Peanut
for a Bluejay
by J.C. Frampton
She
was at the south-facing window of her cubicle, humming
some inanity, and watering the desiccated philodendron
out of an Am/Pm Minimart Slurpee cup. The morning
sun pirouetted amidst her honey-blonde coif, adding
dazzle to the glory of her collarbone, exposed above,
praise God, a K-Mart update of a peasant blouse. She
caught sight of a mendicant bluejay on a twig without
and gave a loving wave that made him think of 1940
and his euphoria with "Snow White" at the Roxy. Was
that Estee Lauder's "Youth Dew" she was wearing? Hadn't
that been discontinued? His daughter, now forty, wore
it before the first baby came. He and her mother,
his Elaine, six-months dead after forty-three terrific
years, had bought it at Neiman Marcus the same year
the factory opened. He breathed deeply. Oh, life of
enchantment! She turned and saw him and gave a Snow
White-to-Grumpy irresistible giggle.
"Oh, Mr.
Trenham! I just got up to water this dear little plant
which seems, you know, so horribly neglected. I'm
working on that production schedule for you . . .
"
"No problem,
no problem, child." And he walked toward her on rubbery
legs. "And it looks like we have an avian panhandler
here."
"Oh. Yes.
If only I had a peanut for him."
"Well,
let me get one, Miss Merchant. There must be some
in the vending machine out in the hall."
"Oh, don't
bother, Mr. Trenham."
"Not in
the least, my dear. Come with me and we'll feed him
outside."
Thank
God he had the proper change, three quarters. Just
want to be quick and all.
"We'll
do it quickly before Mrs. Macadam comes back." Biggs
looked over his Excel program but who gave a damn
about Biggs?
Miss Merchant
giggled. The office manager's name was McAdams.
The air
was jocund with morning sunshine and new-blooming
jasmine trailing over the low brick wall demarcating
the presidential suite. In olfactory heaven, Trenham
opened the crowded cellophane bag and handed it to
Miss Merchant.
She threw
a salted peanut on the lawn. The twitching jay shot
after it. Miss Merchant giggled. Trenham was behind
her in an enclosing bower of Youth Dew, coruscating
golden hair and white shoulders.
"Here,
let me," he said, reaching for the bag and gently,
carefully brushing the empyrean margins of her bosom.
Quivering with rapture for blessed seconds, then flashing
with revulsion, he resurfaced, nerves anointed, his
shame clammy against a thigh. Gone like a comet! Sun
blazing in your face as you emerge from the Roxy on
a 'forties Saturday and know the joy has ended. Miss
Merchant turned quickly.
"You can
train them to catch one in the air," he gasped, throwing
a peanut aimlessly.
"Really?"
Blue eyes wide and a Gioconda smile. The bird had
flown to a high tree limb.
He swallowed
a sigh. Unsuspected?
Miss Merchant
carefully pinched her white sleeves and raised them
to shoulder height and folded her arms under her bosom.
"I'll
watch."
The dishes
always know. "But some other time, Miss Merchant."
Lord, he had on his pearl gray slacks! He handed her
the bag, the eye contact already point-of-no-return.
"Gotta
drive down to the south plant again and check out
those miserable punch presses," he said over a shoulder
as he fast-stepped down the flagstone path, Eden in
his infamous wake. "Tell McAdams. Please don't worry
about that schedule."
Behind
the wheel of the Lexus, heading for home, he barely
made the turnoff to Route 17. Never, never in his
life, no never, celestial host, never, such white
shoulders. Gotta think of a nice gift. Three kids,
what-is-it-six grandchildren? Half-a-dozen, uh, women
friends. At least. Twenty-seven million dollars. Precocious
as ever. Where it matters. Lucky bastard.
He felt
himself grinning widely as he pulled into the long
circular drive, thinking about a Scotch, hearing the
retriever's bark.
