Chapter XXVII #3
Mae opened her mouth to protest and her eyes flicked up to his face as Mr. Foster continued, “Of course, we all know how paperwork goes missing sometimes. Some poor fellow places it in one file when it should have gone in another.” His logic sounded too smooth, too rational to her ears.
As Mae tried to wrap her mind around the meaning of his words, he continued, “You’ve seen the slip-ups firsthand while you researched the case files.
They can be corrected, of course, if one knows where to look…
” He let the thought sink in. “For instance, today’s misfiling could be found tomorrow, or next week, or next year.
One never knows when the next recovery of files will jumpstart the review again.
Of course, had you taken Simon and left the girl, the complaint may never have been filed with your name on it at all.
” He paused. "Bad luck, that. Though I suspect sentiment drove that decision more than strategy.” He didn’t wait for her response to the chastisement.
“However, when the right rules and the correct procedure are followed, even the most skilled clerk may never find a misplaced file.”
“I have found files too. I kept the copy of Henry’s notes—names, dates, placement fees.” Her voice held, but she clasped her hands so he wouldn’t see them shaking.
“Of course you did, Mae,” his monotone voice took on no note of concern. “I would expect nothing less of you. And now, I know exactly what you have.”
His words hung in the air. The system that she had worked so hard within was now his leverage over her.
Mae had known there would be consequences for today’s actions.
Now it wasn’t the system that worried her—it was the paperwork.
The thought rained down on her like a deluge.
Her shoulders rounded as the unknown weight had yet to be fully revealed.
“What do you want from me?” The question sounded breathy even to her own ears.
Her eyes tracked up his coat, past his face, and took in the felt hat tipped precariously on the crown of his head.
She pushed the panic down, knowing that following his directives would be the only way to survive.
“Well, in this moment, today’s matter will not trouble you further—unless it needs to.
Enjoy your travels back to New York. I realize that you have a lot to deal with, what with your husband’s untimely passing and resetting your life.
” Again, he paused, letting the false sincerity in his voice pervade her mind.
“I will have work for you when you return. Fear not, I will be in touch.”
The words ‘fear not’ had the exact effect that he had intended.
Fear rose like bile up her throat. She swallowed hard, trying to quell her stomach and her nerves alike.
What type of job could he possibly have for her?
Her mind raced through several scenarios, each one more morally black than the one before. She shook the thoughts away.
“Of course, there is no rush on your part. I will have the details delivered to your home once you’ve settled.”
She remembered the night with the knife. So it was him, standing outside her apartment in the alleyway. She clasped her hands, trying to stop the obvious quaking. She opened her mouth, but none of the words would form on her tongue. Did she really have anything to say? What could she say?
A single bell tone signaled the arrival of five o’clock.
The passage of time felt impertinent at this crucial moment.
“Well, it’s five o’clock now.” She felt his hands touch her clasped hands and flinched, watching in horror as the body of the watch almost touched his gloved hands.
He gently separated her fingers and placed the tickets in her palm.
“You should be on your way to platform seven. I’m sure we will see one another again back in New York. ”
She made no attempt to move or answer such a rhetorical farewell.
As he walked away, she saw that his steps never changed tempo, and that most people moved out of his way instinctively.
Once he was out of sight, she tucked the watch back into her blouse.
A preview of her future life rolled through her head.
The red color of the tickets danced in her unfocused eyes and burned like a physical rebuke as the din of the surrounding crowd ebbed away.
“Mama!” Simon's voice pierced through the density of her thoughts. The high pitch signaling his concern. “There you are!”
“We thought ye’d gotten lost,” Winona reiterated brightly until she looked squarely at Mae. “Is everything alright?”
Mae tried to pull herself together and let her gaze fall on Simon to ground herself. “All set,” she announced, failing to engender a bright enough tone.
Winona assessed Mae's tone, her soft blond eyebrows drawing down into a line, but said nothing. Instead, she picked up her bag and scooped Lily up in the other hand. “Which platform did the man say?”
The man—Mae didn’t think Winona knew about the man in the felt hat—Mr. Foster. At least she knew his name now. She burned his name into her memory. Her eyes flew to Winona, and her mouth worked.
“Didn’t the ticket agent tell ye which platform?” Winona scanned Mae's face dubiously.
“Um… yes. Platform seven.” Mae loosed a slow breath. “I believe it is over that way.” She waved her arm in the general direction of all the platforms, knowing that Mr. Foster would be heading that way too.
Simon slipped his hand into hers, and she closed her fingers around it. Foster thought he had seen the full spectrum of her capabilities. He hadn't. Her eyes rested on Simon. Neither had she.