She twisted in her chair, cupped one hand over a knee. “That Monday, I’d been delivering charts when Larner called me into his office. Something about new filing procedures. That sounded strange—why would the director want to talk to a student volunteer about procedure? I didn’t want to go, but I couldn’t see any way out. If I refused, that would be insubordination. When I got there, Larner’s secretary was out in front, and that made me feel better. But then she told me to go right in and closed the door after me. It was summer and I was wearing a sleeveless white sundress and my tan was pretty blatant and I just knew he’d say something about it and started to tell myself I was stupid for not covering up more. But Larner didn’t even look at me. He was standing, sleeves rolled up, a cigar in one hand, his back turned, on the phone, listening. I stood near the door. He was rocking on his heels and clenching the phone tight—he was a big, pink disgusting thing, and his hands were tight around the receiver—mottled, like lunch meat. Then he half turned, but he still didn’t acknowledge me. His face was different from all the other times I’d seen him. In the past he’d always smiled. Leered. Now he looked furious. Red-faced—he’s naturally ruddy, but this time he was like a beet. I remember the contrast with his hair—he had this blond-white hair that looked as if he waxed it. I just stayed there, with my back against the door, and he barked something into the phone and slammed it down. All I caught was Willie Burns’s name. Then something about ‘We’d better do something about it.’ Then he hung up.” She held out one hand. “That’s it. I never paid much attention to that, because it really wasn’t the focus of my memories.”

“You had your own issues,” I said.

She lowered her head, then raised it very slowly. Her eyes were closed, and her face had lost color.

“After he slammed down the phone, he began to dial another number, then he saw me, gave me this surprised look—surprised and hateful. As if I wasn’t supposed to be there. Then there it was—that smile of his. But the anger remained on his face, also, and the combination scared me—predatory. He came around from behind the desk, shook my hand, held on too long, told me to sit down, said something to the effect of ‘How’s my favorite volunteer?’ Then he walked behind me and just stood there, not talking or moving. I could smell his cigar, the smoke kept wafting toward me. To this day, I can’t see a cigar without . . .”

She sprang up, strode to her own desk, and sat down, putting wood and space between us.