The Return Of Jonah Gray. Heather Cochran
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understanding at once the sort of nerve she’d meant. My cheeks started burning. “Who is this?”
“But no, you have to drop your poison into his life. Now, I don’t know what sort of a family you were raised in, Ms. Gardner, but I hope you take a good look at how you’re spending your time on God’s green earth and move on to better things. He’s had a hard enough year. Look at all he gave up. And for what? To have you bothering him? How about planting some happiness for a change and letting go that misery you sow?”
“Who are you?” I asked again. “How did you get my name? Do you know Gordon?”
“I’m a concerned citizen who felt an obligation to tell you that you work for the worst branch of our government.”
“The IRS isn’t its own branch,” I said. “We’re a part of the Treasury which is a part of…” She had hung up. “Never mind.”
I replaced the handset. In my previous six years at the service, I hadn’t received even one complaint. Now two in one afternoon? I looked around my office for clues. I listened for Cliff’s voice, wondering whether he was receiving the same phone-line vitriol. How could I defend myself when I didn’t know what I’d done, or to whom I’d done it? Who was this “he” that both callers had referred to?
I was so flustered that when my phone rang again, I barked into it. “I know—I’m awful. There, I beat you to it, didn’t I? Surprised?”
“Uh, this is Jody in reception. Your three o’clock appointment is here.”
“Oh. Sure, Jody. I’ll be right there.”
I had to get it together. I took a deep breath and glanced at my watch. That made me smile and, at least briefly, forget the phone calls. It was three o’clock exactly. They were right on time.
I had predicted by the way they prepaid their bills that the Ritters would be punctual. I had a clear-cut image of them in my mind: Donald Ritter, the avuncular former radio-station manager, his stomach straining against the spongy weave of a golf shirt, his all-purpose, slip-on sneakers, and Miriam, who’d only started to work that year, half time at a children’s clothing store. She would get her hair set every week, was a crossword fanatic and probably carried her knitting in a public-radio tote.
I didn’t know if the image I had built would be accurate, of course. I was never sure before I got an auditee into my cubicle. But I enjoyed the puzzle immensely, as well as the interim between the moment I wasn’t sure and seconds later, when I was. Imagine a life. Have you got it? I mean, have you really got it? Well then, let’s raise the curtain and bring out Donald and Miriam.
I walked into our no-frills reception area and looked around. Three sets of folks were waiting. One guy, off the bat I knew he was way too slick. He wore a perfectly tailored suit and crocodile loafers. My folks, the Ritters, they were savers. They weren’t wealthy, but I reckoned they’d been saving ten percent of Don’s take-home for the past twenty years. The guy in the suit—he’d dropped some serious cash (or more likely, credit) on his threads.
And anyhow, the crocodile man had an oily, better-than-you-are air. Donald and Miriam were softer than that, more hamburgers and horseshoes. The year before, they had donated an old car to a children’s hospital and hadn’t even claimed full value.
The folks by the door were too young. I knew that the Ritters had recently moved into a senior-living community, and both members of a couple usually had to have passed fifty-five to buy into such a development. Call me a warehouse, but that was the obscure sort of rule I got paid to keep track of.
“Ritter,” I called out, looking directly at the couple I had pegged as Donald and Miriam.
They stood. Tote bag and slip-on sneakers. I loved being right.
“I’m Sasha Gardner,” I told them. “Would you follow me, please?”
They looked unhappy to see me. I got no joy from ruining their day, but you can’t complete an audit without a face-to-face interview. It gives people a chance to explain themselves. Auditing might sound formulaic, but even I’d been surprised a few times. Sometimes, I would think I had someone pegged as an evader, and she’d arrive with a God’s honest explanation about the terrible year she’d had (and that’s why her numbers had gone all to hell). Other times, a taxpayer I thought I would surely let off would sit down and start lying through his teeth, even about the legit stuff. It didn’t happen often, but it happened.
“Here we are, Mr. Ritter, Mrs. Ritter,” I said when we arrived at my cubicle.
“Call me Mitzi.” As she folded up the newspaper she’d been holding, I could have sworn I caught sight of a crossword.
“Mitzi, then,” I agreed. “Have a seat.”
I noticed her staring hard at me. “You’re so young,” Mitzi Ritter finally said. She turned to her husband. “This girl can’t be older than Molly.” She turned back to me. “You’re not, are you?”
“Molly?” I asked.
“Our daughter,” Mitzi said. “You don’t know that? They said you’d know everything about us.”
“They?”
“Our new neighbors got audited once,” Don Ritter said. “Everybody has an opinion.”
“I don’t know everything,” I said. “But we don’t mind the rumor if it keeps people honest.” I smiled at Don Ritter to try to put him at ease.
He didn’t smile back.
I had assumed that the Ritters had kids by the size of their former house. “I take it Molly’s not a dependent anymore,” I said.
“Oh no. She’s been out of the house since, gosh how long has it been, Don?”
“Ten years,” Don said.
“Has it been that long?”
“She’ll be twenty-eight come December.”
“Time sure flies,” Mitzi clucked, then turned to look at me. “How old are you?”
I saw Don Ritter roll his eyes.
“Is that rude?” Mitzi asked. “It’s only because you look so young.”
“You think everyone looks young,” Don said.
“I’m thirty-one,” I told them.
“So young,” Mitzi said.
“So listen, Mr. and Mrs. Ritter. I mean, Mitzi. I imagine you weren’t exactly thrilled to receive my notice of your audit.”
Mitzi looked at her husband, who frowned, sitting a little higher in his chair and pulling his golf shirt down over his belly. Mitzi tried a smile. “There was a bit of language. I won’t repeat it here.”
“I know how you feel,” I said.
“Have you been audited, too?” she asked, eyes wide. “They do that?”
“Actually, no. Yes, they do audit auditors. I haven’t been tagged yet though.”
“Then you don’t know what it’s like,” Don said.
“Well, my father’s a certified public accountant, and my mother is a busybody. I kind of view my childhood as a series of unwelcome investigations.”
“I suppose it could have been worse,” Don Ritter said. “At least we’ve still got our health.”
“That’s a blessing,” Mitzi agreed. “Can’t take that for granted.”
“No, you can’t,” I said. Indeed, it was a subject I could have spoken about at length. Deep down, I knew it was the reason behind my current distraction. But other audits were waiting, piled high upon my table. I smiled at the Ritters. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
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