In a glass-walled boardroom, businessmen in suits and ties sit around a rectangular table. Garrett Smit stands in front of these men feeling like a sheep among lions. Sweat pours from his forehead into his eyes. On the floor beside him, an easel holds a chart.
"You can." His voice quivers. He coughs, takes a sip of water, and tries again. "You can clearly see by this..." He sweeps his hand back--too far. "Ch--." The chart falls from the easel to the fl--. Garrett catches the chart but--.
The clients he had hoped to--; he needed to impress push back their chairs.
"Please," Garrett begs, "you need to--."
The clients make a beeline for the door. Garrett is called into his boss' office.
***
In an immaculate kitchen, two friends sip coffee in a quiet suburban neighborhood. As Bev Smit chats with her friend Mary, she weaves in yarn ends on the man's sweater she has just finished knitting. The cuff on her shirt rides up revealing a purple bruise.
"More bruises, Bev?"
"I'm a klutz." The same excuse she always uses.
"You're not his punching bag." Mary leaves the table. "Never again!" She heads down the hall to the bedroom.
Bev is in hot pursuit.
Mary slides open the glass doors and finds a suitcase in the back of the closet. She puts it on the bed, opens the drawers, and starts to pack.
"Mary, I can't." Bev notices the time on the alarm clock--5:40 PM. "I need to start supper." She grabs the clothes out of Mary's hands, stuffs them back into the bureau, and rushes down the hall to the kitchen."
"What are you going to make? I'll help."
"No, Mary, you need to go. Garrett will be upset if he finds you here."
"Come with me."
"I can't."
On the way to the door, Mary hugs her friend. "Call if you need anything--night or day."
Alone, Bev goes to the fridge and fills her hands with vegetables. She peels and chops.
As she works, she glances out the window. Headlights pierce the night.
She rushes to the freezer, grabs two pork chops, and puts them in the microwave to defrost.
She's taking the pork chops out of the microwave when the front door flies open. She runs to greet him. "Hi, honey. How was your day?"
"Peachy. Just peachy." He spies the extra coffee mug on the table. "Who. Was. Here?"
She grabs the offending mug--"Mary. Only Mary."--and deposits it in the sink.
"How many times do I have to tell you? No visitors!" He roars.
"Yes, I know. I'm sorry. She dropped by and I didn't want--."
"You're sorry. You're always sorry."
"Please, please, don't be mad. I have... I have something for you." She rushes into the bedroom, grabs the sweater, and rushes out.
"Wow," he mocks, "a sweater."
"I know it's not much...just a sweater, but... I made it for you. Please try it on."
"All right, all right. Oh, my God, woman." In the bedroom, in front of the full-length mirror, he pushes his head into the neck, hands into the sleeves, and pulls it down over his body. He stands admiring himself. And then he sees the suitcase.
Bev tries to explain, apologize, beg, but Garrett isn't prepared to listen. His anger boils over. He coils his fingers into fists and...
***
Bev brings her knitting to the guild meeting and when the president asks, "Is there any new business?", Bev, in a voice no louder than a whisper, shares her truth.
All present--Mary and the rest--listen carefully and when she is done a plan is formulated.
***
After work, Garrett heads to his favourite watering hole--a dive where drinkers go to drink. He heads to his dark corner. "Labatt's Wildcat," he tells the waitress, "and keep them coming."
Beer after beer, he becomes so loaded that he doesn't notice her through the fog until she sits down. Pretty, he judges and thinks it's his lucky day. "What'll you have? My treat."
"What kinds of coolers do you have?" She asks the waitress.
"Peach, raspberry, strawberry, and--."
She orders a strawberry cooler. When it's delivered to the table, she takes a sip and pulls her knitting needles out of her purse. He thinks that's odd but whatever. She's still pretty.
The next time he looks over she's flipping through a magazine. She must find what she's looking for because she presses the page open with the palm of her hand. Sliding the magazine across the vinyl tablecloth, she breathes in his ear. "Like it?"
He speaks to her cleavage. "I don't know. I guess."
"It's what your wife should knit, but she's too busy knitting for you."
He shifts his focus from her breasts to the magazine. "What?"
"Don't you think it would look nice on her? Suit her figure."
"How do you know what my wife looks like?"
She takes another sip of her drink. "Oh, we know a lot of things."
He drains the old and starts the new.
"We know how your wife got all those bruises."
He puts both hands palms down on the table, leans forward, and glares at her. "Leave me the--."
She swings her needle up in an arch and down. The metal tip slides into his hand, between the bones. "I said we know and if you don't stop, you'll see us again. And you don't want to see us again because the next time won't be so pleasant."
