To Mom and Dad, Minerva was Minnie, but to her friends, she was Baby Doll. The name befit her only insofar as she looked like she was molded from porcelain. Stylish and sophisticated, Minerva was a blonde Audrey Hepburn beamed into the 1980s to serve as a reminder that the era of American glamour was truly bygone.
There isn’t any use in denying that Minerva was immensely wealthy. She was a trust fund kid with so much money at her disposal that she never once considered how much she spent. At any given time, she couldn’t put a figure on the zeros that trailed her bank balance. The money was so abundant she could live on the interest for the rest of her days without ever touching the principal.
Despite being the sole heiress to a vast fortune, believe me when I tell you that Minerva’s decision to join the ranks of the labour force was not inspired by any poor-little-rich-girl ennui. She’d never once felt compelled to work. Her parents and private tutors had never asked her about her dream job because it was understood that she would never need one. So when Celeste asked at brunch that the sorority sisters go around the table and share what they’d wanted to be when they grew up, Minerva was at a loss. “Come on, Baby Doll,” Celeste urged, “You must have had a dream when you were little.” Minerva never dreamed of labour, though she wouldn’t dare say so aloud. “No, really,” Celeste insisted, “there must have been something you wanted to do. You ought to find a job now that you’re out of school.”
“You should go into publishing,” Mary-Beth chimed in. “I know girls at all the houses and magazines, I could get you connected.”
“There’s no money in publishing,” said Harper. “Though you should stick to the creative industries. That’s all an English degree qualifies you for anyway.”
Minerva turned to Celeste. “What would you do if you were me?”
“Me?” Celeste set down her champagne flute. “I’d do what I’m doing now, the charity work that speaks to me. I could really make a difference with all your wealth at my fingertips.”
Minerva held her breath as the house lights dimmed. She’d hardly been a part of the production’s putting-together, but opening night wracked her nerves nonetheless. Sitting at the back of the theatre next to Nero, her hand on his arm as he clenched in anticipation, she felt by proxy the weight of this momentous occasion. A director doesn't typically attend the opening of their play, their mind already meant to be on their next project by the time they slink out the stage door on dress night. This show was different for Nero. He had been writing and rewriting the play for as long as he and Minerva were friends. She’d witnessed bits and pieces and different iterations staged in different spaces on their college campus. Finally Nero had the financial backing to put it up in a real professional theatre. He had to be present to take in the audience’s reaction; this was his baby after all.
Minerva’s involvement in the production was circumspect. She’d had lunch with Nero not long after that fateful brunch with Harper, Mary-Beth, and Celeste. Nero’s artists’ intuition told him that something was eating at her more than she was eating her cobb salad. She explained that she was discouraged that she’d yet to land an arrow in her hunt for a job.
Nero slapped both hands on the cafe table with signature melodrama. “Get a job? Darling, why would you want to go and do an awful thing like that?” He disapproved of Minerva’s motives – the pressure from the girls she cited as a catalyst – but offered to take her on as an assistant for a modest honorarium. “If the producers ask,” he instructed, “you’re an intern working for college credit.”
Minerva suffered through pre-production and production meetings right along with Nero as the creative team jockeyed for the lion’s share of the meagre budget. She was his right hand throughout the rehearsal process. By day, he would block scenes with the actors in a cramped studio with warped wooden floors and cracked mirrors as the summer heat steamed everyone alive. By night, he and Minerva would retire to a cafe down the street where he would nurse a black coffee and pore over script, ruthlessly editing to ensure every word served a purpose. Of course, this meant the script was in constant flux. The actors were incensed at having to learn new lines and even new scenes at Nero’s whim. “I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to be playing here when you keep changing the goddamn text!” the male lead shouted during one of the production’s signature storm-outs. He came back the next day though. They always came back; maybe because it beat waiting tables, or maybe because the material was just that good.
Sitting at the back of the house opening night convinced Minerva that the latter was true. The novelty of the jokes and plot misdirections had long worn off for her and Nero, having sat through so many rehearsals they were inured to the dramatic irony and suspense. This placed them in the dubious position of putting up a satirical show they couldn’t say for sure was genuinely funny. This was the locus of Nero’s anxiety, always questioning whether the audience would laugh, if they would laugh in the right places, and – most of all – whether they would laugh with him or at him. His fears – and Minerva’s fears – were assuaged from the utterance of the first line of dialogue. The audience broke out into raucous laughter from the start that never let up. In the dark, Minerva could feel the tension seeping from Nero like steam from a kettle. He relaxed by degrees with every surge of laughter until he was languid by the final bow.
Minerva had the perfect vantage point to wave summer goodbye: a beach house on the New England coast. The critical reception to Nero’s play had been rapturous, catching the eye of producers uptown who handed over a blank check to move the production to a bigger theatre. He invited Minerva to continue on as his assistant for a real salary now, but she demurred, numb to all this success. Despite being proud of her friend, she couldn’t let go of the nagging feeling that she would have enjoyed the show more thoroughly had she seen it from Nero’s seat, figuratively speaking. Determined now to seek her own creative gratification, Minerva sent some of her amateur scribbling into a travel magazine through a connection of Mary-Beth’s. The editor set her up with an assignment to write something about making the most of the last of the warm weather. The family cottage in Maine sprung to mind as the ideal setting.
Minerva wandered around the little beach town making pencil sketches of the salt-brined clapboard houses in her notebook. That was about all that populated those blank pages since inspiration for her assignment proved elusive. Every morning and every evening she would take a walk on the beach, which got to be sort of lonely given how few summerers populated the seashore on weekdays. Still, she enjoyed the crashing of the waves, the bracing wind off the sea that lifted her hair off her shoulders and rippled through the tall grass.
In line at the grocer one evening, Minerva found herself the object of one man’s curiosity. This broad-shouldered gent in a brown tweed suit kept stealing not-so-subtle glances into her basket. “Is there something the matter with my basket?” Minerva asked.
The man lifted his walnut eyes to meet Minerva’s gaze. “I’m sorry, ma’m,” he said, “I just can’t help but worry that there won’t be enough dinner to go around at your place.”
In Minerva’s basket was cottage cheese, eggs, and bread; the stuff she’d been subsisting on all week. “I’m here on my own,” Minerva said, “this will be more than enough for me.”
The man’s eyebrows shot up. “All by yourself? That will never do.” He introduced himself as Nick. “You know what I think we should do,” he said, “I think we should abandon our baskets and have dinner together. My family owns a seafood place down the street. I’m here to visit them, but everyone’s working late. They’d love to feed you.”
It didn’t take any arm-twisting for Minerva to agree, especially considering what a fascinating interlude this would make in her story. Nick’s mother personally waited on their table, seemingly overjoyed at seeing him dine with a pretty girl. His father, the chef, emerged from the kitchen to present their clam pasta in buttery white wine sauce himself. Nick was excellent company. His lovely baritone made everything he said sound so pleasant, so much so that Minerva oftentimes couldn’t concentrate on what he was talking about, though what she did catch sounded wise and cultured to her ears. He walked her home along the beach at the end of the evening. Arm-in-arm they strolled, her head hovering ever-closer to his shoulder. The sky was cotton candy pink and the clouds lined with gold. You really can’t beat a New England sunset.
“This is me.” Minerva drew her shawl up around her shoulders. “Thank you for this evening, Nick.”
Nick gave a slight nod. “It was my pleasure, Minerva.”
“Won’t you look me up when you’re back in the city? I’m in the phone book like everyone else.”
“Minerva, I’d hardly say you’re like anyone else.” Nick brushed a lock of hair away from her forehead. “Well, goodnight.” He turned to leave.
“Wait,” Minerva said, not ready to see him go just yet.
Nick turned back to her, his eyes glittering in the twilight. “Yes?”
“When we’re back in the city…” Minerva broke off, unsure if she should say what was on her mind. “I’d like to set you up on a date with my friend Nero, I think you and he would really hit it off.”
A grin spread across Nick’s face like butter on toast. “I’d like that very much.”
A few months into working at the women’s shelter with Celeste, Minerva had what should have been one of the most meaningful experiences of her career. The magazine writing hadn’t worked out. Minerva’s piece had been picked down to its bare bones by the vulture of an editor. He’d even cut her dinner with Nick, which Minerva believed to be the story’s beating heart. Oh well, so long to that industry.
Okay, Minerva wasn’t technically working at the women’s shelter. Celeste did fundraising for a network of women’s shelters, working out of a downtown office that acted as a central hub for all their operations. Her role was in planned giving, which meant she met with donors to see if they might be interested in including the organization in their wills. This mostly involved a lot of letter-writing and talking on the phone and lunches, but Minerva worked at the office long enough to witness a rare occurrence.
A former client of the shelters popped in to say hello. She looked well-dressed and put-together, and not distressed at all, which Minerva supposed meant the shelters were doing what they were meant to do. Jeanine, who had more direct contact with the shelters’ clients and knew the woman by name, escorted this guest around the office introducing her to the staff. Everyone smiled warmly and shook hands with the woman. No, they weren’t just smiling, they were beaming, overjoyed to see and hear how well this woman was doing, rewarded beyond measure by this evidence of their work’s positive impact.
“Elizabeth, this is Minerva, she’s new around here,” Jeanine said by way of introduction. “Minerva, this is Elizabeth, she’s a previous client of ours.”
“Oh, I’d never be able to tell,” Minerva said as she shook Elizabeth’s hand. She felt her face fall as it dawned on her how condescending she must sound.
Elizabeth seemed to take no notice. “You’re very lucky to be working with such strong, compassionate women,” she said. “They saved my life.”
“Oh,” was all Minerva could say.
“Elizabeth, stop!” Celeste exclaimed from the adjacent cubicle, her tone betraying that she really meant the opposite. “Please, you saved yourself.”
Elizabeth moved on and Minerva went about her day. All afternoon she had this sinking feeling in her stomach that she couldn’t name. It was only in the cab on the way home that she understood that her stomach wasn’t sinking, it was empty. She did not feel filled by this experience at all. What was supposed to mean everything meant nothing to her. She put her head against the cool window. This was Minerva’s favourite time of year, but seeing the skeletal trees stripped of their leaves lining the streets just reminded her of death and the inevitability of time marching on. She questioned why she was spending all her limited time penned in a grey cubicle illuminated by fluorescents without a lick of sunlight.
The roads were slick with ice as Minerva wove her way through the countryside. She’d lain in bed all week after meeting Elizabeth, feeling wretched as she screened call after call until her answering machine ran out of tape. Celeste’s voicemails went through an evolution of concern to anger and back again. Minerva’s charming one-bedroom felt cramped for the first time in her tenure there.
Nick and Nero showed up unannounced Friday afternoon. “Darling, we tried to call,” Nero explained, “but we couldn’t get through.” Minerva threw her arms around them both. After a brief explanation of her plight, it was decided that the best thing for her would be to get out of the city for a weekend. Nero packed a bag while she showered for the first time in days. Nick busied himself in the kitchen, determined to ensure Minerva ate before she left. All three were unaware of the squall she was about to drive into.
It was past midnight when things got really touchy. As Minerva sped along the highway, the car began to fishtail. She slowed down in hopes of regaining control. The curtain of snowfall was so thick she couldn’t tell which lane she was in any longer. The beams of an oncoming car flashed in her eyes, blinding her as she sped toward a head-on collision. She swerved to avoid the vehicle, which sent her car spinning out of control, careening off the road and into a snowbank. The impact sent shockwaves through the steering wheel that rippled through Minerva’s whole body, rattling her bones. She was shaken, but unharmed. She whipped off her seatbelt and stepped out of the car to assess the damage. The hood was folded up like an accordion. She tried, but couldn’t drive it in this condition. No matter, she was not far from her parents’ estate now. After this jolt to her system, Minerva enjoyed a moment of unexpected clarity. She could only address the immediate problem. How liberating to have a single-minded focus.
She walked a few miles back to a truckstop she’d passed earlier and placed two calls from the payphone; first to a towing company, then to her parents. The sound of her father’s voice had an immediate calming effect. Despite the chill in the air, Minerva felt warmth radiating from her chest right down to her fingertips. News of the accident was on the tip of her tongue. However, her father was so happy to hear she was on her way for a surprise visit, she couldn’t bring herself to quell his excitement. Minerva’s car was out of commission, but she was fine and glad to be on her way home and that was all that mattered.
About the Author
Some people are just spineless. Some people are weak, mealy-mouthed neurotics and I want to know what makes them tick.
Hi, I'm Spencer. I'm a writer obsessed with the inner lives of people who have three deadbolts on their door, who won't take the subway for fear of the tunnel collapsing, and who would rather die than have sex with the lights on. spineless is my fiction newsletter that explores how we become these people and the forces that compel us to change our ways. In my stories you'll read about characters fighting with everything they have to maintain or reassert the status quo, even when the status quo is anything but normal.