Respect Me, Part 1 by Nia Arthurs
Harriet
“You keep coming back.”Doc gives me a thoughtful look when I shuffle into the garage.
“I brought a batch of lemon water to celebrate.”
“Celebrate what?”
“One month of working with you.”
Doc arches an eyebrow. “I told you not to come back.”
“Sue me.”
He just purses his lips.
I hold the canteen up like a trophy. “Let’s focus on this happy day, hm? I can’t wait for you to try this lemon water. No offense, but yours could use a little more flavor.”
He scrubs his goatee with oil-stained fingers. “The things that are good for you rarely taste sweet.”
“There are exceptions.” I tap the canteen. “This is one of them.” Moving confidently to the table, I set my purse down and grab Doc’s mug. Thankfully, it’s early and he hasn’t filled it with his usual brand of water.
Doc grunts and lets me be.
I’m grateful that he isn’t chasing me out of the shop.
The first week, he seemed mildly annoyed with my presence.
The second, he sent me home before I could get much done.
The third, he slowly started acknowledging my presence, even helping to lift heavy things when I needed them out of the way.
It’s the fourth week now.
I’ve fallen into a simple routine.
Sweep. Mop. Wash the cars. Any other little tasks that I find, I add them to the list and fit them between those main chores.
Today is no different.
Sunshine charges through the giant doors. Metal shutters, rolled up like taffy, hang above the gaps. The sky is smiling at me.
A new day.
Fresh start.
With my hands busy cleaning, sweeping and washing the cars, my mind can empty out.
Empty thoughts are good.
I could use the distraction. Especially today.
This morning, I woke up to Jerrison’s back. I woke up to tense silence and a chasm between us that we couldn’t breach even when he stirred and pushed inside of me again. At least, he saw that it hurt and stopped.
But it left us in an awkward place. A place that amplified my fears. If he can’t get it from me, my husband most certainly will find someone else to scratch that itch.
I need to buy more lube.
And I need to get through to Doc.
Fast.
My marriage is falling apart by the seams and it’s getting worse every moment that passes. What happens if I lose him? How do I face my family, my friends? How do I face myself in the mirror and accept the failure?
My phone chirps.
I put the rag back in the bucket, sliding away when the sudsy water sloshes over the rim and drenches my shoes. Biting back a curse, I pull out my phone and check the screen.
Nancy, my assistant manager.
Sliding my earphones in, I answer the call and pluck the soppy rag out of the bucket. “Did something happen?”
“Not exactly,” Nancy whispers. She’s a frail, bird-like woman with pale skin and doe eyes. Harmless. Plain. Until she opens her mouth.
Nancy’s father used to be a jazz singer. In fact, she comes from a long line of singers and all the males in the family have deep, bass timbres. Because her parents had three girls, she inherited ‘the voice’.
Nancy gulps loudly through the phone. “It’s just that… I keep hearing about a company inspection. They’re hitting the franchises around us and grading them harshly.”
“What inspection?” Impatience snaps out of me. “No one told me about an inspection.” I swear, corporate makes all kinds of crazy decisions and the franchise owners are the last to know.
“I heard it through the grapevine. Technically, we’re not supposed to be aware of this.”
But of course she heard.
Nancy has her ways.
“Is the inspector there now?” I check my watch. It’ll take me a couple hours to change, get ready and head to the bakery.
“No. I mean, I don’t think so.” She sighs. “They said you might get a quick heads-up. But you might not either.” The phone rustles against something. Probably her hand. “I’m nervous about you being gone every morning, Harriet. It was fine for a couple days, but it’s been weeks now. What if they say something?”
“I’m not obligated to spend all day at the store, Nancy.”
“But—”
“Just continue to do what you’re doing. The bakery’s improving and so are you. I haven’t heard a single complaint about our service, our food, or our delivery system. In fact, it’s running a little too well. I’m starting to wonder if you’re good enough to replace me.”
Her laughter rings with joy. “I’m going to accept the compliment and I’m also going to assure you that my sights are set on my own bakery. So you’re safe from me.”
I chuckle. “I’m kidding, Nance.”
“Even so. I want to make it clear. Everything I know about the business, about customers and about marketing is because of you.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is. I mean, look at us right now. You’ve been sending me reports at one in the morning, for heaven’s sakes! When do you sleep?”
“I don’t. People who take time off in the morning should make it up. Late at night is the only free time I have to do the reports.”
“See?” Nancy’s voice crackles with pride. “Hardworking. That’s who you are. And if I’m doing well, it’s only because you taught me how.”
My heart swells. It’s a much-needed band-aid to the wounds gouging my heart. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” She hesitates and her words turn soft. “Are you really okay, Harriet?”
“That’s the second time you’ve asked.”
“I’m just worried about you.”
“I won’t get in trouble with the company. I promise.”
“It’s not that. It’s actually…” Voices travel in the background. Heels clack on tiles. A door clicks shut. “Is everything okay with you. Why have you suddenly taken every morning off? Like… is there a family emergency? Are you sick or something?”
“You must be really curious.” I wipe the window of the car, smiling when the rag makes a squeaking noise.
“It’s not just me. People are whispering. They say… ridiculous things.”
“Like what? That I’ve got a terminal illness?”
“Not exactly.”
“What are they saying, Nancy?” I laugh at the crazy options that pop into my head. Maybe I’ve run away to join the circus? Maybe I’m part-mermaid?
Who knows how the gossip mills have been churning? I’d bet money that no one would assume I’m spending my mornings cleaning a garage and badgering an old mechanic for marriage advice.
Nancy gets uncomfortably quiet. “I don’t want to tell you what people are saying.”
The chuckles get frozen in my throat.
Oh.
I see.
So that means they’re talking about Jerrison.
It’s not a secret that my husband has been screwing anything in a skirt. Many of the people who reported his deeds to me were my employees. It’s embarrassing to bear the burden of the gossip. It’s torture that Jerrison really can’t see what his dirty deeds are doing to me—not only personally but professionally.
But it’s not all on him. Society has double standards. Men are rarely judged for their indecency. Their darkness lingers until they tuck it away, slide it into suitcases and glib smiles. No one calls them out on it. In fact, the old guards give them a high-five under the table, quietly applauding their prowess.
Women, on the other hand, are judged for not being able to manage their personal lives. Judged for not being able to keep their husband’s attentions. Judged for not being good enough to keep a man.
It’s not a complaint.
It’s a fact.
I lift my chin. “I’ll see you at noon, Nancy. Thanks for the heads-up about the inspection. I’ll keep a look out.”
“Harriet, are you sure…”
I end the call.
My head swings down. The rag slips out of my fingers, slapping the edge of the bucket and eventually winding to the ground. Exhaustion wraps icy claws around me. Tightens its hold on my neck. Sits on my shoulders and whispers that I should just give up.
What the hell am I doing anyway? What on earth am I fighting for?
It’s been weeks and Doc hasn’t made a single move to help me fix my marriage. I’ve been running into a brick wall and, like a moron, ignored the crack in my skull. After being worn down by Jerrison, I thought I could force a win with Doc.
But I was wrong.
I can’t…
“Harriet.”
My shoulders hike and I whirl around. “D-Doc? How long have you been standing there?”
“Take this.” He hands me a long, flat tool.
My eyes follow him as he wordlessly turns and trods to the vehicle he’s repairing. Then I glance at the tool in my hands.
My jaw drops.
Trembling with victory, I close my hands over the wrench.
