Cynthia Tottleben - The Final Chamber

Cynthia Tottleben

Published by Cynthia Tottleben atSmashwords

Copyright 2011 Cynthia Tottleben

Cover art by Ann Pierson DAngelo

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CHAPTER ONE

Three years later I loaded the gun.

The final bullet only took two seconds tofind the chamber. No hesitation. No fear, no sense of self poundingaway inside at the terror my actions could cause. Not even anexplosive, life-saving guilt trip from my mother-in-law streamedthrough my mind. A twist of the key and the safe was unlocked. Therevolver, polished and eager, wrapped in my great-grandmothersembroidered tea towel, removed in one easy swoop. The cloth droppedto the floor. My hands so familiar with the cold steel, I justpopped it open and inserted the last piece of the puzzle.

But the first time I toyed with loading myweapon twelve hours stretched past before I placed the bullet. Theimage of Jacobs mother successfully interfered that time, alongwith my husbands reasoning skills and my overwhelming sense ofresponsibility.

You had lived here for eighteen months, ofwhich only about the first two weeks were even remotely pleasant.The honeymoon phase, the case workers called it. Not that we hadnthad good times, because we always managed to squeeze some funbetween the hours of peel-the-paint off the walls tantrums andabuse you wielded. At that point the adoption was stilldelayed-much to my pleasure- and I wasnt certain it would goforward. The doubts you had planted in my mind the day you firstshowed your true colors had grown remarkably well in my veins,vining themselves around my heart, holding it in a viciousgrip.

The day leading to my twelve hour crying jaghad been awful. You had always been especially keen at detectingthis; my worst days away from home usually wound up dropping aboulder of devastation on our doorstep, where you stood with prideand said, look what I brought home. More hatred.

My work day had begun at five in the morning,where I delivered a final warning to one of my favorite managersover breakfast. Usually confrontations about work performance dontunnerve me in the slightest, but this woman bordered on being agood friend, in the way that a subordinate can. We had shared muchof our lives together, with twenty years under my belt at thecompany and thirty two for Agnes. In fact she had hired me,promoted me twice under her management, seen me rise to a positionas her peer in another dormitory. In many ways she had served as asubstitute parent when I lived so far from my own and had even seenme through some disturbing times in my early twenties.

I came in at five so we could share somequiet time together. The coffee was fresh, and one of the cookswhipped me up some scrambled eggs and toast. I watched as Agnesshands shook. She knew my visit was more than a friendly one,although I didnt hesitate to ask about her grandchildren and thegoats she kept on the acreage behind her house. She cupped herpalms around her mug but still couldnt disguise the tremor. Tinydrops of coffee flipped onto the table long before the liquid madeit to her lips.

We had had closed door conversations abouther drinking in the past, and this wasnt our first foray ontopaper over the matter. Agnes had always been one to drink and dine,but not to excess. Until two years ago, when her husband had lefther- again- for a woman my age, and this time actually rounded outthe treachery with a full serving of divorce papers. Agnes, who hadstoically handled his cheating for decades, totally collapsed withthe end of her marriage.

But I run a business. As a clandestine friend(I do not believe in fraternizing with the employees), I helped myold boss as much as I could. I listened to her weep and fling hergrief for several months. And when the divorce and subsequentissues challenged Agness work performance on a regular basis, Ihad to take action. First, I confronted her behavior. Theattendance issues. Her disheveled appearance. The rumors that shewas partying with some of the college students who closed thekitchen with her at night.

After she confided in me the extent of hertransgressions, I was literally stunned at her transformation.Hitting the bars at night, picking up strangers for sex, evendriving under the influence with her oldest granddaughter in thecar- none of these were activities the Agnes that had made me hersidekick twenty years before would ever have considered doing. Iasked her to get help. She didnt. For about a year she had triedto keep it together and failed.

This matter stemmed from an accusation thatAgnes was not only drinking at work, but had a vast supply ofalcohol hidden throughout the kitchen. I had slipped in after hershift the night before and toured with her next in command, takingpictures of the booze hidden behind the bags of rice in dry storageand the bottles tucked in her snow boots in a downstairs locker, awinter hat and scarf shoved on top for added disguise.

Even sitting across from her so early in themorning I could barely maintain my posture when she spoke. Thestench of mints covered her morning alcohol breath. Each time Agnesopened her mouth I wanted to dive for cover. At one point we letsilence thread between us like little cobwebs. We both knew her gigwas up but neither of us was ready for action.

I issued Agnes her final warning, withinstructions for completing rehab. I placed her on a leave ofabsence pending the results of her urine test and subsequentmedical release, took her keys to the building and walked heroutside.

I called campus security and had Agnes drivento the clinic where we do our drug and alcohol testing. All aformality, but I couldnt skip this step just because of ourrelationship.

What a horrible feeling, watching her in theback of the patrol car, the stab of guilt leaving me breathlesswhen Agnes turned to look at me before they drove off. I could feelmy twenty year old self, fresh from an argument with some guy Idbeen screwing who was such a loser I couldnt even remember hisname, seeking comfort in the warmth of Agness home. Crying intothe mug of tea she had prepared me. The nostalgia of that momentfinding me again on the back dock of a dorm kitchen, as familiar asthe breakfast smells that crept out the receiving doors and wrappedaround my shoulders, just as her arms had so many years ago.

When the taillights trailed out of sight Iwiped my cheeks and shook off the moment. I thought of the Agnes Ihad known in my early adulthood; the woman adorned with patiencewho had kept me in her house for nearly a week after my breakup,teaching me to can the spoils of her garden, the artistry withwhich she approached each meal, the comfort that comes from workingin a kitchen. I wanted that woman back.

But all I could do was be the best boss Agnescould have. At least she hadnt lost her job.

Yet.

After Agnes I had a visit from the EPA andthe discovery of mold in one of the walk-in refrigerators in theFamily Living cafeteria. The union called and warned me aboutanother hearing over an employee caught stealing, and I had toendure a three hour meeting with the other directors fromResidential Life.

Not my favorite group of people. Jerry, thesixty-five year old sleazebag idiot who hated all women but the twocollege girls he fucked behind his wifes back (did he pay them?What could those girls possibly see in him?) and picked on me to noend; Bob, a facilities coordinator who was married to one of mymanagers and wanted only to discuss the mechanical needs of ourbuildings, not the sales and financial issues that made repairspossible; Frederick, whom I was told six years ago to address asMr. Michaels, although he was Fred to all others in the meeting,and Jackson, the warehouse manager for both food and housingsupplies were all in attendance.