, she'd scanned me head to toe and seemed to know everything about me.

”Anything I can help you with?” I sorted through the birth certificates that I'd already alphabetized.

”You can go to dinner with me.”

I stepped back. ”Why would you want me to do that?”

”I like to eat with pretty women.”

Good Lord, this girl is crazy, I thought . Spring City wasn't the kind of place to hit on any woman you met; it could be dangerous.

When I didn't answer, she stuck out her hand. ”Sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. I usually work the mailroom, so most everyone knows me. Name's Tonya. But you can call me Fly By.”

”What kind of name is that?” I shook her hand, but let go when she rubbed her thumb along mine.

”I'll explain over dinner.” Her confidence bordered on obnoxious, but something in her eyes caught me off guard.

129.

”Sorry, hotshot. Not interested.” With a c.o.c.ky tilt of my head, I spun around and returned to the desk, hoping she'd be on her way, but she just stood there looking at me, staring at me. She didn't say anything, but her thoughts were obvious. This pretty, brash girl was mentally undressing me right there in the paper morgue, and I got the impression she would've done the same in the real morgue with sheet-covered stiffs lying all around.

”Anything else?” I asked.

One corner of her mouth turned up, and she winked. ”Not right now, but let me know when you need some more artwork. I'll be happy to help.” She turned and opened the door, then stopped. ”See you later, Claire.”