part of me sympathizes with him; it must have been hard, putting up that charade for so long. The man must be an artist of identities, able to peel away, or apply, a persona whenever necessary.
I search for incriminating materialâthe communist connections, for the good of the country and all that, but I wonder what else Gant is trying to hide, what other shameful secret I might stumble upon. Inside his desk drawerânothing. Paperwork. Budgets. Nothing that would cause concern. Maybe Iâm not cut out for this. Without much effort, Gant is always one step ahead. My only evidence incriminates me, not him.
I sit in Gantâs chair and look across his desk at the place where I usually sit. So this is his vantage. I must seem so small to him. I recalled Gantâs minor transgressions against me in order to keep from digging up his most hurtful insult. But sitting here brings it back.
We were working hard that night, helping Martin deal with his tax problem. The seriousness of the situation was palpable. Never before had such a burden rested on such a modest bunch of bookkeepers. Everyoneâs sleeves were rolled up and no one dared wear a tie. Sweat beaded our brows. There was no mindless chatterâonly the recitation of numbers and the events that gave them context.
I was diligently adding up some receipts when Gant asked me for Martinâs travel expenses.
I remembered vividly, just the day before, scrawling out TRAVEL EXPENSES on a large envelope in bold black ink, then putting the receipts inside and handing it to Gant as he looked at it, smiled, and said, âGood work.â
So I was surprised to hear him ask for them. But I answered anyway.âMr. Gant, I have already given them to you.â
He gave the papers and documents around him a superficial glance. âI donât see them, Estem.â
âI gave them to you earlier in your office.â
He began shuffling papers, not really looking at them, but moving them around for show: a grown-up version of a tantrum. âI donât see them, Estem.â
Then everyone stopped working. The adding machines went quiet and the scratch of pencils on ledger paper ceased. All eyes were on Gant and me.
âI gave them to you already. Maybe you misplaced them . . . I donât know what else to tell you, sir.â I turned my back to him and continued with my work.
Thatâs when Gant slammed his fist on the table, then stood up, sending his chair to the floor. âAre you calling me a liar, goddamnit? I didnât ask you what you did. I asked you for the receipts. Where are the goddamn receipts?â
Maybe, in retrospect, it would have been better for me to stay silent, but instead I said, âMr. Gant Iâve already answered you. I gave them to you yesterdayââ
Martin and Abernathy walked in after hearing all the commotion. For a moment, this gave me some comfort. Surely the sight of two preachers would ease the current tensions. But Gant seemed only to be encouraged by a larger audience.
âEstem, quit repeating yourself like some damn minstrel show darkie.â He said it with a smile, trying to appear jocular. This seemed to make everyone feel comfortable enough to start laughing. Even Abernathy and Martin got a chuckle out of it. Then Gant started to revel in the approval and laughter of his boss and felt inclined to take it further. âYessuh, boss,â he said giving his best sambo. âIâs already gave it to yaâ. Iâs already gave it to yaâ,â he said again as he
limped
back and forth. Everyone laughed, including Martin and Abernathy. It seemed to go on forever. Then Gant finally tired himself out.
Martin saw that I was the only one not laughing. He walked up to Gant and said, âHey, take it easy, brother. Heâs had enough.â Then Martin addressed the rest of us. âI want to thank you all for working so hard tokeep me out of jail. . . . Now, I want to
Marilyn Rausch, Mary Donlon