Rebecca
glanced from her delivery schedule book to her watch; two hours
until five o'clock. Two hours too many, in her
opinion.
She
flicked her gaze towards Mr. Tannenbaum, who sat, ramrod-straight, on
the crate across the desk from her. His expression was unreadable as
he studied her ledger.
Maybe
it was time for the full moon. Maybe the shipping gods were against
her. Maybe it was simply due to the fact that Mr. Tannenbaum, his
probing, personal questions, and his constant presence were getting
on her nerves.
Whatever
the reason, she wanted to scream in frustration.
It
had started off as a perfectly normal Wednesday. Following a
wonderfully restful night - thanks to Kit’s earmuffs - she got up,
made breakfast, and chauffeured the kids to school. Then she, Baloo,
and Mr. Tannenbaum headed to Higher for Hire. Baloo, elated that he
was going to be flying solo, took off with the Peachy Keen Nectarine
shipment. After he left, Rebecca settled down at her desk to do
paperwork with Mr. Tannenbaum taking his usual seat on the crate.
At
approximately ten o’clock, the trouble started.
The
Fair Weather Vane Company called to cancel their shipment, because
their factory had been blown away by a tornado. One thousand dollars
gone with the wind.
Just
as soon as she had gotten off the telephone, the manager of the Sox
called. If Higher for Hire could deliver their Catchall Baseball
Mitts in time for the next day’s game, they would pay double what
they had originally agreed upon. To accommodate this grand-slam
proposal, Rebecca had to change the shipping lineup.
She
had spent the rest of the morning asking, cajoling, and finally,
begging the Crackly Grain Flakes, Mango Wango, Sleep-Eazee Pillow and
Finagle’s Bagels Companies to postpone their shipments until a
later date.
Of
course, that didn’t fly, so she had ended up radioing Baloo to
inform him about the change of plans. The pilot had grumbled and
growled about the extra workload, but after she cryptically reminded
him about the contest, he had grudgingly agreed.
Rebecca
knew that everything she had done had been duly recorded on Mr.
Tannenbaum’s clipboard.
That
disheartening thought plagued her as she stared at her delivery
scheduling book, hoping against hope that Mr. Tannenbaum would leave
her alone for a while. She desperately needed to gather her
thoughts. In fact, she was still recovering from a shocking comment
that he had made earlier.
Between
phone calls, he had said, “You and your family seem to get along so
well. How do you manage it?”
Rebecca,
whose mind was more on business than on family at the moment,
murmured, “We’re just lucky, I guess.” She thought, If I
push the Mango Wango shipment up to 1:00, and if Baloo flies really
fast, I can squeeze in the Catchall shipment at...
“Uh-huh,”
Mr. Tannenbaum had murmured, scribbling. “Not only that, but you
seem to work very well together.”
“Most
of the time we do.” But if I push the mango shipment up,
Crackly Grain Flakes will fall through the cracks, and that’s one
of our top clients. She impatiently tapped her pencil against
her desk as her eyes darted over her appointment book in search of an
answer to her scheduling problem. Hmm...what if I...?
“Would
you say that it’s because you and your husband are so perfect for
each other?”
“Yes,
we...we are?” Her head had jerked up at that astounding
remark; she forgot all about rescheduling her shipments as she
stared, stunned, at the judge for a few moments.
He
stared back at her, pencil at the ready.
To
cover her astonishment, she had stammered stupidly, “E-excuse me,
Mr. Tannenbaum, but I have to make another phone call.”
Ring!
Ring!
The
phone’s ringing brought Rebecca back to the present.
No
rest for the businesswoman, Rebecca thought wearily as she picked
up the receiver. “Higher for Hire. If you’re buying, we’re
flying...Robert with the Kitschy Ketchup Company? Yes, I remember
you...But we did catch up on the ketchup deliveries...Now, wait a
minute! I’m sure we can work this out calmly and rationally...The
delinquent delivery? I can explain that. You see, my pilot ran into
some air pirates and...” As was her habit, she yanked at a fistful
of her hair. “I don’t know why pirates would want ketchup!
Maybe they hijacked a hot dog stand or something...But...But...You
can’t do that!” Noticing Mr. Tannenbaum’s steady gaze on her,
she swivelled in her chair so that her back was to him and hissed,
“We have a one-year contract!”
Mr.
Tannenbaum cleared his throat.
“Oh,
call you back.” She hung up the receiver, wishing that she could
slather the Kitschy Ketchup contract with ketchup and shove it down
their ungrateful throats. Instead, she swallowed her anger and
plastered a smile on her face. “Did you say something, Mr.
Tannenbaum?”
“I’ve
discovered a grievous error in your ledger, Mrs. Cunningham.”
“Y-you
have?” Suddenly, she wished that she was back hashing it out with
the Kitschy Ketchup Co.
“Yes.
There is a matter of $132 unaccounted for,” he said in a voice of
scathing disapproval.
“One
hundred thirty-two...? Let me see that!” She pulled the ledger
towards her and quickly added up the numbers using her adding
machine. Her heart sank when she saw the deficit at the bottom.
“Well, what do you know? Usually, I’m so careful.” She
murmured dully, “Thank you for pointing out this mistake.”
“Well...?”
Rebecca
blinked. “Well, what?”
“Are
you going to correct it?”
“Most
certainly! I’ll do that right away.” She sprang from her seat,
headed to the filing cabinet, and started pulling out receipts,
invoices, and bills; Mr. Tannenbaum stood beside her as she did so.
“It should be simple. I’ll just backtrack until I find...”
Seeing a gooey, slightly moldy sandwich wedged in between two pieces
of paper, she hastily shut the drawer.
Unfortunately,
it wasn’t quick enough; Mr. Tannenbaum had seen it. “Interesting
filing system you have there, Mrs. Cunningham.”
“Oh,
that sandwich is not mine. Must be my...my husband’s. He’s
always doing funny things like that.” He won’t be laughing
when he gets home! “He even filed it under ‘A’ for
‘avocado’, because it’s an avocado sandwich. Heh-heh...heh.”
Mr.
Tannenbaum didn’t even crack a smile as he wrote on his clipboard.
Rebecca
delved into the filing cabinet, her mind whirling. What could have
happened to that money? Six months without a discrepancy. Why did it
have to happen today of all days?
“Hi,
Mommy! We’re home!”
Relief
flooded Rebecca’s being. She was glad for the interruption, so glad
that she rushed across the room and ecstatically embraced the cubs.
“I’m so happy you’re home!”
“What’s
wrong, Miz Cunningham?” Kit murmured, looking over her shoulder at
Mr. Tannenbaum, who was peering inside a filing cabinet drawer.
“Everything.”
“Poor
Mom.” Then, the little girl grinned brightly. “I know what’ll
cheer you up. A big bowl of ice cream as a last-day-of-school
treat.”
“Anything,
Pumpkin,” Rebecca sighed wearily. “As long as it doesn’t have
anything to do with cargo or phones or $132.”
“One
hundred thirty-two dollars?” Kit echoed, watching Mr. Tannenbaum
pull a donut from the bottom filing cabinet drawer.
“You
need to work on your filing system, Mrs. Cunningham,” Mr.
Tannenbaum said, dusting donut crumbs from his hands. “‘Donut’
starts with ‘D’, not ‘F’.”
“‘Fired’
starts with ‘F’. That’s what Baloo will be when he gets home,”
Rebecca muttered through clenched teeth.
When
Mr. Tannenbaum continued to stare at her, she smiled half-heartedly
and said, “Into the kitchen, everyone. You, too, Mr. Tannenbaum.”
“We’re
gonna eat ice cream!” Molly sang, skipping into the kitchen.
They
gathered around the kitchen table while Rebecca doled out four bowls
of ice cream.
Before
she could taste a mouthful of the creamy, cold confection, Mr.
Tannenbaum said, “I thought you were allergic to ice cream, Mrs.
Cunningham.”
“I-I
am?” she sputtered, completely stunned.
“That’s
what your husband told me yesterday.”
Rebecca’s
eyes narrowed to mere slits. “He did?” Of all the idiotic,
stupid, imbecilic, moronic things to do!
“Yes.”
Mr. Tannenbaum flipped through a few pages on his clipboard. “Ah,
here it is. And I quote: ‘Becky’s allergic to ice cream. Just
mentioning it will make her face swell up like a big old purple
balloon.’ Unquote.”
“He
said that, did he?” She was so mad that she was ready to
spit nails.
“Yes.”
Rebecca,
wondering what other outrageous lies Baloo had concocted about her,
was stumped. “Oh, right. I’m allergic to ice cream.” She put
the bowl down regretfully; rocky road was her favorite. “But I
thought I should...”
Kit
chimed in, “Hold it to be hospitable.”
“Right.
Hold it to be hospitable,” Rebecca echoed.
“I
see.” Mr. Tannenbaum put his spoon in his empty bowl and made a
quick notation on his clipboard.
Rebecca
said politely, “Would you care for more ice cream, Mr. Tannenbaum?”
“No,
thank you. I don’t care very much for chocolate ice cream. I
prefer strawberry.”
“Oh.”
“Shall
we return to correcting your ledger, Mrs. Cunningham?”
“Yes.
Let’s.” After Mr. Tannenbaum had left the kitchen, Rebecca
said, “Kit, could you do me a favor?”
“What?”
“Shoot
me!”
Cunninghams’
Apartment
Three
Hours
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