5. Ophelia
OPHELIA
I dump my purse on the couch as soon as I make it back home. The board meeting went swiftly, the rest of the day relatively drama free, excluding Sandra who looked like she wanted to kill me when I cancelled her morning meeting with Mr. Moretti.
My phone rings with an incoming call from Sapphire.
“Well?” she says when I hit answer. “What did you tell him?” This girl is even more invested in the arrangement than my boss is.
“Nothing yet. I’m still deciding.”
“I’m sure he’ll keep everything very private. Mr. Moretti doesn’t seem like the kiss and tell type.”
“No, because he has too many stories to tell and not enough time to tell them,” I say, dragging myself off the couch to find something for dinner. “I may have left one detail out to you earlier…” I say while raiding my freezer. “I’m almost certain Salvatore beat up one of his employees either.”
“How certain?”
“Like, ninety-nine percent,” I cringe, grabbing a box of frozen waffles from the freezer, arranging them on the oven tray.
“Holy shit, Phee. Do you know what this person did?”
“I don’t even know the guy, but he was wearing appropriate Moretti Global uniform, black pants, white shirt; the tie was a little off center for obvious reasons, but he was dressed the part.”
“Insider trading is a very serious criminal offence.”
“So is breaking an employee’s nose and spilling blood.”
“How much blood are we talking?”
“Enough for a part-time Emergency Room nurse like yourself to have some concerns.”
“Shit.” The line goes quiet for a second as Sapphire digests the conversation. “Sleeping with an abusive man could end very fucking badly for you, Phee, not to mention the fact that this dude is your boss. This sounds like a legal nightmare.”
“Or the best time of my life,” I say, sticking the waffles in the oven. “I’m about to have dinner. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.”
“Is this dinner going to ruin your life?”
“Potentially,” I grimace, staring at the oven as I count the amount of times I have eaten shitty junk food this week. “Thankfully, frozen potato waffles don’t pay my wages. See you later.”
I end the call, heading into my bedroom while I wait for dinner to cook. Sleeping with my boss on a regular basis comes with many benefits. Orgasms are great, but so are answers, and the closer I get to Mr. Moretti, the more I learn about the crow reference from my mom.
I place my hands on my hips, staring at the boxes I looked through over the weekend. Clearing out my mother’s house when she died was a nightmare. She was the sentimental type, always clutching onto the past, never able to fully let things go.
I examine the clothes on the rail, inspecting the pieces I picked out from my mother’s boxes.
Her taste in fashion was controversial. The blue dress with the pocket on the chest called for a serious fashion intervention, but it was cute how loyal she was to her favorite pieces.
Some of them deserve a place in my closet for that reason alone.
I unhook the dress from the hanger, observing it.
“You look like a maid from the twentieth century,” I tease as we walk down the street together, shopping.
“Perhaps you’re the one who needs to attend fashion school,” says my mother, gesturing to my knees. “Ripped jeans? Really?”
“They’re cool.”
“So are pockets on dresses,” argues my mother. “This dress was hand stitched in Tuscany by an independent Italian designer, straight from the seventies.”
“Which is the twentieth century. Last time I checked we’re in the twenty-first.”
I sit on the foot of the bed, running the fabric through my fingertips.
The dress was indeed handstitched in Tuscany, according to the label.
I inspect the pocket, a smile crawling onto my face as I look back on good times, simpler times, where we would try out new coffee shops in the area, gossiping, laughing, and talking about dumb shit.
Aunt Viv was always in the corner shaking her head, our humor completely lost on her.
The color is still slowly crawling back onto Aunt Viv’s face after losing her sister. My mother was the sun, so life naturally felt very dark for a while after we lost her.
My finger catches on something as I smooth my hand over the dress pocket. I slip my hand inside, coming across a piece of paper. The fold lines are deep, suggesting this paper hasn’t been opened for years, not since my mother last wore the dress.
I unfold the paper, fingernail scratching against the paper. A drawing from Aunt Viv perhaps? My mother loved keeping her drawings, no matter how ambiguous and weird.
“Holy shit,” I gasp, staring at the sketch of a crow, fucking identical to the one marked across Mr. Moretti’s chest.
I flip the paper over, searching for a description, for a date, a name, anything, but the other side is blank.
I place a hand over my mouth, this drawing confirming everything. The black, jagged lines are identical to the set of wings Salvatore has inked across his chest, the animal’s eyes black, its beak open slightly.
The beeping oven startles me, goosebumps rising on my skin. I abandon the drawing and march into the kitchen, removing the waffles. I shut the oven but continue holding onto the oven door, my fingertips curled around the handle as gravity shifts around me.
I place the potato waffles on a plate and drown them in tomato sauce. Taking myself to the couch, I kick up my feet and mindlessly eat waffles, paying no attention to the TV show that’s running in the background.
Somehow, my boss is connected to my mother and Aunt Viv.
Questioning Mr. Moretti may be difficult, since he’s the one who does the interrogating, not the other way around, but Aunt Viv will have an explanation for this.
Pretending to like ambiguous art for hours is always a painful experience, but if I can get answers out of the visit, speaking to her may be worthwhile.