Just Cause
By Samantha Henderson

At first he was a godsend. Angela LeFanu’s scrappy, under financed start-up needed an accountant—a good one—to pull it out its morass of tax exemptions and regulations, franchise fees and payroll tangles. Applicants and headhunters answered her ad and disconnected quickly when they heard the salary. But Shapiro didn’t hang up. In a quavering, querulous voice he made an appointment and actually showed up. Her sole prospect.

He wasn’t really a little man but he exuded inconsequence. His handshake was limp, chicken boned, unpleasantly damp. When he sat he caved in on himself like a paper accordion. His hair was combed sparsely across his scalp and he licked his lips nervously. No, Angela thought, he really won’t do, won’t do at all. Then came the sickening realization that she didn’t have a choice.

His resume was excellent: impressive credentials and a series of long-term jobs.

“Why did you leave Robinson Brothers?”

An unfortunate setback in the company’s finances necessitated layoffs. He hadn’t enough seniority to avoid the axe. But they were good enough to provide him a sterling recommendation—there it was in the back of the folder.

Nothing out of the ordinary. Many companies—especially bloated firms like Robinson Brothers—were downsizing, laying off good, competent people. But Shapiro was laid off six months ago; it was strange he hadn’t found work.

“Mr. Shapiro, there’s something I ask of all my employees. I know that many people take a job like this—with a growing company—as a stopgap to tide them over until they find a better one. I can’t afford the time to keep replacing people. If I hire you I ask a year’s commitment.”

She halfway hoped he’s refuse, but he placed his hand on his thin chest in a curiously old fashioned gesture.

“Ms. LeFanu, on my word of honor I promise that if you should employ me, I will give at least a year of my undivided loyalty.” She believed him.

Later that day she called his former managers, confirming his employment record and competence.

And although in their voices she thought she could detect that tone one employer uses to another to warn them off a prospective applicant, she was new to business, unsure and nervous. She could’ve imagined it.

So she hired him. An experienced accountant with an excellent record, willing to work for peanuts. It seemed to good to be true.

Of course it was.

Not that he couldn’t do the job. Not that he wasn’t a dedicated employee. It was just…

So many things.

The way he sucked his teeth after lunch.

The way he sniffed, sudden little snorts that always went in pairs, so she sat gritting her teeth waiting for the next one.

The musty mothball smell in his office.

The discreet memos he sent, hinting that Katrina the Receptionist’s phone manner left much to be desired (all the more irritating because entirely correct).

The way he never looked directly at anybody, swiveling his head like a broken-necked sparrow.

The way he cleared his throat before he said anything. Always.

The uncontrolled twitch in his left eyelid.

The apologetic way he sneezed.

And he was so damn good: conscientious, precise, painstaking. Never complained about working late. Simplified the bookkeeping and explained the more complicated aspects with infinite patience. Found deductions she never thought existed. There was no conceivable reason to fire him; she hadn’t just cause. It would be unfair and unwise; he was worth his weight in gold. He was a fantastic find.

He was driving her mad.

When, desperate, she called him into her office and told him that he was a superb accountant, worth far more than she could possibly afford and she wouldn’t blame him, not a bit, if he left right now and he should consider himself released from his one-year obligation, he only shook his head and smiled.

“You gave me a chance when nobody else would. Ms. LeFanu,” he said. “I promised you a year, and I’m a man of my word. No,” raising a hand as she started to object. “Nothing at all. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must finish the McCraven billing before five.” With a nasal snort, he was gone. Three minutes forty five seconds later the second snort echoed down the hallway.

Maybe, she thought, he’d get sick. So sick he couldn’t work for a week or so. Sick enough to go on disability.

Maybe he’d get very, very sick. She knew such thoughts were dangerous.

DOA at Good Samaritan, Katrina sobbed; the highway patrol just called. It fit that Shapiro’s workplace topped his list of emergency numbers.

Angela patted Katrina and called a staff meeting. She broke the news, watching their faces closely. Surely all of them felt as she did; none could possibly like the man. Yet there was Petersen in obvious shock. Ramirez teared up, and Jesse sat down, shaking. Had anyone even asked Shapiro to lunch? Angela didn’t know. She certainly hadn’t.

She told everyone to finish what they must and take the rest of the day off. She went to her office and closed the door, sitting at her desk and driving her nails into her palms because, try as she might, she could not be sorry that Shapiro was dead.

Friday the office was shrouded in unrelenting gloom. Katrina (who was well aware of Shapiro’s criticism) went through an entire box of Kleenex; even her phone manner had an unaccustomed gentleness. People worked in stunned silence, with only the occasional whispered query or answer. Walking past Shapiro’s office, Angela saw that someone had put an enormous bunch of daisies on his desk.

She tried so hard to be sad. She acted sad. She wore black. She shook her head regretfully. Like the others, she spoke in hushed, reverent tones. But inside, her heart was singing. Sweet freedom. Blue skies forever.

Monday morning she was in her office, trying to interpret the payroll, when Katrina began screaming. Angela rushed to the front desk to find most of the office staring at Shapiro, who stood unsteadily in the lobby. He wore a dingy gray suit, much crumpled and torn. What remained of his hair was stuck to his scalp with dried blood. A deep cut transversed one eye, swollen gruesomely shut. His left wrist dangled at an impossible angle.

Katrina continued emitting short, klaxon shrieks, until finally Jesse moved to her side and simply held her jaw shut. The silence was startling.

Angela found her voice. “Shapiro.” She tried not to sound disappointed. “They said you were dead.”

“Indeed, Ms. LeFanu, I am at that.” He held out his dangling hand and regarded it ruefully. “I broke my wrist, you know. It seems almost silly, doesn’t it? Considering.”

She realized her knees were shaking and tried to regain control. She tried to speak, failed, tried again. “Could I see you in my office, please? Now?”

He smiled. It was a dreadful sight. “Of course, Ms. LeFanu.”

“You see,” he began, “imperative as the demands of mortality might be, I have more pressing obligations here. Namely to you.” His manner was intolerably self-important. “I have always said that I would complete a year of employment. A promise is a promise. I said as much to the authorities.” She watched with fascinated horror as a dark patch formed sluggishly on the left shoulder of his jacket.

“It took some persuasion, but I’m glad to say that eventually they saw my point. I convinced them you would appreciate any extra time I might contrive to spend in this life. Although,” he mused as she continued to stare at him, “’life’ is a misnomer. I should say existence.” He sat back, pleased with his choice of words, smearing God-knows-what on the back of the chair.

Her mouth was bone-dry but she managed to speak. “Really, Mr. Shapiro, I appreciate, I truly appreciate your…your loyalty.” She gulped. “But I don’t think…I don’t think I deserve…”

“But my dear lady! He beamed expansively, and she tried not to wince as the torn flap that was his cheek drooped, exposing a row of yellow teeth. His good eye twinkled. “You do, you do deserve my continued service! That was the point I made to the Undersecretary, quite firmly, and eventually he was forced to agree. In fact he said himself that you deserved to have me back. A full seven months remain, or rather,” he pulled a bloodstained diary from an inner pocket and consulted it. “Or rather, six months and twenty seven days. That completes the year, after which I must regrettably take my leave. But until then I will be here, bright and early, every day.” He rose and offered his hand, which she automatically took. “And now I must tackle the delinquent accounts. The Ginsberg Group in particular. Truly shameless.” At the door, he shook his head sadly and sniffed, piercingly. Then he was gone.

She stared, numb, at her blood smeared hand as she waited for the second sniff. She glanced at her desk calendar. Two hundred ten days remaining. The rest of March, April, May, June, July, August. September. The hot months.

From Shapiro’s office a liquid snort resounded. Angela clamped her eyes shut, trying to loosen her shoulders. They refused to budge.

It was going to be a long year.

The End

Story copyright Samantha Henderson, published by the Fortean Bureau
http://www.forteanbureau.com