Swanwick, Michael - Legions in Time

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Legions In Time by Michael Swanwick

Eleanor Voigt had the oddest job of anyone she knew. She worked eight hours a day in an office

where no business was done. Her job was to sit at a desk and stare at the closet door. There was a

button on the desk that she was to push if anybody came out that door. There was a big clock on

the wall, and, precisely at noon, once a day, she went over to the door and unlocked it with a key

she had been given. Inside was an empty closet. There were no trap doors or secret panels in

it–she had looked. It was just an empty closet.

If she noticed anything unusual, she was supposed to go back to her desk and press the button.

"Unusual in what way?" she’d asked when she’d been hired. "I don’t understand. What am I looking

for?"

"You’ll know it when you see it," Mr. Tarblecko had said in that odd accent of his. Mr. Tarblecko

was her employer, and some kind of foreigner. He was the creepiest thing imaginable. He had pasty

white skin and no hair at all on his head, so that when he took his hat off, he looked like some

species of mushroom. His ears were small and almost pointed. Ellie thought he might have some kind

of disease. But he paid two dollars an hour, which was good money nowadays for a woman of her age.

At the end of her shift, she was relieved by an unkempt young man who had once blurted out to her

that he was a poet. When she came in, in the morning, a heavy Negress would stand up wordlessly,

take her coat and hat from the rack, and, with enormous dignity, leave.

So all day Ellie sat behind the desk with nothing to do. She wasn’t allowed to read a book, for

fear she might get so involved in it that she would stop watching the door. Crosswords were

allowed, because they weren’t as engrossing. She got a lot of knitting done, and was considering

taking up tatting.

Over time, the door began to loom large in her imagination. She pictured herself unlocking it at

some forbidden not-noon time and seeing–what? Her imagination failed her. No matter how vividly

she visualized it, the door would open onto something mundane. Brooms and mops. Sports equipment.

Galoshes and old clothes. What else would there be in a closet? What else could there be?

Sometimes, caught up in her imaginings, she would find herself on her feet. Sometimes, she walked

to the door. Once, she actually put her hand on the knob before drawing away. But always the

thought of losing her job stopped her.

It was maddening.

Twice, Mr. Tarblecko had come to the office while she was on duty. Each time, he was wearing that

same black suit with that same narrow black tie. "You have a watch?" he’d asked.

"Yes, sir." The first time, she’d held forth her wrist to show it to him. The disdainful way he

ignored the gesture ensured she did not repeat it on his second visit.

"Go away. Come back in forty minutes."

So she had gone out to a little tearoom nearby. She had a bag lunch back in her desk, with a

baloney-and-mayonnaise sandwich and an apple, but she’d been so flustered she’d forgotten it, and

then feared to go back after it. She’d treated herself to a dainty "lady lunch" that she was in no

mood to appreciate, left a dime tip for the waitress, and was back in front of the office door

exactly thirty-eight minutes after she’d left.

At forty minutes, exactly, she reached for the door.

As if he’d been waiting for her to do so, Mr. Tarblecko breezed through the door, putting on his

hat. He didn’t acknowledge her promptness or her presence. He just strode briskly past, as though

she didn’t exist.

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Stunned, she went inside, closed the door, and returned to her desk.

She realized then that Mr. Tarblecko was genuinely, fabulously rich. He had the arrogance of those

who are so wealthy that they inevitably get their way in all small matters because there’s always

somebody there to arrange things that way. His type was never grateful for anything and never

bothered to be polite, because it never even occurred to them that things could be otherwise.

The more she thought about it, the madder she got. She was no Bolshevik, but it seemed to her that

people had certain rights, and that one of these was the right to a little common courtesy. It

diminished one to be treated like a stick of furniture. It was degrading. She was damned if she

was going to take it.

Six months went by.

The door opened and Mr. Tarblecko strode in, as if he’d left only minutes ago. "You have a watch?"

Ellie slid open a drawer and dropped her knitting into it. She opened another and took out her bag

lunch. "Yes."

"Go away. Come back in forty minutes."

So she went outside. It was May, and Central Park was only a short walk away, so she ate there, by

the little pond where children floated their toy sailboats. But all the while she fumed. She was a

good employee–she really was! She was conscientious, punctual, and she never called in sick. Mr.

Tarblecko ought to appreciate that. He had no business treating her the way he did.

Almost, she wanted to overstay lunch, but her conscience wouldn’t allow that. When she got back to

the office, precisely thirty-nine and a half minutes after she’d left, she planted herself

squarely in front of the door so that when Mr. Tarblecko left he would have no choice but to

confront her. It might well lose her her job, but . . . well, if it did, it did. That’s how

strongly she felt about it.

Thirty seconds later, the door opened and Mr. Tarblecko strode briskly out. Without breaking his

stride, or, indeed, showing the least sign of emotion, he picked her up by her two arms, swiveled

effortlessly, and deposited her to the side.

Then he was gone. Ellie heard his footsteps dwindling down the hall.

The nerve! The sheer, raw gall of the man!

Ellie went back in the office, but she couldn’t make herself sit down at the desk. She was far too

upset. Instead, she walked back and forth the length of the room, arguing with herself, saying

aloud those things she should have said and would have said if only Mr. Tarblecko had stood still

for them. To be picked up and set aside like that . . . well, it was really quite upsetting. It

was intolerable.

What was particularly distressing was that there wasn’t even any way to make her displeasure

known.

At last, though, she calmed down enough to think clearly, and realized that she was wrong. There

was something–something more symbolic than substantive, admittedly–that she could do.

She could open that door.

Ellie did not act on impulse. She was a methodical woman. So she thought the matter through before

she did anything. Mr. Tarblecko very rarely showed up at the office–only twice in all the time

she’d been here, and she’d been here over a year. Moreover, the odds of him returning to the

office a third time only minutes after leaving it were negligible. He had left nothing behind–she

could see that at a glance; the office was almost Spartan in its emptiness. Nor was there any work

here for him to return to.

Just to be safe, though, she locked the office door. Then she got her chair out from behind the

desk and chocked it up under the doorknob, so that even if somebody had a key, he couldn’t get in.

She put her ear to the door and listened for noises in the hall.

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Swanwick, Michael - Legions in Time

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