Good Pet

I feel like shouldering her hand off me, but I don’t. With her touching me the way she is, it feels like she’s my mother — old, wise, well-meaning, and not to be sloughed off for any reason.

To my silence, Ms. Vanacore says, “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to accompany you this morning like I promised, Tommy.” Another pause and a breath in. This one shakes a bit. I’m not sure what she is feeling. Anger? Sorrow? Frustration? Fear? It could be one. It could be none. It could be all. Whatever it is, it sounds like an emotional soup, all stirred up just for me. “Are you sure nothing untoward happened while you are down there?”

I move my eyes back to hers before I have time to question whether that’s wise or not. It’s like I’m not even in control of my body when I do. It’s like there’s some spell on me that says, “Tommy, look at her. Look at her when she’s talking to you, and don’t you dare look away.” Again, her gray-blue eyes study me. They dial in on me, seeming to pull some secret from my body or some vital bit of information from my soul. I feel her pocket it somewhere and put it away to use later.

“Nothing happened, ma’am,” I manage to say.

Ms. Vanacore smiles. She gives me a look that puts a chill down my spine. It seems to say, Good boy. That’s the right answer. That’s the way we properly handle things.

“Nothing at all?” she asks.

“No. Nothing,” I say, over the noise that’s started in my head – the images and words on replay from the legal aids’ floor. Men and women saying I fucked her to get this job. That I and my “kind” don’t deserve to be employed in a place like this. That we don’t deserve to be seen or heard from.

“Still not going to take a lunch break?” The way Ms. Vanacore asks this, it’s like she’s got other plans in mind already. Like she’s hoping I’ll say no, so she can suggest something else.

I shake my head. “Not hungry,” I say.

Whatever Ms. Vanacore was planning, I just squashed it. She frowns and says, “Well, that’s too bad. I was going to offer to pay for you to order in some lunch or something.”

To her honest look of disappointment, I say, “I really appreciate it, Ms. Vanacore, ma’am, but I’d rather continue working.”

Ms. Vanacore throws up her hands. She looks more irritated than warm. “Fine. Whatever you want to do, boy, just don’t come crying later, saying I didn’t give you any breaks.” With that, she leaves my part of her office and goes to sit at her desk. I hear her ploof into her computer chair and pull some big, fat files in front of her.

The moment she’s out of sight, I rub my temples. A headache just started spontaneously. Partially in response to Ms. Vanacore’s 180-turnaround, but more so to the earlier abuse I suffered — the words and accusations that were thrown at me, being pushed to the ground, and told to get on my knees. I have bruises there and other places, as well. Though I’m planning to keep them hidden in my frumpy, big suit, where I hide all the rest of my scars and injuries.

For a while, I just sit there staring.

But then, like Melissa is my personal guardian angel, memories of her float in. Instead of all the hateful comments in my head, I now hear all of her encouragement and her love toward me. The way she pulled me out of there like she really was an angel pulling me from hell.

Don’t let them get to you, Tommy. Don’t let them hurt you anymore. I took care of them, just for you. I imagine her saying this, smiling, and gesturing at me with a flourish. And I’ll take care of any more people who try to harm you. My thoughts wander to Ms. Vanacore, and her short way of dealing with me when I shut down her office for help, and for getting me lunch. The Melissa, in my head, laughs and says. Don’t let her get to you either, honey. She’s just jealous that you’ve got someone like me already helping you. She’s just upset that she missed out on the opportunity to be the dashing gentlewoman who swoops in and saves you. The Melissa in my head chuckles. She comes close to me. She’s just mad because now she feels like the southern relic who fed you to the crocodiles and alligators. The Melissa, in my head, turns around. She lets me look at her clean, crisp slacks and her tight, firm ass in the slacks. She shakes it at me, saying something I know she probably wouldn’t say in real life, but she does here. I’ll feed you my cock-a-dile any time. Or my ass-i-gator! She chuckles and waves bye-bye at me.