Oh Fred

Fred was still basking in the warm glow of his new relationship when he got home. Unfortunately his mother was standing in the kitchen when he entered.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," she observed.

"I found an apartment tonight," he informed her. "Available October first."

"Well I’m not returning any of your board money for the next two weeks," she stated firmly. "Even though you’ve scarcely eaten here in the last week, I still had to shop for you. I’ve got a pound of stew beef in the freezer I don’t know what to do with."

Fred gazed at her askance and cleared his throat, biting his tongue at the same time. "Fall Fair coming up," he said finally. "You could make up a bunch of meat pies for the Ladies’ Auxiliary table," he suggested helpfully.

His mother only snorted in response, but Fred knew from experience she’d give the matter some thought and probably do just that. The Ladies’ Auxiliary would be pestering her for something and his mother, he well knew, could stretch a pound of stew beef to a lot of little pies.

"You want anything before bed?" she demanded, obviously reluctant to leave the kitchen until he was gone from it.

"No thanks. Had dessert and coffee at Myrtle’s."

"And just who is this Myrtle person? And when will I meet her?" she demanded again.

Fred shuddered slightly at the thought. "She’s just a friend," he replied. "And we’re a little busy just now… she’s helping me get stuff for my new apartment," he explained. "G’night Mom," he added quickly, just as she’d opened her mouth to speak. He retreated hastily down the hallway to his room.

After getting ready for bed, Fred snuggled in and lay thinking about Myrtle. He hummed happily to himself as he recalled the events of the evening, then his mother’s words to him about meeting Myrtle intruded upon his reverie. He wondered how Myrtle would react to his mother, and vice versa. He had no way of knowing for sure since the situation had never come up before. His mother did usually assume a reasonably civil manner for Cynthia’s benefit, despite disliking her intensely. But Fred suspected this was a special effort for Bill and didn’t think the same consideration would be extended to him.

Then again, Myrtle wasn’t at all like Cynthia. Was it possible his mother would like her? He snorted and immediately dismissed the notion. His mother didn’t like anybody ~ except Bill. He was quite sure of that.

He jabbed absently at his pillow as he lay ruminating on the matter. His mother’s attitude toward Cynthia might have been entirely different had they met prior to the marriage ceremony. It must have been somewhat surprising, even for his mother, to be called suddenly to Bill’s penthouse apartment by an unfamiliar female voice and rush into town dreading injury or worse to her fair-haired boy, only to find him fine, though somewhat whoozy for the consumption of spirits, and waiting for her in the company of a buxom blonde and Judge Bickford Waldo.

Fred had certainly been surprised. But Bill had requested that his mother and brother witness the ceremony and Cynthia had simply called them to hurry right over. Fred thought it rather curious that his mother hadn’t raised an unseemly fuss the moment she’d arrived, especially given Bill’s condition at the time. But to the contrary, Flora Luckinbill had seemed flustered and somewhat intimidated by the presence of Judge Waldo, particularly with Cynthia being so chummy with the venerable widower, calling him "Bicky" as she did. It was the only occasion Fred could recall his mother actually rendered speechless by another human being. The judge had seemed to sense a certain disquieting aura in the small gathering and attempted to relax everyone by joking that with Bill married, his principal competition for Upton’s pretty girls was effectively removed. Unfortunately, his well-meant light-heartedness had fallen flat on everyone but Cynthia and only heightened Flora’s tension.

Fred yawned. He was sleepily pondering just how he and Myrtle might get married some day when he drifted off.

On their way to work the next morning, Fred and Myrtle discussed their shopping ideas and decided to get started that evening after work. They would eat first at a fast food restaurant, then do the rounds of the local department stores. When Fred pulled up outside her building, Myrtle leaned across and kissed him gently on the cheek before climbing out. He grinned happily and waved as she disappeared into the building, then drove on.

Myrtle endured a rather dull day at the office. Dick was in a state of disgruntlement when he returned from delivering his report to the Dean’s Committee and, at Myrtle’s suggestion, he departed before noon. There was only one student needing her help throughout the day and even the faculty didn’t bother her that much. Not even Horace Dilby.

Fred would have given anything for a dull day. Oh, he breezed through the morning all right, taking just enough notice of what he was doing to feel reasonably confident he’d done it properly. And he fairly floated to the lunch room and back, consuming his bologna sandwich in the interim without even observing that it was the same old thing. It even appeared for awhile that his afternoon might pass as agreeably as his morning, until precisely 2:50 when Mr. Grieve’s secretary, Helen, entered Fred’s office in an obvious state of panic. She stood just inside his door in something of a crouch, staring wide-eyed at him, her hands flapping up and down beside her head and before Fred could enquire about the nature of her affliction, the words "Oh Fred!" escaped her lips, then she turned and departed his office as suddenly as she’d appeared.

Curious, Fred followed her. This was obviously what she’d expected him to do, for as soon as they reached the threshold of Mr. Grieves’ office, she stepped aside and allowed Fred to enter first, offering a look of unqualified pity as he passed. He stopped just inside the door and gazed in wonder at the scene before him. There sat Mr. Grieves at his desk, staring straight ahead, his face a pasty, frozen mask betraying only the likelihood of some calamitous occurrence. Gathered protectively around him were the Safety Supervisor, the Personnel Director and the Assistant Transport Manager. They all glanced at Fred as soon as he entered, then looked away and began a conspicuous cacophony of coughing and throat clearing. This seemed to break the spell Mr. Grieves’ was under and, as Fred stood there wondering who’d died and what he had to do with it, Mr. Grieves’ slowly raised his eyes to gaze at him.

It was a badly shaken Fred who exited Mr. Grieves’ office several minutes later. Doubting he would make it back to his own office without assistance, Helen accompanied him and left him sitting at his desk silently contemplating the ceiling. He moaned and placed a clammy palm across his face. Here he’d been expecting accolades from his boss for having dealt with the problem of the misplaced ovens so handily. What had happened could only happen to him, he thought miserably. Only for him could such a simple operation turn into such an unlikely disaster. Tucking his chin into his collar, he tried to be philosophical about the whole thing. At least he wasn’t fired. After all, Mr. Grieves couldn’t really blame him for what happened - it was just one of those things. Fred only wished he’d told Myrtle he worked at Soames without mentioning his position with the company. That way he might have survived the embarrassment of the demotion he feared Mr. Grieves had in store for him, without the added humiliation of having to explain it to Myrtle. He groaned and laid his upper body across his desk and was still in that position when Helen, concerned that he might not be conscious of the hour, or conscious at all, came by to inform him it was quitting time.