18 ACCOUNTING
Christian yawned as he left the house that
morning and walked to the bus stop to catch a ride into London for work. He
could not have slept for more than an hour. He would have to take a nap after
supper each evening if he wanted to spend every night in the park with Conrad
and Minerva yet be awake enough each day for work.
He fell asleep again on the bus ride, with
his mouth open and his forehead pressed against the windowpane, but he jerked
upright when someone put a hand on his shoulder and shook him.
“Christian. We’re here, honey.”
It was Liza Smithson, and he was not happy
to see her. He straightened his glasses and mumbled his thanks. She was
considerably more awake than he, but her eyes were bright as though she’d spent
the morning crying and she looked as haggard as he felt. Her feet were squeezed
into red heels almost a size too small, her suit wrinkled. Christian could not
help feeling she would look a lot happier if she knew where Conrad was. The
knowledge made him look away from her guiltily.
She gazed at him for a moment, then patted
his shoulder and said, “Come on, Christian. I know it’s not exciting, but we’re
here. Just got to make it through the day.”
He followed her off the bus, determined to
avoid her for as much of the day as he could.
For the duration of their time at the
firm, he was successful. He spent the day seeking out his other coworkers for
the first time in company memory: requesting financial statement forms from
this one, computer help from that one, and even attempting to make small-talk
with a third. Managers who applauded his collaboration in the morning were
dodging him by lunchtime, exhausted by his endless questions. The secretary in
the outer office refused him access to the photocopier when he returned yet
again with the intent to print fifty copies of a useless memorandum. The
accounting department buzzed with whispers as his fellow accountants speculated
about his change of behavior, but he didn’t notice.
He was so intent on avoiding Liza that he
stumbled into a cubicle on his way back from the washroom as she rounded a
corner, her eyes red-rimmed and her face drawn.
“Hello,” said the petite ginger working in
the cubicle. “Can I help you?”
Her eyebrows were raised in confusion at
his unexpected appearance, but her tone was utterly polite. Christian blushed
and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. In his panic at the sight of
Liza, it had not occurred to him his hiding place was someone’s office.
“I’m a little lost,” he said. “That’s
all.”
She smiled. “Are you new here, then?”
“No,” he said. “I’m an accountant.”
Then he realized that was no excuse at all
for being lost and blushed again. But the woman nodded and said, “That explains
why I haven’t seen you before. This is marketing.”
She held out a hand. “Sarah Julian.”
“Christian Abernathy,” he replied, but his
eyes were fixed on the corridor, watching Liza disappear around the next
corner.
Sarah folded her hands in front of her and
asked, “How long have you worked here, then?”
“Twelve years,” Christian said. “Thank you
for letting me hide—I mean, it was lovely meeting you.”
“You as well,” Sarah said as he darted
from her cubicle, and then she called after him, “Can you find your way back to
accounting?”
“I’ll manage,” he said, and he fled down the hall, ignoring the stares
of the marketing department.
19 THE BALLOON-ARTIST’S WIFE
He left the office at five and hurried
toward the bus stop, feeling relieved until he heard the clacking of high-heels
behind him. He turned with no small amount of dread as Liza Smithson caught up
to him, puffing slightly.
“Damn these heels—”
Unlike her husband, she looked her age.
Her face was often lined with exhaustion, and her hair, cropped close to her
skull, was peppered with grey. She was a large woman, though her body curved
like an hourglass, and the suit she wore stretched across her hips and bosom in
a way that looked terribly uncomfortable. Christian felt bad, for he liked her
and she looked more tired and miserable than he had ever seen her—and it was
his fault. If only he could tell her where her husband was.
No, he thought: she would never believe
him, even if he dared tell her. And he didn’t dare. But perhaps—perhaps he
could somehow let her know Conrad was alright, that he had not been home
because he was injured, not out of infidelity or some such horrid thing—
“Haven’t seen you around much today,” Liza
said.
“Been busy,” Christian replied. “I had a
lot of—a lot of copies to make.”
“So I heard,” Liza said. He blushed.
“So,” he said, but when he cast about for
a different topic he discovered he had none. If only the bus would arrive. “So,
you’re heading home?”
She shook her head. “Thought I’d treat
myself to dinner at the Aquarium. Since my husband sees fit not to come home
for it.”
“My husband” sounded brittle on her lips,
as if the phrase would shatter like glass if she said it too certainly.
Christian cleared his throat several times and polished his glasses on his suit
jacket.
“You got something in your throat?” Liza
asked.
“No,” Christian said. Something to put her
mind at ease, the balloon-artist had said. Something to put her mind at ease.
“Er—Liza, wherever Conrad is, I’m sure he’s—he’s alright, and he’ll be home
just as soon as he—”
“You’re sweet, honey, but if he hasn’t
even told you where he is then I don’t think that’s the case.”
“But—” Christian began, and then he fell
silent again.
Her nostrils flared as she looked up the
street for the bus. At last she said, almost to herself, “It’s got something to
do with where he’s been disappearing to every night, I suppose.”
Christian opened his mouth, changed his
mind, and closed his mouth again. Liza saw him and said, “I notice when he’s
not there, Christian. When I wake up in the middle of the night and he’s gone.”
“I’m sorry,” Christian said.
She shrugged. “You haven’t got anything to
be sorry for. If I was younger maybe I could think it was some secret
balloon-artist thing—I don’t know—something magical and beautiful—but it’s not.
It’s something else.”
But it was
something magical and beautiful, Christian wanted to tell her. Magical and
beautiful—except for the fact Conrad was injured.
She smiled thinly and said, “You know, I’m
actually not that hungry. Guess I’ll go home and wait for him to turn up. If he
turns up.”
When their bus came a few minutes later, she boarded it ahead of him
without a backwards glance.
20 THE SUBSTITUTE
Across the street from the Book House, the
closed-up balloon-cart was bundled in a forlorn white mass against the wall of
the park. Christian ate supper on his front stoop, gazing at it. He would have
to try to take better care of Liza until Conrad was well enough to go home,
although that might prove difficult; but for now he could at least make sure
the cart ran more or less like normal.
It was almost seven, but the solstice was
only a few days past; the sun still sent slanting rays across the houses along
the street. A toddler burst into tears as his mother dragged him past the
closed balloon-cart.
Christian washed up and then returned to
the stoop. He stared at the balloon-cart for a moment, scratching the back of
his neck. Then he crossed the street.
He dragged the cart away from the wall and
positioned it in its usual spot, ignoring the stares of passersby. The tarp
crackled in protest as he yanked it back and folded it into a lumpy pile.
“Where’s your friend?” a man’s voice
asked, and Christian jumped at the sound, hitting his head on the cart’s visor.
A gentleman in slacks and a suit coat stood watching him with interest. White
hair sprinkled his dark pate like a dusting of snow.
“You’re friends with the balloon-man, aren’t
you?” the old gentleman asked. “I mean to say, it’s not your balloon-cart.”
“No,” Christian said. “No,
he’s—indisposed. I would’ve been here earlier, but I work during the day.”
The man nodded. “Quite understandable.
Well, carry on, young man. The children have been so disappointed.”
Christian mumbled a goodbye and turned
back to the balloon-cart as the gentleman walked off down the street. A small
crowd had gathered; most of them knew him by sight but had never spoken to him
and now watched him with interest. He ignored them as best he could, though his
ears and neck burned with embarrassment. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of
his nose, opened a drawer of blue balloons, and began practicing butterflies.
He had finally succeeded in making one
when he felt a tug on his sleeve. A little girl stood there, gazing up at him.
“Please, sir,” she said, “can I have a
ladybird?”
He nodded and pulled out a red balloon.
She reached for it the moment it was done, but he said, “Don’t you want any
spots on it?”
“Not all ladybirds have spots,” she said,
and a smile curled across his face despite himself.
“I know,” he said.
When the girl had run off with her
ladybird, other children made their way forward, clamoring for their own
balloon-animals. Christian made butterflies and ladybirds, poodles and turtles
and snakes and many other animals he had never made but watched Conrad make
hundreds of times. They were clumsy and misshapen, and most of them took more
than one balloon before they turned out right, but the children didn’t care. So
Christian stayed at the balloon-cart until the stars appeared and the iron gate
of Celadon Park clanged shut.
Then, after making sure the street was empty of
people, he unlocked the gate and crept into the park to see Conrad and Minerva.
It's an older series, so you may not like me doing this, so...)
I'm hoping Conrad heals already and gets home to her and he better tell her the truth.
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