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Authors: Charles Mathes

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“Yes, ma'am! It's our pleasure to serve you without gratuities! Have a great stay!”
Lucy shut the door behind him. That made up for Joey. Maybe Bob would make employee of the week when she filed her report. Did she really look like a “ma'am”?
Lucy was at the mirror, trying to decide whether she was over the hill, when the phone rang.
“Hello?” she said tentatively.
“Hello, Lucy. It's Tug.”
Lucy didn't like this already. Tug Berwin was her boss, an ex-army officer with a cleft in his chin as deep as a Welcome Inn closet. They rarely spoke. Lucy mailed her evaluations and expense documentation to Tug at company headquarters in Dallas every week. He wired paychecks and expense reimbursements to her New Hampshire bank and forwarded her itinerary. For him to be calling meant something was wrong.
“Hello, Tug,” she said, trying not to sound concerned. “What a nice surprise.”
“So, Lucy, how ya doin'?”
“Fine, thanks. And you?”
It must be really bad, Lucy decided. Tug Berwin didn't give a shit how anyone was doing. Tug Berwin had actually
missed his daughter's performance as the Sugar Plum Fairy to attend a Monster Trucks rally for goodness sakes!
“Look, Luce, we've been together a long time,” said Tug. She could practically hear his perfect posture over the phone. “I respect you too much to pull any punches.”
“You mean you'll let me have it right in the kisser? I appreciate that, Tug.”
“Fact is, Lucy, the company's reorganizing. Your job's been phased out.”
“I see,” she said, stunned. “When is this going to happen?” Maybe he would cut himself on the creases in his trousers and die before the paperwork was completed.
“It's already a done deal. You can drop off the car in Chicago—the long-term lot at O'Hare. Send me the keys and the parking claim-check with your final expense report. Cut your company credit cards up and send them, too. You're due for four days' severance. I'll wire it with your final expenses.”
“Just like that?” Lucy asked, stiffening her upper lip.
“Just like what?” responded Tug, genuinely confused.
Lucy managed to muster a smile. The warmhearted American corporation! In a way she was almost relieved. Something like this was bound to happen. It always did. She had always survived. She would again.
“I've already checked in here,” said Lucy after a moment. “Would you mind if I …”
“Relax, kid,” said Tug magnanimously. “Take your time. You don't have to be in Chicago until tomorrow. Have a great stay.”
T
he drive from Kankakee—long, straight roads bisecting cornfields—was endless, cloudless, featureless. It was April, so there weren't even crops yet to challenge the vast, flat horizon.
Lucy felt strange about suddenly not having a job, like someone had come and taken away the rest of her dinner. What, all this spinach and no dessert? Not that people who served spinach for dinner would come up with anything very appealing for dessert anyway. Lucy suddenly realized that being fired by Welcome Inn might be a blessing in disguise.
“I could have been inspecting hotels for the rest of my life,” Lucy said into the din of radio preachers that passed for entertainment in this part of the world. “This is just God's way of getting me out of my rut.”
Lucy pushed the buttons on the radio, feeling a little excited, a little frightened, a little sad. With all the nuns, the foster homes, and the succession of reptilian employers that passed for her career, it was hard to believe that God really cared all that much about her. She gave Him the benefit of the doubt, however.
The miles rolled past her windows. Lucy couldn't remember a thing about this stretch of highway, though she had taken it dozens of times. All America looked alike. The last few years of her life looked alike. What would they look like now?
It was early afternoon when Lucy finally checked into the Chicago Towers Hotel and dropped off her luggage. There were four bags altogether. She usually left two in the trunk of the car, but now that would be impossible.
After going to the bathroom and splashing some water on
her face, Lucy drove out to O'Hare per Tug Berwin's orders and parked George Bernard Shaw, her red Reliant K, for the last time.
She was surprised by the slight pang she felt in her chest, like her heart was being pinched. She knew it was stupid to be sentimental about a Plymouth, but she couldn't help it. She just sat for a few minutes, her hands on the wheel.
“I never got so much mileage out of a man before, George,” she whispered. George maintained a respectful silence.
Lucy went through the glove compartment and looked under the seats, not wanting to leave the car in too disgraceful a condition. Evidence of her tenure was everywhere: neglected receipts, fugitive M & M's, a pair of mittens, some tampons, her Sony Walkman. Lucy had bought the little tape player a few years ago, intending to take up jogging and listen to great literature. The impulse had lasted about a hundred yards.
After filling two plastic bags with personal debris, Lucy finally took a deep breath, got out of the car, and locked the door for the last time. It was a long walk to the arrivals area, where she caught the courtesy shuttle back to the hotel. Lucy put on the earphones and listened to the first ten minutes of
Pride and Prejudice
on the bus before the Walkman's batteries gave out.
The Chicago Towers was a nice change from a Welcome Inn. The pillows were deliciously fluffy, there was actually marble in her bathroom, and of course they offered a special weekend rate.
Welcome Inns had given Lucy an extra $100 a week as travel allowance, and it made more sense to just live in hotels over weekends than to commute back to some expensive apartment. She hadn't needed a permanent residence anyway. She'd gotten along fine all her life without one, going from foster homes to dorms to furnished apartments.
Lucy knew she wouldn't be staying long in Chicago, so she
only unpacked two bags. It took six and a half minutes. Then she phoned her accountant, Billy Rosenberg.
Billy's office in Manchester was Lucy's legal address. It was where Tug Berwin wired her salary. She had chosen Manchester because New Hampshire had no state tax. Billy took care of her tax returns and whatever personal credit-card bills she ran up.
“Wh-wh-what are your plans?” Billy said when Lucy told him the news. He was a little self-conscious about his stutter, but Lucy thought it was dear.
“I'll get a job, I guess,” she said. “I just didn't want you to worry when the money stopped coming from Dallas.”
“Hey. Wh-why don't you come up here and st-st-stay for a while?” Billy asked carefully. “There are plenty of jobs available h-here.”
“You're sweet,” said Lucy uncomfortably.
“I'd love to see you. I r-r-really mean it.”
“Well, I'll think about it.”
There was an awkward pause.
“There are some tax forms I need you to sign,” Billy said after a moment. “Wh-where should I send them?”
“I'll be in touch.”
“Don't wait too long.”
“I'll try not to,” she said and hung up.
Men, she winced. What did Billy see in her, anyway? Lucy couldn't understand his interest and didn't want to think about it. She had enough troubles without getting involved with an accountant. Besides, she was hungry.
Lucy changed out of her traveling clothes and went downstairs. It was after three o'clock. She went over to the newsstand and picked up a
Tribune
to read over lunch.
There were three restaurants in the lobby. Lucy automatically chose the expensive one. She kept meaning to economize on weekend meals, but she couldn't make it to Monday without a shrimp cocktail or two.
Lucy ordered half a carafe of white wine to celebrate her release from wage earning and browsed through the paper.
The end section contained the classifieds. Lucy casually leafed through the want ads. She knew she should start looking for a new job right away, but the thought of working in the Midwest was depressing. It was too flat, too wholesome. She'd never fit in. She'd do better to try the West Coast. Or the Rockies. Or Mars.
The ad was in a section titled “Public and Commercial Notices” and it was practically a miracle Lucy saw it at all. The funereal black box around it must have matched her mood and thus caught her eye. She sat bolt upright and read it again, her mouth agape.
Will anyone knowing the whereabouts of Lucy MacAlpin Trelaine kindly contact Dwyer Parrin & Calabrese, attys.
There was an address and phone number in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. Lucy couldn't believe it. After all these years of looking, someone was looking for her. Someone in western Massachusetts!
The waiter was returning with her wine. Lucy almost knocked him over on her way out, hollering over her shoulder that she'd be back.
She ran through the mirrored lobby like a schoolgirl and waited for what seemed like days for an elevator. It all seemed so incredible. If she hadn't lost her job she wouldn't have been in Chicago, would never have seen the ad. Who wanted to find her? she wondered impatiently. And why? Finally she was in her room and dialing.
Chicago was on Central Standard Time, so Pittsfield would be an hour later. It would be after four. And on a Friday. Would they still be there?
The phone was answered on the fifth ring. “Dwyer Parrin & Calabrese, please hold.”
Lucy stared at the receiver. Musak blared at her. She choked down her excitement. What had gotten into her, anyway? This was probably just another false alarm. It was another two agonizing minutes before the voice returned.
“Dwyer Parrin & Calabrese. Can I help you?”
“I'm calling about the ad in the
Chicago Tribune
for Lucy MacAlpin Trelaine?” Lucy said breathlessly.
“Yes,” droned the voice. “You want Mr. Parrin. One moment, please.”
There was another pause. Then a faint male voice answered.
“Yes, hello?”
“Mr. Parrin?”
“Yes, hello?”
“Yes. I'm Lucy MacAlpin Trelaine and I'm calling about the ad in the
Chicago Tribune
.”
“Oh, yes,” squeaked the voice. “Now let me see. Do you claim to be Lucy MacAlpin Trelaine?”
“I
am
Lucy MacAlpin Trelaine,” she said, struggling to keep calm. “I promise you there aren't any other Trelaines. Believe me, I know.”
“How old are you, Miss Trelaine?”
“Pardon?”
“It is essential that I have that information. I hope you don't mind my asking.”
“I'll be thirty in October,” Lucy said, not minding any more than she minded the root canal her dentist promised to inflict the next time she got back to Boston. “Look, what's this all about, Mr. Parrin?”
“And can you tell me who your parents were?”
“No. My parents were killed in a car crash when I was a baby.”
“Do you know where that crash took place?”
“Western Massachusetts. Look, will you please tell me …”
“Can you produce proof of identity? Birth certificate, passport, or the like?”
Lucy tried to distance herself, to appear uninterested, but she couldn't.
“Would a driver's license and credit cards do?”
There was a pause.
“I suppose so.”
Lucy tried not to exhale her relief audibly. Ultimately the Massachusetts department of motor vehicles had accepted the St. Anthony admission file as proof of birth, but not before making her go through a nightmare of paperwork.
“Very well, then,” continued Parrin with a sniff. “We represent the estate of Dorothy A. Wieters. Lucy MacAlpin Trelaine has been named in the will of Miss Wieters. If you can prove your identity you may come to our office and claim your inheritance.”
“An inheritance? What is it?”
“I'm afraid you'll have to present your credentials before I can discuss the matter further.”
Lucy practically peed in her pants. This had to be someone who was related to her. And there could be money involved!
“What was this lady's name again?” she stammered.
“Dorothy A. Wieters.”
“I'll be there on Monday morning,” said Lucy.
“Fine. I'll transfer you back to my secretary to make an appointment.”
“What time do you open?” said Lucy.
“We're here at ten, but …”
“See you then!”
Lucy startled herself with a whoop of pure joy, then collapsed, giggling, onto the bed, at once embarrassed and delighted at the emotions roiling inside her. How could she ever wait until Monday? Was there a direct flight to Pittsfield? Who the hell was Dorothy A. Wieters?

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