At the Center. Dorothy Van Soest

“Hey, Numees. Can’t sleep, huh?”

      “I had a drinking dream.”

      “Did you wake up before or after you got wasted?”

      “I passed out.”

      “Okay...so?”

      “I want a glass of wine in the worst way.”

      “Lie number one.”

      “Okay, okay. I want a whole bottle of wine.”

      “Better get it out, Numees. Nothing you say can shock me, girl.”

      I wasn’t sure about that. Hehewuti might be plenty shocked if she knew I was a white woman from the Midwest and not an Ojibwe from Canada. I justified my lie by telling myself it was okay to identify myself as an Ojibwe from Canada as long as I sincerely felt like an Ojibwe from Canada when I was in the chat room and as long as I was scrupulously honest with Hehewuti about what I was feeling about drinking.

      “I know the dream was a warning,” I said. “I want to escape into a state of complete and total oblivion where there are no demands, no guilt, no consciousness, no conscience...no nothing.”

      “Why?”

      “Something terrible happened,” I said. “And this guy’s breathing down my neck to get me to do something about it. But I don’t know what to do. I have this need to show that I care, and I really do care, but I don’t know why I feel so desperate to prove it to this guy, or to anyone for that matter.”

      “What happened?”

      “That’s the problem. I don’t know. I don’t know what the truth is.” I knew I was being vague, but if I told Hehewuti the details and then later she heard about Anthony Little Eagle on the news, she might put two and two together and realize I lived in Monrow City. I couldn’t risk her finding out that I’d lied to her.

      “What are you most afraid of, Numees?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “Stop and think.”

      “I guess I’m scared that I’ll find out what’s going on,” I said, “but no one will believe me.”

      “And then what?”

      “I could lose my job.”

      “And then what?”

      “I wouldn’t be any good to anyone anymore.”

      “And then what?”

      “I don’t want to do this. I want a drink.”

      “Walk it through, Numees. If the worst thing that could happen happened and you got fired, then what?”

      “It’s not,” I typed.

      “What?”

      “Losing my job isn’t the worst thing that could happen.”

      “What would be?”

      “Losing myself.”

      “Which is what happens when you get drunk, right?”

      “How do you do that?” I typed.

      “What are you going to do now?”

      “The next right thing. Whatever I have to do.”

      “What’s that?”

      “I don’t know yet.”

      “What about that drink?”

      “I don’t need it anymore.”

      I thanked Hehewuti and signed out of the chat room. I went back to bed, and although my compulsion to drink had been lifted, I still expected to lie awake trying to figure out what to do next. But as soon as I rolled onto my side and covered my head with a pillow I drifted off to sleep.

      —

      At seven o’clock my alarm rang and I jumped out of bed. I knew what to do, as if the next right thing had seeped into my unconscious as I slept and popped out as soon as I opened my eyes. I also knew that what I was about to do could alter my life forever. I splashed cold water on my face, brushed my teeth, and combed my hair back into a ponytail. I grabbed my yellow peasant blouse from the closet but then realized it would be too bright and threw it onto my unmade bed. I pulled out my navy blue blouse and a pair of dark blue slacks. Perfect.

      Outside, the air was muggy and still, the sky filled with the threat of thunderstorms on the horizon, as I started walking north along Center Avenue. I usually drove to work, but the forty-five-minute walk gave me time to work out the final details of my plan. I carefully weighed and compared the risks of one action over another, and each time I chose what I considered to be the better alternative I experienced a surge of relief. I’d never been able to understand people who couldn’t make the smallest decision because they couldn’t bear to eliminate other options. For me there was nothing worse than the ambivalence of indecision.

      When I got to my office I told Mabel that I had a lot of paperwork to do and asked her to hold my calls. Then I closed the door and reviewed my plan for getting my hands on the Mellon case record. I tried to prepare for every contingency. The possibility that there might be some things that couldn’t be definitively figured out in advance made my mouth go dry. I knew myself well, both the searing anxiety I experienced up until a decision was made, and then, once made, how I pursued it like a dog chewing on a bone. Better be careful, I warned myself. If something goes wrong today, you’ll have to be flexible. Be ready to switch to a different strategy, maybe one you’d already discarded. At any point.

      My anxiety grew as the day wore on. One minute I was sure I’d covered all the bases and that I would emerge triumphant. The next minute I imagined all kinds of unknowns and missteps that would guarantee my downfall. By five o’clock my surroundings had become distorted, as if everything I saw was corrupted by what I was about to do. By five thirty the only thing I was aware of was my breathing, the movements of my body, the butterflies under my ribs.

      When I was sure everyone else had left for the day I opened my office door. Then I sat down at my desk and shuffled some files, doodled on a pad of paper, pinched my arm, blew my nose. But no matter what I did I couldn’t chase away the hovering sense that a devious creature had taken up residence inside me and was about to devour me.

      “Working late, huh?” Craig, the night janitor, poked his head in the door.

      I jumped.

      “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to freak you out.”

      I glanced at my watch and saw that it was five forty-five. “I didn’t expect you yet is all,” I said. “You’re early tonight.”

      “It’s Friday,” he said, with a shy smile at odds with his handsome, frat-boy appearance.

      “Ah, yes, party night.” I was relieved to hear how normal my voice sounded.

      Craig vacuumed the carpet around my desk with the efficiency of a boy eager to finish his work so he could start the weekend partying with his college buddies. I kicked myself for miscalculating the time of his arrival. It wasn’t a fatal error but it wasn’t an auspicious way to set my plan in motion either. I couldn’t afford any other missteps.

      I hoped I was right about Craig. My plan depended on him having no loyalty to his part-time job or to the agency. It also depended on him being as innocent and naive as he looked, with his baby-pink cheeks, butch haircut, floppy T-shirt and jeans.

      “That’s it, then,” he said. He emptied the contents of my garbage can into a large bin and started to wheel it toward the door.

      “Have a good one,” I said. I paused, and when he was just about out the door, made my first move.