52
Sheila stumbled into her office and plopped down at her desk anchored by the weight of the devastating news that found its way into her mailbox on yesterday. Unable to rid herself of the funk that engulfed her like a cyclone that swooped her up into its inner core, she continued to sit, unmoved by the ringing of the phone or the voices of her co-workers who drifted past, offering a word of salutation. They were invisible to her, as the dread of her ill-fated disease ate at her like cancer.
She pulled her head from the sand and looked up as the noise from the object landing on the counter disturbed her daydream. Fresh spring flowers—lilies, iris, carnations in purples, pinks, and bright yellow—stuck in a beautiful vase full of water met her eyes as a middle-aged, white gentleman dressed in a khaki short-sleeved shirt, his hair parted and slicked to the side, stood behind them.
“I’m looking for a Sheila Atkins,” the delivery man said, his hand still clutched around the neck of the vase, poised to pick it up in the event there was a need to do so in order that he might take them to their rightful owner.
“I’m Sheila,” she said half-heartedly. “I wonder who sent me flowers?” she asked absently, reaching for the card that was stuck on the plastic pitchfork in the midst of the beautiful arrangement.
“They must be from someone special,” the deliveryman said. Taking a look at Sheila, he continued, “And I can see why.”
Sheila offered the gentleman a smile—her first for the day, however, after plucking the card and reading Jamal’s name, tears jumped from her eyes. How was she going to tell Jamal about the curse that had been placed on her?
“Sheila, girl, I know you’re not just letting the phone ring,” Phyllis said as she strolled up to Sheila’s desk. “Has Victor shown up yet?”
“If he knows what’s good for his dog ass, he’d do better to never show up here again. Anyway, the feds took all of his electronic equipment; I believe he’s in worse trouble with them than he is with me.”
“Don’t let him off the hook. Sheila, you should have seen you in action yesterday. Crazy girl gone wild. You were waving that gun at Victor like it was going to be his last day on earth. It would’ve been great if he could’ve gotten a few bullets in his behind, but you had him going, girl.”
“It’s kind of funny, now that I sit back and think about it. You know what, Phyllis? I’m so glad I didn’t kill him. As mad as I was and how intent I had been on seeing his sorry ass suffer, I couldn’t do it.”
“You need that condo paid for another month or two before he throws you and Jamal out.” Phyllis laughed out loud.
“Phyllis, it had nothing to do with Victor paying for anything. Shoot, I’m not sure Jamal and I will even get married now that I’ve been sentenced with…” Sheila looked around to see if anyone was listening and then whispered, “With HIV.” She sighed. “I’m not in love with Victor; in fact, I don’t want another thing from him. My life has been shortened, and I’d rather spend what time I have left on this earth fighting this disease than sitting in a jail cell, while Victor eats dirt.”
“That’s the spirit, girl. You’ve got a fighting chance to win this thing, Sheila. There are medicines that can prolong your life. Look at Magic Johnson. He found out he was HIV positive in 1991; it’s been almost seventeen years and the man is still alive and has built an empire since then.”
Sheila smiled. “Thanks for the pep talk, Phyllis. I can always count on you to turn my negative self into a positive one.”
“Hey, did you guys here about Christianson?” Phil Murray, one of the admission’s counselors asked, walking toward Sheila’s desk.
“What about Christianson?” Phyllis asked.
“What happened, Phil?” Sheila asked, her face full of worry.
“He’s dead,” Phil said.
“No!” Sheila shouted, bringing her hands to her face.
“Somebody hosed his body with bullets,” Phil continued. They found him late last night near some railroad tracks in Durham.”
Sheila and Phyllis stood still, panic striking their bodies. Neither of the ladies moved, until Sheila began to shake her head.
“Dead? I don’t believe it,” Sheila stammered. “Anyway, how do you know?”
“It was announced on the radio.”
Phyllis put the tips of her fingers in her mouth and began to gnaw on her fingernails. Sheila found her seat and plopped in it for the second time that morning. Only seconds ago, she and Phyllis had talked about Victor and what he deserved for what he’d done to her, but never had she considered their venting would turn out to be the real thing.
Scared eyes looked from Phyllis to Phil. “Are you absolutely sure?” Sheila wanted to know. “How did it happen? When did he die?”
“Calm down, Sheila,” Phil said. “I know you’re upset. Everyone knows that you and Mr. Christianson have a connection.”
Phyllis grinned and turned her head away, trying to control the laughter that threatened to push its way outward, but it wasn’t funny to Sheila. The affair she had with Victor was kept under tight wraps or so she thought. The only person who knew anything about her tryst was Phyllis. Sheila’s eyes narrowed.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sheila barked, her eyes bulging from their sockets.
“It’s okay, Sheila. The only folks you need to worry about having your story is the National Inquirer; they do pay good money for a tidbit.”
Laughter erupted from Phyllis but she quieted when Sheila gave her the evil look.
“Dead,” Sheila said again as if the idea was foreign and absurd, dismissing Phil’s innuendo. Hell, hadn’t she fired a few shots at Victor less than twenty-four hours ago? But he ran from the house and Phil said he was found by some railroad tracks in Durham, which meant he was found somewhere other than at her place. Sheila breathed a sigh of relief, but she couldn’t shake the coldness that ran through her body. The news made her shiver.