Page 2 of Axe Backwards
Fix your face and get on with it.
My eyes were red and my face was blotchy, but I had no choice but to pull myself together.
Business mode. People are depending on you.
I did my best to fix my makeup, then I brushed my hair and smoothed down my skirt. After years in corporate PR, one would think I’d be a master at this.
Pitching, schmoozing, convincing people to open their wallets.
I used to eat up city sidewalks in four-inch heels.
I raked in six figures while using my expense account to its fullest, dining and drinking and shopping in the finest places.
My confidence rivaled that of ten mediocre men. Nothing and no one stood in my way.
Regardless of the news I had just received, I had to show up and do my damn job. This was my purpose, and it was the only thing I had left.
Yes, meetings like this were the worst part of the job, but they couldn’t be avoided. The food pantry had only survived thelast year because of the generosity of Owen Hebert, who sent a construction crew to replace our roof pro bono and made a sizable donation on top of that.
As huge as the gesture was, it wasn’t enough. There was never enough.
The summer lumberjack fundraiser had helped, but now that it was April, we were running out of those funds. We needed a big infusion of cash before the end of the year.
The food pantry’s resources were needed year-round, but the urgency grew during the summer when local kids couldn’t get breakfast and lunch at school.
A mobile lunch truck would help tremendously. I’d seen it in Boston and in other bigger towns. The food bank or another organization would park at a playground or community space, giving families access to meals and supplies in multiple locations.
Doing so put less stress on the physical building and went directly to the kids who needed to eat.
It’s go time. Get out there and get the money. You can do this.
With a slow breath out, I turned and grasped the door handle with one hand and went for the dead bolt with the other. I would crush this meeting and then go home and feel my feelings.
Only an ancient oak door stood in my way. And it wasn’t opening.
I clutched the tarnished brass dead bolt and twisted my wrist.
It didn’t budge.
I used both hands next, wrenching it back as hard as I could.
In response, there was a snapping sound, and the turn piece finally moved.
But the dead bolt was stuck in the doorframe.
Fuck.
I wiggled the turn piece back and forth, but the damn dead bolt, which was probably older than electricity, was fully engaged, anchoring the door to the frame.
Tremors racked my body. They were slight at first, just enough to make my hands shake. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Then my throat went tight. This could not be happening.
Panting now, I checked my smartwatch. I only had eleven minutes to make it across Main Street and get to the meeting.
Think, Vic, think.
I banged on the door, putting my shoulder into it. God help me.
