9. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
Driving home from the office, Roger took slow and steady breaths.
The workplace had been out of hand the past two months because of Mr. Nicholson’s assistant, Mr. Agnes.
He was a man of wonderful intentions and a great character, but he was the world’s worst businessman.
Instead of asking Mr. Nicholson for assistance with clientele loss, Mr. Agnes cut wages, resulting in staff leaving.
The staff members had been hardworking and dependable, but because of Mr. Agnes, a man given the job without proper training, the place plummeted, leaving Roger with all the responsibility.
One thing that drove Roger insane was when positions were gifted to people with little experience.
He grew up working for every penny to help provide for his family, and he believed promotions were to be earned, not handed out.
One by one, each office employee left, finding better jobs elsewhere. Soon, only Roger and the secretary, Mr. Gregson, remained. Then, when the work became more difficult, Gregson left without notice. Roger had been on his own for nearly a week, and his stress was rising.
But he enjoyed that feeling.
If a job gave him stress, he delighted in it.
The more stressed and busier he was, the less time he had to focus on the past.
If Roger’s past could be summarized in one phrase, it’d be regret—a long list of it. One would start with his brother, Ian. Instead of keeping him in his care, Roger had left him to enlist in the war.
“Why must you go?” Ian asked.
“Because it is my duty as an American citizen.”
Ian rose from his seat, standing strong like a soldier—his shoulders back and his chest out. He was a lanky boy of eighteen, but at that moment, he looked like a man. “Then I’m coming with you.”
“No,” Roger protested.
Ian groaned aloud. “Why not?”
“You must finish your education. Mother wanted that for you.”
Ian’s brows furrowed, forming a sharp line above his narrowed eyes. “You haven’t finished yours either. You want to be a professor, right? Why don’t you stay behind? I’ve hardly started. Who knows? I might not want an education.”
Roger’s blood boiled. “No, you will stay here and finish! I didn’t work my tail off for five years and save every penny for you to give up.”
Ian’s eyes bore into his. “Fine, but when the time comes, and our country needs more than just you, I’m going, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”
And he went.
Roger wasn’t there to stop him from enlisting.
A fool he was to leave a boy who was prone to act rashly alone.
Roger was less concerned about the money he had saved.
In the days following Roger’s university acceptance, he secured multiple scholarships—scholarships that Ian had been unable to earn.
Without hesitation, Roger set aside his own life savings to ensure his brother could attend school as well.
But money wasn’t enough to keep Ian out of the war.
Without Roger's presence, no one was there to guide Ian or hold him accountable. Roger could have become the poet he always dreamed of and stayed home, keeping Ian in line. But he didn’t.
He was consumed by thoughts of himself and how others would perceive him if he chose to stay home to finish his education and care for his brother rather than enlist to fight for his country.
Roger suppressed the memories and focused on the road.
His apartment was not far ahead. He longed for a drink and to relax in the quiet.
These days followed the regular routine of resting on his sofa and closing his eyes, waiting for his inspiration to return.
It had been three years, and Roger had yet to uncover his lost spirit, the one that made him who he was.
Poems were a way of expressing himself, and these long years had been nothing but darkness and a foggy, blank page.
He longed for that peace again.
Roger parked his vehicle and went inside his apartment building.
He climbed two flights of stairs and unlocked his door, immediately darting toward the kitchen cupboard.
Before him sat a bottle of whiskey. He sighed, taking the bottle into his hand.
Heaven it was. Prohibition had taken a toll on Richmond, but with the help of acquaintances, he was able to buy a bottle every now and then.
He had a long and stressful day, and a sip of this drink would soothe his nerves.
Not only did it soothe him, but it also gave him the numbness he craved.
Drunk. Those were the best moments Roger had in years. No pain. No regrets. Just relaxation. He’d drown himself out of the awful reality and into a world where he could be at ease.
Roger sat on his sofa with his glass in hand.
His tight muscles relaxed, and he propped his feet on the ottoman in front of him.
He closed his eyes and exhaled. No worries, no problems. He didn’t know how long his eyes were closed, but he opened them after hearing the front door close.
He looked down at his watch. It was six in the evening, the time his friend and roommate, Graydon Marshall, came home from work.
He entered, removing his brown jacket, now stained with oil and grease from the mechanic shop.
“That hard of a day, huh?”
Roger raised his half-empty glass. “You can say so.”
Between reorganizing the office without the secretary and running into Mr. Collin Nicholson, Roger thought his day couldn’t get any worse, but it had, thanks to Mr. Nicholson’s spoiled and snarky daughter.
Roger’s grip tightened around his glass.
Roger’s grip tightened around his glass.
What right did that young woman have to interfere in his affairs?
He was trying his best to keep the company afloat as one man, and this woman had shown up acting as though she ran the place.
It seemed all women were like her, wanting to be a man’s equal.
But she wasn’t. Even if Congress passed the law for women to vote, they weren’t equals, and Roger didn’t work his tail off to share his position with a woman of no experience. He’d rather have no secretary than this woman acting as one.
“Did any more of the staff quit?”
Roger chuckled. “If you are referring to me, then you are wrong.”
Graydon plopped beside him. “Anything out of the ordinary?”
“New hire.”
“Oh? That should lift some weights off your shoulders.”
Roger’s knuckles tensed as his fingers curled into a fist. “The new boss has no idea what he’s doing, just like Sidney. Can you believe it? He gave the secretarial job to his brat of a daughter. She knows nothing about the business, and now there’s more responsibility on my end.”
Graydon’s lips curled into a smile. “A woman? Since when do you have problems with women?”
“I don’t,” Roger denied. “Just any person who takes a position because they have the power to do so. I’d rather work alone than with anyone like that.
It makes me angry. We should earn rewards when we are ready.
Remember when we worked at Tibet’s Manor?
We worked for the lowest pay at Mr. Nicholson’s daughter’s age and rarely received a promotion.
At the loan office, I never received an extra penny—only cuts from Sidney. ”
Roger knew Graydon would understand him more than anyone. Their mothers were kitchen maids, working for a wealthy family called the Tibets in Williamsburg. When he and Graydon were old enough, they were hired as kitchen boys. Then, when they turned twelve, they became landscapers.
“Why do you work there then? There are other jobs available, and with your talents and degree, you could go anywhere. You don’t have to be an accountant.”
Roger lifted his glass to his lips and groaned. “You know why.”
The loan office had always been busy, giving Roger nearly fifty hours a week.
When the staff began to resign, it gave him nearly sixty.
He was there almost every day from sunup till sundown.
Those days eliminated his sleep cycle and distracted him from his troubles.
The more stress he had with work, the less time he had to think about his personal life.
“Is the new secretary pretty?”
“Too pretty for her own good,” Roger admitted, taking the last sip of his whiskey.
Mr. Nicholson’s daughter had a lovely, fair complexion, hazel eyes that sharpened when she was angry, and lips with a delicate, natural curve.
Her bottom lip bore the faint indentation of a sore, a mark left behind after he had shouted at her.
But it didn’t change the fact that she would only cause trouble and ruin Roger’s system and routine.
“I don’t see the problem. I’d give anything to see a pretty face nine hours a day.”
Roger raised a brow. “And work alongside her with her always in your way? Would that bother you?”
“Fair point,” Graydon remarked. “But I’d still give her a chance. You never know—she might prove you wrong tomorrow.”
Roger chuckled. “I’d like to see that.”
Graydon rose from the sofa. “I’d like to sit and talk, especially about beautiful women, but I got a race tonight. Wanna be my passenger buddy?”
Roger had seen his fair share of races and rode alongside Graydon many times.
The man was a daredevil, and Roger admired that side of his friend.
Before the war, Graydon had been going to school at William and Mary to be an engineer.
However, he spent his days goofing off, and it was Roger who had held him accountable.
But Graydon chose his own path. He dropped out of school to race, joined the war effort, then became a mechanic.
Roger shook his head. “Tempting, but I’ll sit this one out. Good luck, Gray.”
Graydon grabbed his coat and flat cap. “I’ll see you later tonight.”
At last, the room was quiet again. Roger poured himself another glass in the kitchen.
He stared at the blank, cream wall. It held no pictures, just dullness, the same thing Roger felt.
He proceeded through the hallway and entered his bedroom.
His desk sat before him, as though it was calling him.
Roger sighed. It seemed as if each day were the same.
He would go to work, come home, drink, and then write. Or at least what he could.
Roger picked up his notebook—which was lying in the sea of balled-up paper—and opened to the first page.
He read his older poetry, trying to regain his old self.
But as always, he felt nothing, and it wasn’t just about his poetry.
He couldn’t find beauty or admiration in anything.
That part of his soul was gone, replaced by darkness.
Roger read the written poem before him.
The seasons shift, as a quiet tune,
Spring mornings fade to summer’s noon.
The hills turn gold as autumn sighs,
Then winter sleeps beneath gray skies.
Leaves tumble down, the winds grow cold,
Each change a story, softly told.
Through every turn, the mountains stay,
Watching time drift day by day.
Roger closed the book and threw it across the room, papers dropping like ice from a hailstorm.
He stood, kicking the chair forward. Roger placed both hands behind his head, his gaze drifting to the bookshelf.
It was crammed with volumes by authors and poets—George Eliot, Charles Dickens, T.S.
Eliot, Shakespeare, Homer, and Lord Byron.
Roger blew out a breath and picked up his copy of Far from the Madding Crowd by Thomas Hardy.
He recalled the day he first bought the book and the way it sparked an obsession with Hardy’s works. Opening the cover, he gently traced the lines of the author’s signature. Never stop writing. Yours Truly, Thomas Hardy. Roger closed the book and put it away.
Those words no longer had power over him. It contained no magic, no inner passageway to his soul. Roger couldn’t feel anything anymore. He was a broken man with a dark soul. There was no coming back. He was trapped behind the closed doors of despair.
No light. No hope. Only darkness.