Beth Kaczmarek • Fiction
Ruby was headed to her second job interview this week. Waves of nausea kept bubbling up into her throat like swirling white water rapids, and then, the elevator door dinged. She had made it to the nineteenth floor five minutes ahead of her interview at There Magazine, which gave her plenty of time to take a deep breath and get a grip.
Getting through school, both emotionally and financially, had been tough since her mother had died. Weekly breakdowns of overwhelming sadness made it hard for her to focus. Ruby’s few scholarships, plus her part-time job at the copy shop provided just enough for her to get by, but barely. Ruby would graduate next month knowing she could make it on her own if she landed this assistant copyeditor position for one of her favorite magazines.
“You must be Ruby,” interjected a soft voice from a smartly dressed woman with dark hair and blue eyes.
“I’m Lydia, she continued, “I am the current assistant copyeditor helping Doug Pritchard with the interviews for my replacement. Right this way.”
“I love your blouse, the black and white pattern is stunning,” Ruby blurted out as she was often compelled to do when excited and nervous.
“Thank you,” Lydia smiled. “I shouldn’t be telling you this but,” she cupped her hand around her mouth and leaned in closer to confide in Ruby, “it was my mother’s.” Lydia’s friendly demeanor had already put Ruby at ease.
As they walked down the hallway, Ruby took a few deep breaths going over what she knew about There Magazine’s famed editor-in-chief, Doug Pritchard. He was a bit of a recluse, as many great writers are, but he earned respect and recognition in the literary community for his stalwartly attempt to revive a classic Bay Area magazine after the Dot Com crash. Under his watch, There Magazine had once again become the renowned, iconic periodical that it had been in the mid-twentieth century. Approaching Pritchard’s office, Ruby saw the room was meticulously organized with neatly stacked piles of magazines and page layouts. Ruby took in the thick scent of book bindings and sandalwood just as Doug Pritchard swiveled around in his heavy chair.
“Ruby Harris?” His hushed tone and delicate frame were not what Ruby had expected. “I have reviewed your resume and writing samples and was quite impressed with your work.”
“Nice to meet you Mr. Pritchard. I have been quite the fan of There since I was…”
Before Ruby could finish, he interjected with startling intensity, “I have one question to ask you, which will inform me if you are right for the position. Ruby, why do you write?”
Ruby confidently looked at both Pritchard and Lydia replying, “Not to be forgotten.”
“Well, that’s quite a lofty ideal for such a young woman. I do hope you will elaborate.”
“I lost my mother last year,” Ruby explained as her bottom lip began to tremble. She took a short sip of air, pushed past the welling tears and deep ache in the back of her throat, and continued, “Writing has been my way of recording memories of her. She lives on through my writing. I will do the same to record my own existence as meaningfully as possible in life with the hopes that the memory of me will also live on.”
Pritchard gazed at her emotionless through eyes as dark as pools of ink. He sighed, “Is there a particular memento that reminds you of your mother? Some keepsake that she left behind?”
How could the answer to this question help me land a job copyediting and writing? Ruby speculated. She then focused her mind on the one object that reminded her of her mother, the tiny Mallard decoy that sat by her bed.
“My mother would always tell me stories about growing up on the Susquehanna River, as the daughter of a duck hunter. My grandfather’s collection of hand carved decoys represented a long history of folk art in our family. That small wooden duck is not only a symbol of my mom but an entire lineage of American hunters and their craft.”
“Thank you, Ms. Harris. We have a few more interviews to conclude before we make a final decision,” Pritchard murmured. “But one more thing, I am having a party at my home to celebrate Lydia’s departure from the company tonight. I hope you will join us. My secretary will give you the address on your way out.”
That was the shortest interview ever, I must have blown it, Ruby lamented as she bit her lower lip. She quickly brightened up with a smile and responded, “I would love to, but I am supposed to close the copy store tonight. Fridays can be busy, I don’t think I ca..”
Pritchard interrupted affably, “Think of it as a second-round interview. You’ll get to meet everyone and see if you fit in with the team,” Pritchard concluded with a wink.
Ruby’s nausea had lifted as she entered the elevator, a temporary side effect of the interviewing process, but that wink, it struck her. As she descended the nineteen floors and bolted back out onto busy Market Street, something about that wink held a secret, a deep secret. Since her attendance would potentially lead to employment and stability, Ruby would be at that party, plus, what secret would that wink unlock?
Just as the evening fog began covering downtown with its thick, cozy blanket, Ruby walked towards Doug Pritchard’s home. Her steps jutted down, down, down the hillier side of Alamo Square towards his address. His home stood catty-corner to the notorious Painted Ladies, with an embellished gold leaf façade and an exotic garden of California fan palms and giant birds of paradise in the front yard. She steadied her ankles with each descending step and braced her psyche for the secret Pritchard’s wink would unveil.
Upon reaching the front steps, Ruby found the front door slightly ajar and entered a lavish foyer decorated with hand painted silk wallpaper. As she looked down the hallway through multiple rooms into a Victorian era dining room, she was in awe. “This place is like a museum,” she whispered under her breath.
“Yes, it surely is,” replied Lydia, who appeared right behind her flashing a restrained smile. “Doug Pritchard is a living museum.” Something in Lydia’s expression and tone showed unease.
Change could be difficult, Ruby thought as she returned a feeble smile. Maybe leaving the company was harder than Lydia had expected. As Ruby looked away, she noticed a large set of antique teacups and saucers adorning the fireplace mantle. Porcelain commemorative plates stood in a glass case in the dining room. Miniature paintings covered all four walls. Extra built-in shelves held ceramic figurines, painted eggs, and crystal vases. Pritchard’s entire home was encircled in a collection of antiques. Ruby’s eyes darted around the room searching for other familiar faces. There was something odd about the guests and the air of apathy in the room. Everything about the party felt peculiar.
In her whirlwind entrance this morning, she hadn’t taken in the feel of the office. She had been too self-consumed with her interview. Had it felt as bizarre as this? Could colleagues display comfort in their collective workspace and exude such discomfort in the private machinations of their boss’s home? Just as Ruby was walking towards a group to introduce herself, Pritchard clasped his hand on her left shoulder guiding her away from the others.
“Ah, Ms. Harris, I am so glad you were able to make it. I have something upstairs I want to show you,” Pritchard’s tone was unusual and hurried.
Panicked, Ruby blurted out, “You can’t possibly be leading me upstairs to…”
“My dear, get a hold of yourself, my most prized tchotchkes are upstairs.”
“Your what?”
“My most prized baubles, my mementos, my collections. You must come and see.”
An unexplainable energy pulled Ruby towards the staircase and up the flight of steps compelling her to take a closer look. There was something ill-omened and abnormal about his entire collection, as if each object had a faint inner voice screaming through a strangled throat, a final cry for help.
“Isn’t it magnificent,” Pritchard announced as he walked. Wait until you see my newest addition!”
Ruby, confused by his enthusiasm responded, “Did you collect all of these items yourself sir?”
“Yes Ruby, I did. Each item on the wall is the life of a person.”
“You mean, they somehow symbolize a life.”
“No, each is actually a human life. Their soul has been extracted from their body and ultimately trapped inside the object.”
Ruby gasped, “How? Why?!”
“We are all inherently afraid of our own death, that is why I offer my services. Every individual on the wall has come to me on their own, in a very desperate situation, so I help people get out of that situation and, in turn, help ease human fear and suffering,” said Pritchard.
“And what do you gain from it all?” Ruby sputtered.
“A fantastic, eclectic collection.”
“That seems so trivial, so unimportant in the greater picture of our existence,” Ruby blurted out. She grew hot and hazy around her eyes.
“And writing your little stories is more important? My dear, you, like all the rest will be reduced to a solitary memory locked within a single object at the end of your life, it’s inevitable.”
“What do you mean I will be reduced?!” A pang of fear shot through Ruby’s core, the question from the interview, the Mallard decoy, her mother’s keepsake. Ruby fought against Pritchard’s ideas in her mind. We are not all reduced to a single object at our death, we live on in memory, in stories… in writing.
“Let me show you my newest piece which arrived tonight, in fact, just in time for the party. I have been waiting a long for a replica of Lydian pottery.”
Ruby’s blood suddenly felt cold pumping through her veins as her eyes fixated on the nearest wall. The pattern on the clay pot was the exact same black and white pattern as Lydia’s blouse earlier today.
“Have you heard of the ancient region of Lydia in Anatolia? This beautiful piece is a replica of the Lydian people’s pottery from the 6th century BC. Our Lydia owed me for covering multiple, expensive hospital stays for her ailing mother,” announced Pritchard. “Her mother passed away this past month.”
Ruby was saddened and enraged. She had just seen Lydia downstairs and had the urge to find her and know she was alright. But deep in the pit of her stomach, Ruby knew Lydia was no longer down there, she was right here on Pritchard’s wall, repaying a debt and portrayed as an ancient clay pot. What could Ruby do? She had no idea how Pritchard turned human lives into his antique collection, let alone how they could be released. Could they be released?
As if reading Ruby’s mind Pritchard responded, “There is no way to reverse it. Once someone has agreed to this transaction, the metamorphosis takes place and there is no turning back. We are all suffering as humans; many create their own suffering. I help people face death and end their misery earlier, knowing they will be remembered.”
Flustered, Ruby yelled, “You can’t take away someone’s hopes and dreams, you can’t take away their life!”
“People are good at destroying their own hopes and dreams by not remaining disciplined enough to follow them. Our monkey brains are easily distracted in life,” retorted Pritchard.
She thought to herself as she backed towards the staircase at the end of the hall, how could he be the face of a business whose objective is sharing stories and yet be living behind this whole world of soul collecting?
Pritchard paused and looked intently at Ruby. “Now that you know about my collection, I would like to hire you, Ruby. You could help edit and write for the magazine but would also be a part of all of this,” Pritchard said emphatically gesturing to the room. “Will you start Monday?”
Ruby deliberated for a moment. How could this be real? How could I support this operation? Ruby was petrified. Now that she knew Pritchard’s secret, she wasn’t sure she could refuse. Would she someday owe him a favor and have to repay him with her life? This entire hidden agenda was nothing she could have prepared for.
And what if Pritchard was right, the memory of each of us is reduced to the association of a single item at our death? Our actions are lost, our words are lost, and our voices fade. Following generations only learn about the idea of us, that is all that remains. The life we occupied becomes symbolized by a teacup, figurine, or a dish on someone’s mantle. Ruby feared her refusal might expedite her own placement into Pritchard’s collection.
Without further consideration, Ruby uttered a timid, “Yes.”
“Ah good, so many of us make decisions on more than what is morally right, I judged your motivations correctly, we will see you after the weekend.”
She quickly turned away before Pritchard could see the disgusted expression on her face. In that moment she hated herself. Her head was pulsing, her eyes hot with tears, her mouth dry with disappointment. It was time to go. No one was holding Ruby in the house against her will yet there was a force making it difficult to leave. She moved as quickly as she could towards the staircase, yet she felt like she was wading through molasses.
Before she could talk to anyone, she fled down the stairs, down the landing, and climbed the hill up, up, up back towards the direction of home. She kept on walking and thought only of death and the choices one makes each day that leads up to their end. What would become of her and her decisions, of her mother who was already fading away, and all the individuals displayed in Pritchard’s home? The night air felt cool and comforting as she walked.
Ruby had made her choice. Now the question was, would she be remembered for her writing or would she become an object on Pritchard’s wall. Or both? She would find out on Monday.
Leonardo Magazine 