What Is Not Yours Is Not Yours(66)

Suspect me if that’s what you want to do.

What’s the point of me saying any more than I’ve said . . . is it eloquence that makes you people believe things?

You are all morons.

These are the declarations your grandmother makes, and then you and your siblings all say: “No, no, Grandma, what are you talking about, what do you mean, where did you get this idea?” without daring to so much as glance at each other.

—

YOU WERE IN NURSERY school when your grandmother unexpectedly singled you out from your siblings and declared you her protégée. At first all that seemed to mean was that she paid for your education. That was good news for your parents, and for your siblings too, since there was more to go around. And your gratitude is real but so is your eternal obligation. Having paid for most of what’s gone into your head during your formative years there’s a sense in which Grandma now owns you. She phones you when entertainment is required and you have to put on formal wear, take your fiddle over to her house, and play peasant dances for her and her chess club friends. When you displease her she takes it out on your mother, and the assumption within the family is that if at any point it becomes impossible for Grandma to live on her own you’ll be her live-in companion. (Was your education really that great?) So when you think of her you think that you might as well do what you can while you can still do it.

—

EVA’S POPULARITY grows even as her speech becomes ever more monosyllabic. Susie, normally so focused on her work, spends a lot of time trying to get Eva to talk. Kathleen takes up shopping during her lunch break; she tries to keep her purchases concealed but occasionally you glimpse what she’s stashing away in her locker—expensive-looking replicas of Eva’s charity-shop chic. The interested singletons give Eva unprompted information about their private lives to see what she does with it but she just chuckles and doesn’t reciprocate. You want to ask her if she’s sure she isn’t a loner but you haven’t spoken to her since she rejected your advice. Then Eva’s office fortunes change. On a Monday morning Susie runs in breathless from having taken the stairs and says: “Eva, there’s someone here to see you! She’s coming up in the lift and she’s . . . crying?”

Another instance in which glass lift doors would be beneficial. Not to Eva, who already seems to know who the visitor is and looks around for somewhere to hide, but glass doors would have come in handy for everybody else in the office, since nobody knows what to do or say or think when the lift doors open to reveal a woman in tears and a boy of about five or so, not yet in tears but rapidly approaching them—there’s that lip wobble, oh no. The woman looks quite a lot like Eva might look in a decade’s time, maybe a decade and a half. As soon as this woman sees Eva she starts saying things like, Please, please, I’m not even angry, I’m just saying please leave my husband alone, we’re a family, can’t you see?

Eva backs away, knocking her handbag off her desk as she does so. Various items spill out but she doesn’t have time to gather them up—the woman and child advance until they have her pinned up against the stationery cupboard door. The woman falls to her knees and the boy stands beside her, his face scrunched up; he’s crying so hard he can’t see. “You could so easily find someone else but I can’t, not now . . . do you think this won’t happen to you too one day? Please just stop seeing him, let him go . . .”

Eva waves her hands and speaks, but whatever excuse or explanation she’s trying to make can’t be heard above the begging. You say that someone should call security and people say they agree but nobody does anything. You’re seeing a lot of folded arms and pursed lips. Kathleen mutters something about “letting the woman have her say.” You call security yourself and the woman and child are led away. You pick Eva’s things up from the floor and throw them into her bag. One item is notable: a leatherbound diary with a brass lock on it. A quiet woman with a locked book. Eva’s beginning to intrigue you. She returns to her desk and continues working. Everybody else returns to their desks to send each other e-mails about Eva . . . at least that’s what you presume is happening. You’re not copied into any of those e-mails but everybody except you and Eva seems to be receiving a higher volume of messages than normal. You look at Eva from time to time and the whites of her eyes have turned pink but she doesn’t look back at you or stop working. Fax, fax, photocopy. She answers a few phone calls and her tone is on the pleasant side of professional.

—

AN ANTI-EVA movement emerges. Its members are no longer fooled by her glamour; Eva’s a personification of all that’s put on earth solely to break bonds, scrap commitments, prevent the course of true love from running smooth. You wouldn’t call yourself Pro-Eva, but bringing a small and distressed child to the office to confront your husband’s mistress does strike you as more than a little manipulative. Maybe you’re the only person who thinks so: That side of things certainly isn’t discussed. Kathleen quickly distances herself from her attempts to imitate Eva. Those who still feel drawn to Eva become indignant when faced with her continued disinterest in making friends. Who does she think she is? Can’t she see how nice they are?

“Yes, she should be grateful that people are still asking her out,” you say, and most of the people you say this to nod, pleased that you get where they’re coming from, though Susie, Paul, and a couple of the others eye you suspiciously. Susie takes to standing behind you while you’re working sometimes, and given your clandestine meddling this watchful presence puts you on edge. It’s best not to mess with Susie.