1946

For the longest time, motherhood had defined her. Cook, clean, take care of. To an extent, children owned her, even as they belonged to her.

Before motherhood, another role had defined Carmen. Being a wife, someone else's wife. Cook, clean, take care of. Be obedient. To have and to hold really meant for someone else to have and someone else to hold.

Proceeding that, she had been the daughter. Learn how to cook, clean, take care of. Be obedient.

Her life was just a chain of ownership, leading to another. And another.

When her husband had died, she had publicly grieved. He had been a fair man, if not a demanding man. Secretly, her slightly broken heart had also soared with fear and exhilaration.

On my own.

It was a double-edged sword.

At least, that's how Carmen's sister, Genea, had framed it, also reminding her of economic responsibilities, and how it would look for a single mother to raise three daughters alone. If she didn't find another suitable match, and soon, she might become a disgraceful woman.

She had no intention of giving herself to another man, not ever again. She translated "economic responsibilities" to mean she needed a job. Carmen had never worked outside of a home before, and viewed it as an opportunity to break the chain.

She spotted an ad for a secretary at a clothing company, and landed the job only because her husband had been in the same unit as the main floor secretary, Jennifer Tolley. She looked up from Carmen's paperwork with a light of recognition, inquiring about her last name and husband. Then, after a brief and uncomfortable bout of both women expressing condolences for the other, Carmen was told she could start the next morning. Carmen was grateful for the power of her husband's time served. Not often, but sometimes, she felt lucky to be a military widow. It was a little like being white.

On her first official day, she cursed the ill-fitting high heels and the too tight skirt, borrowed from a cousin. Her irritation dissolved when a pungent odor prickled at her nose. Carmen paused in the lobby, curious about the source of the smell. For a moment, she was worried that she had carried it in with her from the street, and she checked her shoe, relieved when she found no filth there. Muffled voices drifted from an open doorway, mixing with the clunk of machinery. Before Carmen could fully investigate, a woman grabbed the door handle. She was older, if her bent frame was any indication. Instead of the stifling armor of a skirt in high heels, she was dazzling in baggy coveralls. A loose braid hung over her shoulder. Carmen's tight bun pinched at her temples.

Their contrasting clothes and hair styles served as a reminder of their contrasting lives. The woman was allowed the power of pants, and didn't need to style her hair to please anyone but herself. Carmen envied the stranger's freedom, longing for some of her own. The woman had disappeared from view. A door in front of Carmen squeaked closed, the sign on it reading:

MAIN FLOOR MANUFACTURER

Right then, she wondered how much easier life might be if she had thought to apply for such a job.

A year later, and she was still a secretary. Carmen fidgeted in the elevator, wanting to scratch at the itchy pantyhose, but unable to. As she longingly wished for the comfort of overalls, she also derisively recalled her sister's warning: a disgraceful woman.

Maybe this is the life I deserve, she told herself.

"Mmm, are you wiggling like that to torture me?" Julian Davis groaned from behind her.

Josh Cronin, another man from accounting, released appreciative grunts, nudging Davis. The elevator ride from floor one to floor six was beginning to feel like an eternity.

Carmen knew better than to react. The men also knew better than to slap her on the ass. Not after that first time. Alfred Morrison had been sent home all those months ago with a bloody nose and a bruised ego.

A fresh, crimson stain had flown from Alfred's nose in a glorious arc, following the quick snap of his head. It was Carmen's first time punching someone, and she watched the result with fascination. Her hand throbbed, knuckles scraped and red. Office workers murmured discordant discontent, glaring at her. Carmen didn't need to know what they were saying to know it was bad.

But Alfred's dumbfounded reaction had made everything worth it.

What none of the men knew was Carmen had almost lost her job that day.

Jennifer, who was not exactly her friend and not exactly her boss, had pulled her into an empty office to relay a message. After Carmen had punched Alfred, every man was afraid to speak to her for a week, even the floor supervisor, Tom. He had urged Jennifer to "fix" the Puerto Rican, woman to woman.

"They're awful," Jennifer said, obviously referring to the men in the office, "but you need to get on board."

What that really meant, Carmen could only guess. Since she needed the money, she would get on board, so long as no one touched her without her consent.

Jennifer further advised her to ignore the "beasts," as she called them, and to do her job, head held high. She had put a hand on Carmen's shoulder, gently, promising she would help her in any way she could. Her blue eyes shone, the perfect complement to her smooth, blonde hair. There was a kindness to her, tempered through a hardness, that Carmen really respected.

That didn't make them friends. She was still a blonde, and Carmen was still a Puerto Rican.

No one around the office spoke to her unless they had to. She was informed by someone in the cubicle next to her, two weeks after the Alfred incident, that she was only kept around because she improved the view.

So she let Davis make his elevator comment. She stared ahead at the row of buttons, pretending interest in their glittering surfaces.

Of course, Cronin chimed in with, "That skirt of yours gives me whiplash."

Carmen couldn't help laughing. The statement was just so ridiculous.

Looking back, she would identify the laughter as her first mistake. Ignore the beasts. Ah, she had broken the cardinal rule.

"Ya like that, sweetheart?" Cronin's voice adopted a husky edge. "I've got more fun stuff."

Arms crossed in front of her, Carmen threw an insult over her shoulder: "I doubt you have much of anything."

It was a dare. Or, given the kind of men they were, they took the words as such.

Set. Match.

Cronin grabbed a handful of her ass, the other hand on her shoulder. Immediately, Carmen stiffened, warning him to get his hands off her. Cronin didn't listen. Davis tittered nervously, and then there came another hand on her backside.

"We could both show what we're made of," Cronin whispered at her ear, his breath hot and smelling of onions.

She resisted the urge to gag. The elevator climbed ever upward, but at present, was akin to a prison. No one to help, and no escape.

You know what to do.

A voice rang in her head, startling Carmen more than the idle hands had. At first, she thought it was her daughter. But the tone had been too guttural, too angry.

In a flash, Carmen whirled to confront the men. Only she didn't use words, or even a punch. With a foreign sense of inspiration, she saw the pen in her hand as more than a tool.

I know what to do.

Cronin and Davis glanced at each other to share a smirk. They were completely unaware that it was the last smirk they would ever smirk.

The pen was also the last thing Cronin would ever see, because in the next second, she sank it into his left eye socket. His screams reverberated in the small space, dying abruptly after she drove the pen in deeper.

As his body hit the tiled floor, Davis crouched in the corner.

His arms protected his head while his cries rang in Carmen's ears:

"Please, don't! Please, no!"

It's just a pen, came her errant thought.

She wiped the drops of blood from her mouth, tasting copper and sweat. When she raised a hand to strike Davis, her reflection in the mirrored walls caught her notice. At first, she wasn't sure who she was looking at. Her white blouse was askew, and peppered with red dots, like a painting. The most alien part of her reflection was her face. In wiping away Cronin's blood, she had dragged a smear of crimson across her mouth. She looked like a warlord.

Pleased, Carmen brought the pen down, but it was such a slight weapon. Davis needed to be stuck again, and again. Over the over, until her white blouse was misted in a sheen of rose red.

No one could deny her the victory, not even the half dozen police officers that showed up ten minutes later.

~*~