William Tenn - Wednesday's Child

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Wednesday's Child

William Tenn

When he first came to scrutinize Wednesday Gresham with his rimless spectacles and watery blue eyes,

Fabian Balik knew nothing of the biological contradictions that were so incredibly a part of her essential

body structure. He had not even no-ticed—as yet—that she was a remarkably pretty girl with eyes like

rain-sparkling violets. His original preoccupation with her was solely and specifically as a problem in

personnel administration.

All of which was not too surprising, because Fabian Balik was a thoroughly intent, thoroughly

sincere young office manager, who had convinced his glands conclusively, in several bitter skirmishes,

that their interests didn't have a chance against the inter-ests of Slaughter, Stark & Slingsby: Advertising

& Public Relations.

Wednesday was one of the best stenographers in the secretarial pool that was un-der his immediate

supervision. There were, however, small but highly unusual der-elictions in her employment history. They

consisted of peculiarities which a less dedicated and ambitious personnel man might have put aside as

mere trifles, but which Fabian, after a careful study of her six-year record with the firm, felt he could not,

in good conscience, ignore. On the other hand, they would obviously require an extended discussion and

he had strong views about cutting into an employee's working time.

Thus, much to the astonishment of the office and the confusion of Wednesday herself, he came up to

her one day at noon, and informed her quite calmly that they were going to have lunch together.

"This is a nice place," he announced, when they had been shown to a table. "It's not too expensive,

but I've discovered it serves the best food in the city for the price. And it's a bit off the beaten track so

that it never gets too crowded. Only people who know what they want manage to come here."

Wednesday glanced around, and nodded. "Yes," she said. "I like it too. I eat here a lot with the

girls."

After a moment, Fabian picked up a menu. "I suppose you don't mind if I order for both of us?" he

inquired. "The chef is used to my tastes. He'll treat us right."

The girl frowned. "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Balik, but—"

"Yes?" he said encouragingly, though he was more than surprised. He hadn't ex-pected anything but

compliance. After all, she was probably palpitating at being out with him.

"I'd like to order for myself," she said. "I'm on a—a special diet."

He raised his eyebrows and was pleased at the way she blushed. He nodded slowly, with dignity,

letting his displeasure come through in the way he pronounced his words. "Very well, as you please."

A few moments later, though, curiosity got too strong and broke through the ice. "What kind of diet

is that? Fresh-fruit salad, a glass of tomato juice, raw cabbage, and a baked potato? You can't be trying

to lose weight if you eat potatoes."

Wednesday smiled timidly. "I'm not trying to reduce, Mr. Balik. Those are all foods rich in Vitamin

C. I need a lot of Vitamin C."

Fabian remembered her smile. There had been a few spots of more-than-natural whiteness in it.

"Bad teeth?" he inquired.

"Bad teeth and—" Her tongue came out and paused for a thoughtful second be-tween her lips.

"Mostly bad teeth," she said. "This is a nice place. There's a restaurant almost like it near where I live. Of

course it's a lot cheaper—"

"Do you live with your parents, Miss Gresham?"

"No, I live alone. I'm an orphan."

He waited until the waiter had deposited the first course, then speared a bit of the shrimp and

returned to the attack. "Since when?"

She stared at him over her fresh-fruit salad. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Balik?"

"Since when? How long have you been an orphan?"

"Since I was a little baby. Someone left me on the doorstep of a foundling home."

He noticed that while she was replying to his questions in an even tone of voice, she was staring at

her food with a good deal of concentration and her blush had be-come more pronounced. Was she

embarrassed at having to admit her probable lack of legitimacy? he wondered. Surely she had grown

accustomed to it in—how old was she?—twenty-four years. Nonsense, of course she had.

"But on your original application form, Miss Gresham, you gave Thomas and Mary Gresham as the

names of your parents."

Wednesday had stopped eating and was playing with her water glass. "They were an old couple

who adopted me," she said in a very low voice. "They died when I was fifteen. I have no living relatives."

"That you know of," he pointed out, raising a cautionary finger.

Much to Fabian's surprise she chuckled. It was a very odd chuckle and made him feel extremely

uncomfortable. "That's right, Mr. Balik. I have no living relatives—that I know of." She looked over his

shoulder and chuckled again. "That I know of," she repeated softly to herself.

Fabian felt irritably that the interview was somehow getting away from him. He raised his voice

slightly. "Then who is Dr. Morris Lorington?"

She was attentive again. In fact, wary was more like it. "Dr. Morris Lorington?"

"Yes, the man you said should be notified in case of emergency. In case anything happened to you

while you were working for us."

She looked very wary now. Her eves were narrowed, she was watching him very closely; her

breathing was a bit faster, too. "Dr. Lorington is an old friend. He—he was the doctor at the orphanage.

After the Greshams adopted me, I kept going to him whenever—" Her voice trailed off.

"Whenever you needed medical attention?" Fabian suggested.

"Ye-es," she said, brightening, as if he had come up with an entirely novel reason for consulting a

physician. "I saw him whenever I needed medical attention."

Fabian grunted. There was something very wrong but tantalizingly elusive about this whole business.

But she was answering his questions. He couldn't deny that: she was certainly answering.

"Do you expect to see him next October?" he inquired.

And now Wednesday was no longer wary. She was frightened. "Next October?" she quavered.

Fabian finished the last of his shrimp and wiped his lips. But he didn't take his eyes off her. "Yes,

next October, Miss Gresham. You've applied for a month's leave of ab-sence, beginning October

fifteenth. Five years ago, after you had been working for Slaughter, Stark and Slingsby for thirteen

months, you also applied for a leave of absence in October."

He was amazed at how scared she looked. He felt triumphantly that he had been right in looking into

this. The feeling he had about her had not been merely curios-ity; it had been an instinct of good

personnel management

"But I'm not getting paid for the time off. I'm not asking to be paid for it, Mr. Balik. And I didn't get

paid the—the other time."

She was clutching her napkin up near her face, and she gave the impression of being ready to bolt

through the back door of the restaurant. Her blushes had departed with such thoroughness as to leave

her skin absolutely white.

"The fact that you're not going to be paid for the time off, Miss Gresham—" Fabian began, only to

be interrupted by the waiter with the entree. By the time the man had gone, he was annoyed to observe

that Wednesday had used the respite to recover some of her poise. While she was still pale, she had a

spot of red in each cheek and she was leaning back in her chair now instead of using the edge of it.

"The fact that you're not going to be paid is of no consequence," he continued nonetheless. "It's

merely logical. After all, you have two weeks of vacation with pay every year. Which brings me to the

second point. You have every year made two un-usual requests. First, you've asked for an additional

week's leave of absence without pay, making three weeks in all. And then you've asked—"

"To take it in the early Spring," she finished, her voice entirely under control. "Is there anything

wrong with that, Mr. Balik? That way I don't have any conflict with the other girls and the firm is sure of a

secretary being in the office all through the summer."

"There's nothing wrong with that per se. By that I mean," he explained carefully, "that there is nothing

wrong with the arrangement as such. But it makes for loose ends, for organizational confusion. And

loose ends, Miss Gresham, loose ends and organizational confusion have no place in a well-regulated

office."

He was pleased to note that she was looking uncomfortable again.

"Does that mean—are you trying to tell me that—I might be laid off?"

"It could happen," Fabian agreed, neglecting to add that it was, however, very un-likely to happen in

the case of a secretary who was as generally efficient on the one hand, and as innocuous on the other, as

Wednesday Gresham. He carefully cut a fork-sized portion of roast beef free of its accompanying strip of

orange fat before going on. "Look at it this way. How would it be if every girl in the office asked for an

additional week's leave of absence every year—even if it was without pay, as it would have to be? And

then, every few years, wanted an additional month's leave of absence on top of that? What kind of an

office would we have, Miss Gresham? Not a well-regulated one, certainly."

As he chewed the roast beef with the requisite thoroughness he beamed at the thoughtful concern on

her face and was mentally grateful that he hadn't had to present that line of argument to anyone as sharp

as Arlette Stein, for example. He knew what the well-hipped thirtyish widow would have immediately

replied: "But every girl in the office doesn't ask for it, Mr. Balik." A heavy sneer at such sophistry would

mean little to Stein.

Wednesday, he appreciated, was not the person to go in for such counterattacks. She was rolling

her lips distressedly against each other and trying to think of a polite, good-employee way out. There was

only one, and she would have to come to it in a moment.

She did.

"Would it help any," she began, and stopped. She took a deep breath. "Would it help any, if I told

you the reasons—for the leaves-of-absence?"

"It would," he said heartily. "It would indeed, Miss Gresham. That way I, as office manager, can

operate from facts instead of mysteries. I can hear your reasons, weigh them for validity and measure

their importance—and your usefulness as a secre-tary—against the disorganization your absences create

in the day-to-day operation of Slaughter, Stark and Slingsby."

"M-m-m." She looked troubled, uncertain. "I'd like to think a bit, if you don't mind."

Fabian waved a cauliflower-filled fork magnanimously. "Take all the time in the world! Think it out

carefully. Don't tell me anything you aren't perfectly willing to tell me. Of course anything you do tell me

will be, I am sure I need hardly reassure you, completely confidential. I will treat it as official knowledge,

Miss Gresham—not personal. And while you're thinking, you might start eating your raw cabbage.

Before it gets cold," he added with a rich, executive-type chuckle.

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Wednesday'sChildWilliamTennWhenhefirstcametoscrutinizeWednesdayGreshamwithhisrimlessspectaclesandwateryblueeyes,FabianBalikknewnothingofthebiologicalcontradictionsthatweresoincrediblyapartofheressentialbodystructure.Hehadnotevennoticed—asyet—thatshewasaremarkablyprettygirlwitheyeslikerain-sparkling...

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William Tenn - Wednesday's Child

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