Each afternoon, crows circled the building like the rings
of Saturn or moons of Jupiter. The birds represented
another thing which made no sense to Josie, but at least
they were consistent and she remained grateful for this
minor favor. The world had mostly stopped making sense
almost two years ago.
It wasn't a single event that had knocked Josie's life
askew, but a series of small, seemingly unconnected and
random incidents of misfortune. Josie had grown up in a
family blessed with good luck. She'd always taken it for
granted.
Her father, no matter what downturn the economy took and
how many of his fellow employees lost theirs, always ended
up with a better job than the one he'd started with. Her
mother, an avid player of games of chance, never lost
money, and when they needed a little extra cash for a
vacation, for piano lessons or a new car, she won the
jackpot bingo at Our Lady of Perpetual Grace on Friday
nights.
Fred and Marlene became best friends and lovers the very
day they met at the student union during their final year
at the University of Toronto. Marlene quit three months
short of a degree in Roman history and culture to have
Josie and work part-time in telephone sales while Fred
finished his accounting course.
Even now, Marlene could, and did at Christmas,
Thanksgiving and Easter, recite the spiel for: waterless
cookware, encyclopedias, half a dozen different magazines,
the sharpest knives ever made, a device to peel and core
apples with a single touch. Marlene sold them all
effortlessly and without regard to their usefulness.
She sold them because she knew how a woman felt at three
o'clock on a Friday afternoon after a week of cranky kids,
dirty laundry and a tired, indifferent husband. She
understood the loneliness of an older woman with a voice
full of sadness. Not, of course, that any of these things
were part of Marlene's life, but they had all been part of
her mother's, so her sympathy and patience were boundless.
Marlene knew to hang up if a man answered, or a brisk no-
nonsense woman, otherwise she listened, spoke words of
encouragement and hope, and mostly sold whatever she was
selling that month. She thought of these sales as trades —
her support and the woman's subsequent sense of at least
temporary well-being in exchange for a few dollars for
Marlene and her family.
The product was irrelevant. In fact, she sold different
products to the same women over and over again. To
Marlene, and to her customers, it wasn't about the fat-
free grill with attached rotisserie large enough for two
whole chickens; it was about the conversation.
Marlene believed in the value of talk therapy long before
it became universally popular. It didn't matter where they
lived — and they moved fifteen times before Josie finished
high school — Marlene was at the center of a circle of
bright, interesting women. Women who talked. Josie learned
everything she knew from those women.
She knew, without ever having her heart broken, to avoid
the boys in tight jeans and T-shirts who hung around in
the parking lot after school. She knew to find a good
hairdresser and stick with her, no matter how much it cost
for a haircut. She knew how to handle difficult bosses,
the ones who yelled, the ones who schemed, the ones whose
hands landed places they shouldn't.
She knew how to make and keep friends, to write letters
instead of just e-mails, to phone the minute she thought
of it instead of waiting for the right time. She knew to
put away a little money for a rainy day, to think before
she spoke, to wait for the right man.
She learned how to cook and sew, to build bookshelves, to
give her car a tune-up. She learned to fix a leaky toilet
and knew to clean out the furnace for the winter. Even
though she'd never done it, she could tell you how to grow
asparagus and transplant lilac bushes.
She learned how to deflect a jealous woman's anger, how to
recognize a broken heart, how to prevent a child from
drowning. She learned how to love a man, and how to be
loved in return. She learned to count the stars in the
sky, the grains of sand on a beach, the ants in an
anthill. She learned about lucky numbers and how to pick a
winning horse. Josie grew into adulthood already knowing
things some women never learned.
The oddest thing about all this knowledge was that once
she knew it, and despite the fact that she never used most
of it, Josie never forgot it. Those women, their voices,
had somehow managed to hardwire her brain with a
lifetime's worth of information.
Josie saved thousands of dollars because she knew these
things. She didn't need to take courses, she could fix her
own car and toilet and bicycle, and she never fell in love
with a man who would steal her savings.
She knew everything except how to handle bad luck. She'd
never thought of her life as lucky, after all, she was
almost forty and still unmarried. If that didn't
constitute bad luck, she had no idea what did. She had
friends who'd had two or even three husbands. Josie hadn't
found even one. She'd never been engaged, or truly in
love. Where was the luck in that?
But once her luck changed, she could look back on her
life, on her parents' life, and see what had always been
perfectly obvious to everyone else. The Harrises were a
charmed family.
Josie didn't remember being in a single fight, not with
Fred, not even with Marlene. She never heard an argument
between her parents. Her friends told stories of their
vicious teenage knockdown, drag-out battles with their
mothers. Josie remembered shopping trips and baking
cookies with Marlene, playing Scrabble and Monopoly with
Fred and walks in the park with both of them.
The only angry words she heard as a child were on
television and she knew they had nothing to do with her
life. So when bad luck came knocking, Josie was totally
unprepared.
The first incident might have been a fluke. Josie arrived
at Gabrielle's for her regular appointment to find her
hair-dresser had eloped with a waiter. Not only that, but
he was ten years younger than she was, and handsome and
desperately in love. They were moving to Mexico, opening a
restaurant and having a baby.
Josie learned all this from the man who bought Gabe's shop
while he butchered her hair and bitched about Gabe's
clients. Josie still hadn't found anyone to replace Gabe,
and she'd tried every good and even indifferent salon in
the city, so now she settled for ten-dollar haircuts at
discount clip joints.
She'd forgiven Gabe, even sent a wedding present, quickly
followed by a baby gift, but her luck had been swept into
the garbage with her hair that day. Josie simply hadn't
recognized it at the time.
Because it got worse. She got fired from her job, the best
job she'd ever had. Not for being incompetent — Josie was
smart and punctual and she loved her job (which usually
counted for more than intelligence) — or even for an
understandable mistake, but for being in the wrong place
at the wrong time.
Josie's intuition failed her that morning. She knew Don
Mollard, knew he wasn't at his best in the mornings, and
on the mornings after his five teenage daughters went home
to their mother he was impossible. He loved those rowdy
girls without a single reservation and couldn't bear to
see them go even for a week at a time. So Josie learned to
stay out of his way on Friday mornings, to give him time
to get used to their absence.
Afterwards, she wondered what had gotten into her. She
walked into his office without knocking and sat down in
the chair across from the desk. She looked at her list and
began.
"We're meeting with Palleson on Monday. Are the specs
ready?"
She hadn't even looked at Don before she started talking.
If she had, she would have seen the way his cheeks had
fallen in on themselves. She would have noticed his red-
rimmed eyes and most importantly, for she'd seen and
recognized it a hundred times, she would have seen the
mark of heartbreak on his face.
Josie first saw the mark on Phyllis, her best friend in
high school. Josie watched her fall passionately in love
with the president of the photography club. Phyllis was
tall and slim with beautiful high breasts and the boy took
exquisite photographs of the shadows those breasts cast on
that perfect body. Art, he'd called it, so Phyllis
couldn't object. In those days, at that high school, art
was incontrovertible, the highest value.
Then he sent the photographs to Playboy and there was
Phyllis, naked, in a magazine her father and most of his
friends bought every month. For the articles, they said,
but Phyllis and everyone else knew that even in the
unlikely event they read the articles, they'd still spend
most of their time with the pictures. And her face, as
well as everything else, was clear for all to see and
recognize.
She left town to spend the rest of the school year with an
aunt but not before Josie saw what had happened to her.
Her face changed overnight.
It wasn't just sadness, though that was part of it, it was
as if the bones had somehow shifted in her skull. They
flattened out, leaving great planes of unsupported skin,
while at the same time becoming more prominent, so Josie
could clearly see the shape of them. No one else noticed
anything except the sadness. Only Josie saw the heartbreak
and knew Phyllis would never be the same.
And she'd learned that the two things — heartbreak and
sadness — weren't always equal. Mostly sadness was simply
that. A parent dying, a lover lost, sometimes only a
tragic book or movie. These engendered sadness. People got
over sadness. Only occasionally was the sorrow so
overwhelming that it broke a heart.
And that's what Josie should have seen on Don's face that
Friday morning, what she would have seen if she'd been
paying attention.
But she'd only learned a couple of months later, long
after he'd fired her, why Don's sorrow had turned to
heartbreak overnight. She ran into him in her neighborhood
coffee shop on a snowy Sunday morning.
"Josie," he mumbled. "How are you?"
"Fine," she said, grabbing his arm and leading him to a
table in the back. "But you're not. What's up?"
He raised his face to hers and she gasped. "Don?"
His face, once ruddy and unlined, now bore all the signs
of disaster. Deep crevices radiated out from his eyes, his
nostrils, his mouth, scoring shadows into his sallow skin.
He looked as if he hadn't slept since Josie had walked out
of his office. "I haven't," he said, reading her mind as
if she'd spoken out loud.
"Tracy took the girls away. Their cell phones are
disconnected, there's no forwarding address and I'm losing
my mind worrying about them. I've sold the business, hired
detectives, but they've vanished."
Josie knew right then that even if Don did find his
daughters, he would never be the same man she had known.
He'd spend the rest of his life trying to keep those girls
safe, never again leaving them to go to work, or allowing
them to go to school, instead he'd do whatever it took to
keep them in his sight. He had lost them once and he would
never let it happen again.
So getting fired was her own fault. Don needed to punish
someone for the loss of his daughters and Josie was there.
Wrong place, wrong time. Sheer stupidity on Josie's
part... jinxed by the hair thing.
She quickly found another job, even without a reference.
The boss was the kind of guy she'd learned about from
Marlene's friends. He lied, even about taking the last
five dollars out of petty cash, cheated on everything from
his wife to his income tax, missed meetings, left jobs
unfinished, never told anyone where he was going or when
he'd be back.
He refused to answer his pager or cell phone. He flirted,
outrageously, with any woman who walked through the door,
including the staff. Josie spent half her time calming
angry clerks, receptionists and bookkeepers, and the other
half hiring new ones. In every way, he was the worst man
in the world to work for.