no more rage (and the answer's got to be love),an Office fanfic
for my dearest D.V.,
thank God for you
it's nice to know we'd give each other
a ride home after the Dundies
(provided we had driver's licenses)
Thanksgiving '12.
I.
She's got a pious name but she's far from sainthood. That's where all her troubles originate. If only language was a magic wand, transforming her into what she's named after. Much to everyone's chagrin, she's as human as it gets. And alas, words are no good to her, so she prefers silence.
II.
you of little faith, why are you so afraid?
Matthew 8: 26
well, i was born in an abundance of inherited sadness
whiskeytown, "jacksonville skyline"
She storms out of the gym leaving a speechless Oscar behind, hails a cab and goes straight home, not even bothering to let her boss know. Another thing she doesn't bother with is crying over spilt milk. What's done is done and you just have to face it with dignity, her mother would say. She also said: Always ask yourself, 'What would Jesus do?' And: When you find yourself in times of trouble, remember Jesus is your most faithful friend and will always remain by your side. As a child she'd glance up and down, right and left, wanting to invite Him to one of her tea-parties, yet it was useless: He seemed to be invisible. When she asked her mother whether He was like imaginary friends, Mrs. Martin had been very mad and had told her not to blame God for the fault in her own gaze.
Now she's looking for Him again. She's got some questions, such as why on earth her every attempt at a normal life ends up falling to crap. Not that 'fall to crap' is the kind of language she would use. But last Friday, after waiting for hours for Robert to come home, she swept the perfectly-set table clean, she shoved the home-made delicious three-course meal into the garbage can, and she allowed herself some moderate cursing. Goddamn men who don't care about their wives' feelings. Sorry, God, for taking your name in vain, but this is fucking exhausting.
She startles when she notices the car's stopped. She pays the cab driver and walks in. A few cats welcome her, raising their heads and whipping their tails about lazily. She dismisses the nanny with a tired nod, takes off her shoes, lies back on the couch with her eyes closed, and absent-mindedly scratches Ember's belly. She thinks about the things she should do and the things she's capable of right now. Forgiving and forgetting, for example, don't seem quite likely. It suddenly occurs to her that she will probably need to get a divorce, and she realizes, with a kind of detached curiosity, that she doesn't mind losing Robert as much as she minds the scandal, the shame of yet another failure. After a while she goes upstairs and slips quietly into Philip's room. There he is, asleep in his crib. Phil. Her son. The only man who has never ever hurt her. The only man she could never leave.
Suddenly, as if knowing he's being watched, the baby wakes. He opens wide his big brown-green eyes, then narrows them, frowns and raises a clenched fist up in the air. He doesn't cry, he just looks at her and wiggles his feet when she tickles him on the side. He's the quietest baby in the world. She involuntarily smiles. This child is hers, without a doubt. This child is as hers as her own blood and heartbeat, and she shall not let anything or anyone take him away from her.
Angela hasn't cried in front of anyone since the age of 10. This is when her father got sick and Mum said from then on all kinds of noise were absolutely forbidden, lest he should be in any way disturbed. Her sister's piano lessons were withdrawn forever, and she learned to walk on tiptoes, to be a good girl and help Mum, to take care of living things, to never ever make a fuss even if she scraped her knees and it hurt superbad.
But now she is crying, although the reason is unclear. Perhaps because she knows if she does what is to be done, she'll be alone again. Perhaps because she's tired of being tired. Perhaps because the prospect of losing her job now becomes terrifying. Whose salary will feed her son then? It's not like she can turn to her sister for help. She holds onto the baby's tiny fingers and wonders aloud, "What are we going to do, sweetie? What shall we do?" Outside, the sun dissolves into twilight.
And suddenly, she needs to get out of this house. She makes a quick phone call, gets her son dressed and takes another cab after remembering she's left her car at the office.
Ten minutes later, she's standing in the small, flower-covered front yard of a pretty small house on Linden Avenue. She rings the bell.
"Hey, Angela and Philip, come in", Pam says. She's wearing jeans, penny loafers and a blue off-the-shoulder shirt. Her hair is done in a chignon and she has on the old-fashioned pink-rimmed glasses she'd once brought to the office.
As soon as she's stepped into the lobby she's shaking her head with disapproval. Hanging on the wall is the tackiest painting she has ever seen, picturing a scary colorful clown playing the violin. Pam turns on her heels, catches her frowning upon it and smiles knowingly.
"Jim and I have been trying to remove that awful thing since we bought the house, but it's impossible. It's like it's built into the wall or something."
Angela hears light footsteps and notices Cecelia is unsteadily walking toward them, her hair a mess of golden curls and a bright smile on her face. Before she can stop herself, she says, "I think it's way past bedtime, don't you Pam?" Immediately she regrets judging this woman in her own house, but Pam doesn't seem offended, as if she expected this sort of comment from her. She holds her hands out to her daughter and walks her upstairs to the bedroom.
"Please have a seat", she says over her shoulder, pointing to the couch in the living room. "I'll put this little creature to sleep so we can talk".
"Mommy what's a creature?", Cecelia asks as she is led away. Angela smiles.
When Pam comes back, she goes to the kitchen first. "Would you like some coffee? Or tea?"
"Tea would be nice, thanks".
"Is everything alright?" Pam suddenly asks, concern filling her voice. "I mean, your call was so unexpected."
"I'm alright", she replies proudly. "We're alright", she repeats, holding tightly onto her baby's chubby arms. "But something's happened and I didn't know who to talk to. If you want me to leave-"
"I don't!", Pam protests. "You're welcome here. It's just strange. I always got the feeling you didn't like me."
Angela doesn't attempt to deny this, although she does feel somewhat guilty. "Your house is very nice", she comments. "Except for the clown painting."
Pam laughs and starts humming a tune while she waits for the water to boil. Jim comes down the stairs, still wearing his work clothes. Apparently unaware of her presence, he walks over to the kitchen and pours himself some water. Then he starts planting impromptu butterfly kisses on his wife's cheeks and neck. Angela averts her eyes awkwardly, frowning again at this thoughtless PDA. After a moment, she hears Pam giggling and smacking her husband's hands away. Jim comes into the living room, hands in his pockets.
"Oh, hi Angela, I didn't see you there."
"I noticed", she replies, glaring at him. Briefly he blushes, embarrassed, and turns to his wife for support, but she just laughs, turning back to the tea-making. Angela can never understand what's supposed to be so funny about him.
"Look who's here!", Jim is saying enthusiastically. "Little Phil!" Angela almost grins, kissing her baby's head.
"Can I hold him?", he asks.
She eyes him warily. With great reluctance she places her son in his arms. "Just don't drop him", she commands.
Jim chuckles. "It's okay, Angela, got two of my own, I know the gist. Is it okay if I take him upstairs and he plays with our Philip for a while?"
"Actually that's a great idea, babe", Pam intervenes. "She seems a bit tired. What d'you think, Angela?"
She picks at her fingers nervously. Leaving her son with someone else always makes her uneasy. "Fine", she agrees finally. "As long as you don't get them mixed up or something."
Jim pulls one of those faces he always does for Pam or the cameras, and begins to say, "I think I can tell my own son from another baby-" but his wife cuts him off with a warning look, and sends him upstairs. She then proceeds to pour the tea, and makes her way over to the sofa.
"Here you are", she says, handing Angela a cup. "Be careful, it's boiling hot".
"Thank you." Angela waits for the liquid to cool off, and notices the other woman's glasses have become slightly fogged with the steam from the tea.
"So, what did you want to talk about?"
Angela sighs. "It's about the Senator."
Pam nods and sips from her cup. Angela's simultaneously relieved and annoyed that Pam seems to know exactly what she's talking about even if she hasn't revealed anything yet. She wonders whether the story of her marital disaster has already reached her workmate's ears. At this thought she feels a headache creeping in, closes her eyes, and brings a hand to her forehead for a second.
"Now are you sure you want to tell me this? I can't promise to keep things from my husband. I'm terrible at keeping secrets, but surely there's someone you can trust?", Pam asks. Angela's silent gaze is eloquent enough.
"I had a friend once", she says then. "He called me Monkey. He was sweet and smart and capable, and he risked his job for me. But then bad things happened and we went separate ways, which I regret. Anyway that was a long time ago and now", for a second she falters, "now I don't know who to turn to".
Pam places a tentative hand on her arm. "Well you can trust me", she says kindly, shrugging and tilting her head to the side, which –as her husband would point out- means she's being earnest. "If you feel like you're ready, I can be a friend."She waits for an answer. "Jim and Cece and Phil would also be glad to be friends of yours and your son's", she adds.
Angela will probably forget this soon, but now she suddenly sees what it is people like about this woman, why someone like Jim would wait four years to marry her. It's that warmth she radiates, that infectious hope Angela's lived most of her life without and only now realizes she's missed. Strangely moved as she is, she will not cry. Instead, she squares her shoulders, holds her head high in overt defiance of a life of loneliness, and says "Thank you, that would be nice."
III.
Her father was less talkative, so he seemed to say only true things.
God can be anyone anywhere, kiddo, he said. He's like Secret Santa. He's a friend whose face you don't know 'till He offers you a helping hand.
It is only now that she understands how right he was.