Atonement

Beth watched the kids get onto the bus. Happily, this year they were at the same school, which made the morning routine easier. Bill, her husband, was out of town on business. That meant getting the incorrigible darlings up and moving on her own, but she made it to the bus stop a with full minute to spare. Max and Megan, ages 8 and 6. Two precious bundles of energy and imagination. She had just turned 30 when Max arrived. What a present! Megan had followed shortly. Time was flying by. She tried hard to deny that she was on the short side of 40. Beth strolled back towards the house, waving hello to a few of the neighbors who were out on the same mission.

She entered their home, one of many indistinguishable two-story transitional style houses on the block. Immediately her sense of unease returned. Her husband had been strangely agitated the past few days. She hadn't given it that much thought: the usual need to tend to the kids had as usual restricted their private time to a quick discourse at day's end. Then, last night, after Bill had left on his flight came the call from Mark, Bill's boss. It seemed odd for him to call, knowing, she assumed, that Mark was aware of Bill's travel schedule. His tone was rather matter of fact, with a slight urgent edge. Curiously, he didn't ask for Bill. "Something I need to talk to you about," he said, not elaborating. "It's about Bill and I need for you to come meet with me tomorrow morning at ten." With that he bid her well and ended the call.

She walked upstairs, tidying up along the way as was her habit. She entered the master bedroom. The sweatsuit that was herde rigueurmorning-wear she tossed on the loose pile of clothes in the corner of the closet. She stepped out of her panties; then released her bra. Even the loose sweatsuit didn't make her comfortable enough to venture out without strapping the bra on. Not that her bust line was anything larger than average: she just felt 'exposed' without it, as if the whole neighborhood knew.

She hoped the long warm shower would ease her anxiety. It didn't. She looked at the clocked, realizing she would have to hurry to make the trip downtown by ten. Opening her lingerie drawer, she grabbed the first bra and panty set she found. She wished it were still summertime, so she could get by going to Bill's office without pantyhose. The office of McBracken & Smith. An old blue-blood financial services firm. Unfortunately, with the stodgy pedigree came an equally stodgy dress code. She always felt out of place showing up in casual clothes. She sat and tugged up on the hose. A quick trip back to the closet yielded the familiar white blouse, navy skirt and pumps. She ran a quick brush through her shoulder length brown hair, pinning it back with a comb. She looked again at the clock. The minimal amount of make-up she preferred would have to be done on the way.

Beth hopped into their vintage Volvo. She pulled onto the freeway, heading east towards downtown. The sun was well up over the horizon, though lower in the sky these days as the autumnal equinox approached. There were a few light clouds and one dark heavy one just below the sun. It dispersed the sun's light in rays towards the horizon: beautiful and ominous, she thought. She was relieved to see the morning rush hour had eased, allowing her a relatively steady trip downtown. It also gave her the chance to retrieve a few items of makeup from the glove compartment, having to first maneuver past a pair of her son's hastily stashed soccer socks. With a few deft strokes, the task was done. Practice makes perfect, she thought.

The downtown towers loomed as she pulled off the freeway. Fortunately, Bill had been with the firm long enough to have acquired the perk of an additional electronic gate pass to the subterranean parking deck. She checked the clock. 9:50. Will just barely make it. The ascension to the 26th floor seemed eternal, as the anxiety began to swell. This was extremely odd, she thought, to be called in while Bill was away. And why floor 26? The last she recalled Mark's office was on 24, along with Bill's. Maybe the firm had expanded upward and Bill hadn't told her. Hardly a surprise--the merger a few years earlier she discovered by reading the paper. "I was going to mention it," he lamely apologized. Sweet and lovable, she thought of Bill, but stoic and distracted to a fault.

The elevator door opened. To her surprise, Mark was there. He seemed--what was it?--pleased or relieved at her punctuality. He smiled and ushered her down the hall. Odd, she noticed, there was no office directory on the wall as usual. She looked around. The entire floor seemed to be in the process of up fitting and renovation. There was no one else in sight anywhere. Mark said little as he guided her to an unmarked office door far down one corridor. He unlocked it with a key. She noticed that it was not on his regular key ring; just a solo key on a ring. Mark opened the door, flipped on a light switch. The room was sparsely furnished; not appearing like a working office at all. There was a desk, as she expected, a large sofa along the right wall, a few artificial plants. Missing were the personal effects, the photos, the knickknacks that dot the typical office.

Mark offered her a seat in an arm chair located in front of the desk. It had a low back, with padded arms, and a nice comfy feel. He walked behind and sat in the large, high-backed armchair. Faux leather it appeared. Beth eyed him carefully, wondering what this was all about. Mark was dressed in his usual prim, button-down attire. Brooks Brothers. Silk power tie. He was just over six feet, medium frame. Athletic, but not jockish. His 45 years wore lightly on him, just a wisp of grey at the temples. Beth found him handsome; or at least she might have done so, had she allowed herself to focus for more than a moment on the physical attributes of her husband's boss. Beth noted his usual clean-shaven image was dotted with a hint of stubble. His eyes looked tired. Beth knew his divorce the past year had been hard on him. The woman seemed wrong for him, Beth recalled. Heck, she seemed wrong for anyone. Mark, she knew, had always succeeded in everything he touched. She guessed the divorce was a failure not easily digested for him.

She tried making pleasant chitchat, but the aura of seriousness quieted her. Mark reached into a drawer and pulled out a file. "Beth, I was reviewing some of Bill's client accounts last week. Normally, this is just routine and boring, just a quality check we managers are required to conduct." He paused, eyes looking over a piece of paper he held. "But this time, it seems there were some wire transfers of funds which were misapplied." Beth listened, her unease rising with each sentence. "I'm sure it was just a typing error or something," she quickly responded. "You're not saying Bill purposely did anything wrong, are you?" He paused. She saw his eyes, intense and blue, lock on her face, then drift to her hairline, around and back down, as if he was suddenly her hairstylist. "I've known Bill for years now; he's been a valued employee. All I know is that I detected the error myself. I tracked Bill's computer log several days later. It seems he went back to these same accounts for some purpose. No doubt he was confused that reversing entries had already been made. Perhaps, he was trying to cover his tracks; perhaps he was just going to correct his 'error'". Beth noticed Mark hang on that word, leaving ambiguous whether the error was intentional or not. "Perhaps he was just checking the transactions himself. I don't know. This type of error is supposed to be reported to the client and to company auditors. It would be highly damaging to Bill's career to be noted as the source."

Beth swallowed hard. Her hands suddenly went cold. "So, Bill isn't aware what you know? Why are you telling me this?"

Mark's gazed focused intently on her again. Beth found the stare unnerving. "Like I said Beth, I've worked with Bill for several years now. I don't relish the thought of confronting him with this. He's at that age when it's hard to establish yourself with another firm. And most of his portfolio is institutional clients; long-standing firm clients. Not ones he could take with him if he struck out on his own." Mark paused, as if measuring his next words. "But, it doesn't seem proper just to overlook this. Not that I want to see Bill punished, but perhaps some type of atonement could be made."

Atonement? The term struck Beth as rather curious. It sounded like something out of her old Sunday school lessons. The image of a burning a calf flashed through her mind.

"What do you mean? I'm sure Bill will be more than willing to apologize to you." Beth hated the idea of Bill having to do anything; just the perception that he had done something to warrant giving an apology would hit him hard.

Beth noted that intense gaze again. Almost penetrating; as if Mark were reading her thoughts. "I was hoping, Beth, not to have to make him do that. Bill would take that so personally." Beth gulped, the coincidence giving credence to her mind-reading thought. Mark continued. "I was hoping that perhaps . . . my talking to you could resolve the problem." Beth's mind wondered aloud, "Resolve? What's to resolve?"

Mark smiled. The change in his mood was abrupt, taking Beth by surprise. "I've always admired your support for Bill. He often mentions how he couldn't do it without you." Mark's smile softened, his eyes looking at Beth, intently, almost longingly. "You really didn't need to dress up to come here today."

Beth was happy for the apparent change of topic. "Oh, this?" she laughed nervously. "I threw it on at the last second." Mark continued. "Yes, not quite the rather attractive black dress you had at the last office dinner-dance, but very nice nonetheless." Beth sensed Mark's eyes drift over her.

She recalled that dinner. Typical corporate bash. Much self-congratulatory praise by the big muckety-mucks. The food was passable; the speeches droning. The music, however, was fun. Bill had wandered off and was engrossed in a talk at the bar with a group of 3 other men. Probably re-living the last golf match shot-by-shot, she had mused. Mark was alone that night; the separation having been in effect for about 4 months. His normally reserved self was supplanted with a more outgoing style which Beth attributed to one-too-many scotch and waters. Her table was empty at one point; she didn't mind, the band was rather good. Mark came up, cracked a joke, invited her to dance. He was a passable dancer. The tempo was moderate. Old Motown number. But then they switched to a slow tempo. Beth considered excusing herself, but Mark already had her hand in his. Not wanting to embarrass either of them, she relented. They talked, but the tone in his voice was somber. Obviously, the loneliness was building in him. Mark drew closer; Beth tried to keep a proper distance but couldn't maneuver fast enough. Oh well, she thought, it's not like he's an ogre. Hardly, she smiled to herself.

"That's a beautiful dress," he said, half whispering. Beth was tickled. Ah . . . scotch, she laughed to herself. The dress was not nearly as flashy as some in the room, but she thought she looked good in it. But hearing it from her husband's boss was . . . she thought a bit . . . flattering. Hey, it can't hurt for the boss to like you, she figured. The song ended. Mark paused a moment longer than necessary. He pulled her into a subtle embrace, which she returned. Was that reflex or something more, she wondered deep inside. She turned around to see Bill back at her table, watching. She hadn't ever danced with Mark that way. "Ah, no big deal," she thought wryly, "a bit of jealousy won't kill him."

Mark's voice brought her attention back. "I thought how nice it would have been that night to watch you closer in that dress," Closer? Beth wondered to herself. You were right next to me. "Please stand up," he added. Beth paused. She thought for a second he was going to end the meeting.

Mark got up, walked over to the sofa and sat down. "Turn around, Beth. Slowly." She froze; a flash of confusion coming over her. "What?" she exclaimed, as if she had not heard him correctly. Mark looked at her. "Please stand. And turn around, in a circle." Beth looked at him incredulously. She sighed. "OK," she muttered, still puzzled. She stood and turned, conscious that Mark's gaze was no freely moving up and down over her.

She felt suddenly self-conscious. "Mark, I know Bill will take care of things; it was just a simple mistake." She weighted the options. If she left, could she, should she explain this to Bill? The memory of his expression at that dinner/dance came back to her. How would she explain being alone with Mark in some empty part of the building? No one else in the office had seen her coming or going. To leave and accuse Mark of-- what-harassment? Too scandalous. She wanted to leave, but worried about his reaction. What if Bill really did mess up? she thought.

"What sort of material is that?" he asked. She continued in her confusion, but grasped her skirt instinctively. "Mostly cotton," she replied. "I still like to think it's summer."

"Summer is nice," Mark chimed in. "Do you go to the beach much?"

"On occasion," she replied.

Marked looked at her "A pity we're not there now: I wouldn't mind seeing you in a suit." Beth tried to laugh it off as a joke, but she was very nervous now. "I'm sure you'd find better things at the beach to look at." But Mark persisted. "Not likely any that I'm as . . . curious about."

If this is a come-on, Beth thought, it's unusual. Mark looked down to the hemline of her below-the-knee skirt. He touched it lightly. Then sat back "Hold your skirt, Beth," he said firmly. Beth was apprehensive. "Mark, I don't understand . . " He quickly cut her off. "Just . . do it." His look was half-demand, half request. Mark then softened a bit, as if not wanting to scare her.

"Please," he added. Beth reached down near the bottom. It was hard to stand that way, partly bent over. As she stood, the hemline raised up. Mark watched her with eager curiosity.

"Mark, really . . ." Beth protested. His reply seemed thought out already.

"If you think about it, Beth, this isn't even half what I'd see at the beach." She contemplated the odd logic of his remark.

"Now lift it . . . slowly."

He was right in one respect, she thought. This would seem less improper at the beach. She thought of Bill; her mind flooded with conflicting thoughts and images. Now was not the time for Bill to be looking for a new job, if that's what Mark was implying. Beth pulled on the skirt, lifting it to mid-thigh. She prayed silently that this was just a tease, and that Mark would come to his senses. Mark focused on her exposed calves, asking her again to turn, which she did this time without verbal protest.

Beth felt flushed and nervous. It unnerved her to be looked at this way. Men could be so ridiculously visual. Granted, years ago when single, she secretly enjoyed the attention. But after she passed 30 and bore the kids, she put out of mind the idea that her legs would be the objects of such scrutiny. Not so! She hoped that legs were all that was on Mark's mind.

"Higher." Beth's hope of early reprieve was dashed. She wished she'd picked her pantyhose with greater care; the pair she had donned were not her newest, and the thought of the dreaded run crossed her mind. And she was aware that any higher and her panty line was in danger of view. An aura of surrealism was taking hold. Beth complied, holding the skirt up to just below waist level. Her mind wanted to say "If it's my legs sorry legs you wanna see, Mark, here they are." Her verbal reply was less sarcastic. "Better?"

Not the beach at all, she thought, as she squirmed under his gaze. She felt more naked covered in hose than she would bare-legged on the beach. That thought still puzzled her.

"Undo the hook." Her fears that this was no simple game increased. She sought to rationalize the situation, trying to find a way to make it less threatening. The thought of Mark seeing in her in hose didn't grab her. Though, then again, it wasn't exactly a first.

She was at a Christmas party (the polite term then and since was "Holiday Party", but she preferred the traditional term) back when she and Bill were childless. Life was simpler then, and the social life more of an occasion to let loose. The party was for the employees of the health care management firm for which she did part-time accounting work. A fun bunch they were. Rarely let your glass go empty. Beth had retired to the restroom to ease the flow of rum punch, which had been considerable. She was trying to maneuver her glass (why did she take that in?) and adjust her blouse at the same time. When she returned, she proceeded to join the group she had left. The barely repressed smiles on their faces and interchanged glances didn't clue her in soon enough. She turned eventually to see a group of men standing behind her, eyes focused at her waistline. Then did she first note the bottom back of her skirt tucked neatly into the skirt waistband together with her blouse. Full moon (well, sorta). It took forever, but eventually the 'butt' jokes ran their course. She put it all out of her mind--or at least she thought . On the drive home, with her hand resting in Bill's lap, she began to wonder if any of the men who were behind would go home than night and think of her ass. She blushed secretly. Ah . . . rum, she mused.

What the heck, she thought. Not worth risking Bill's job over. She undid the hook on the skirt. The next command was hardly a surprise. "Now the zipper." Within moments, Beth found herself standing in front of Mark, her skirt to the side of her on the floor. Fortunately, the blouse hung down in front enough to cover the more critical areas.

"Now turn around." Beth wanted more than anything to reach back and adjust her panties. She could feel that there was more "cheek" exposed under her hose than she would prefer. But she complied. Mark stopped her (no!) halfway around. "Lift your blouse, Beth, above your hose."
Geez, she thought. It had been 13 years, still early in their marriage, since Bill had "checked her out" like this. Undressing had become, well, just undressing. It had long lost its eroticism. She and Bill when dating had once done a 'mock' striptease. Even then it was more tongue-in-cheek, more joking than not. Nothing this . . intense! Beth could feel Mark's eyes on her hips and buttocks as she lifted her blouse.

After what seemed an eternity, he asked her to turn and face him. Still holding her blouse, she knew by the look in his eyes what lay ahead. She already had her fingers by the lowest button. For once, he didn't have to speak the words. She undid it. Then looked at him. A faint nod of approval. Another button. Mark's chest did a heave, a long breath escaping his lips. She slowed as she got to her tummy.The strip she did for Bill was when she was 24. Not 38! The curved tummy that resulted from carrying her two darlings inside hadn't quite ever gone away. At 5'7" and 140 pounds, she could still wear a two-piece suit, but only one cut very high. That 'toned' figure of her 20's seemed distant memory.

As she proceeded higher, Beth realized her crotch was also now becoming exposed. She worried about the 'bikini line.' Summer was over. She had last taken care of that in mid-August, before the last beach outing. Uggh! She refrained from looking, but was sure a few stray hairs were peeking out. Nature certainly had endowed her with an ample supply of them. She was sure Mark could see the dark shadow they produced through her white cotton panties.

"Mark," she pleaded. He sat intently on the sofa. Silent at first. "No one will know Beth. I mean you no harm." Her intuition confirmed his remark. The lab specimen feeling he was giving her didn't thrill her, but if he had meant to throw himself on her and subdue her, the chance had been there all along.