She backed toward the door, watching his greasy, patchy face turn the colour of a spring tomato.
“Now, Miss Rankin—”
“Don’t you touch me, you dirty old man,” she hissed. “I liked this job, but I don’t need it. I’ll find another where my boss has some respect.”
“Respect! For a girl wearing makeup and short skirts? You wanted special attention, didn’t you, Susan?”
She didn’t miss the emphasis on her given name. He was trying to make some kind of point, but she was way beyond caring about that. “I came to do my job. That’s all. You should be ashamed of yourself. You’re disgusting.”
She spun at the last minute and grabbed the door handle, wondering what on earth would happen next.
The problem solved itself. Mr. Brown’s choked voice caught her on the way out. “You’re fired. Don’t even think about coming back.”
She stumbled to her regular desk, ignoring the bug-eyed stares around her. She grabbed her purse and dashed to the door, out of breath and dizzy. Bursting into the sunlight, she stopped and took a shaky breath. The familiar street felt foreign. Everything felt different. In the past five minutes, so much had changed. First, she now understood the terror and humiliation other women had talked about. Second, she was unemployed. And third, she would have to face her father. According to their deal, he could pull her out of her apartment and force her to come home. He could cut her off financially. He could do whatever he wanted.
She walked slowly down the sidewalk toward Queen’s Park, where she’d often taken walks at lunchtime. A knot filled her throat as she realized she wouldn’t be walking here as often after today. The park was so pretty, even with the sight of a transient lying on a bench in front of her. Especially in the spring, with purple and yellow crocuses opening up around the still-waking shrubs. Feeling a little wobbly, she sank onto a different bench across from the huge bronze statue of Sir John A. Macdonald and pulled a pink box of Good & Plenty from her purse. Sir John A.’s life would have been much quieter than hers, she imagined vaguely, without the city noises and car horns she barely noticed anymore.
Maybe she should go back and ask to speak with one of the other lawyers about what had happened. See if they were looking for another secretary on their team. Surely they’d understand. They’d reprimand Mr. Brown, and…
Oh, for goodness’ sake. Who would take her word over Mr. Brown’s? Would either of the other two even be surprised if she told them? Were they just as guilty?
And what about the other girls there? How would they regard her, having crashed out of the building like a crazy person, only to come crawling back? The way they’d eye her: curious but too shy to ask, so they’d make up rumours instead… All over something that she hadn’t done. Something she had prevented from happening.
She shook a handful of licorice candies into her hand and threw them in her mouth. She would never go back to that office. Wouldn’t pass through those doors even one more time. They didn’t deserve her. She’d show them. She’d find a better place to work—
Except she had no idea how to do that. She wasn’t going to get much of a reference from Mr. Brown.
“Where are you, Joey?” she whispered to Sir John.
Her brother hadn’t been there to lead her out of the darkness this time. He’d promised he would always be there for her. Peanut butter and jelly. Better together.
It was all a lie. Sassy was on her own.
Still, she let his face come to her, let him ask her the question. “What are you gonna do now? Figure it out. You have to.”
She had no other choice. “It’s easy. Just two little steps,” she whispered.
Step one: Figure out how to tell her father that she was out of a job. By choice.
Step two: Beg for mercy.
fiveMARION
With her mind on the day ahead, Marion stepped into the Administrative Building and greeted Miss Prentice, who was sporting a bright new shade of pink lipstick.
“Very pretty colour,” Marion said, smiling at her.
“You think so? I saw it behind the counter at Eaton’s, and the girl said it suited me.”
“It certainly does,” Marion replied, picking up her charts. “Any messages for me?”
“Not this morning, Dr. Hart.”
Down the corridor, Dr. Bernstein was frowning at his work under a flickering lamp. Marion made a mental note to mention to Miss Prentice that the old doctor needed a new bulb.
“Good morning, Barbara,” she said, knocking on the first door to her left. “It’s Dr. Hart. May I come in?”
The door was already partially ajar, which Marion took as a positive sign. Barbara was normally an extremely private person.
