quiet for a few seconds, then says, “Getting a job can be expensive. There’s the increase in income tax and the cost of a new wardrobe. Not to mention the extra gas to drive to work and back every day.”
I lower the paper. “So it’s okay with you if I go to work just as long as I find a job that…one—” I lift a finger “—allows me to schedule my hours around yours…two, is within walking distance of our house, and…three, pays cash under the table. Did I cover all the requirements?”
Carl’s neck reddens above his collar.
“Oh,” I continue, “and my boss should allow casual wear at the office so I won’t need new clothes.” I thrust out my lower lip and nod. “No problem, honey. That should be an easy job to find.”
“I don’t care about the expense. I just don’t want you to have to plan your life around someone else’s schedule.”
Other than yours, I think, but keep my mouth shut.
“Why don’t you just volunteer?” Carl murmurs, careful not to look at me. “We don’t need the extra money yet.”
“Yet?” I tilt my head and study him. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
“No, it was a slip of the tongue.”
What’s up with him? “I’ve been volunteering for the past twenty-two years,” I say. “For once in my life I’d like to know how it feels to earn money of my own. To actually accomplish something and be compensated for my work.”
I’m on the verge of tears again, though I’m not sure why. Blinking them back, I glance at the clock on the wall, put the paper aside and scoot over to grab the phone.
“You already found a job listing that interests you?”
“I’m calling Troy. It’s time for him to get up.”
“What happened to his alarm clock?”
“Nothing.” I punch in the number. “He’s developed a bad habit of turning it off, then rolling over and going to sleep again. So, I’m his backup. He said if he missed another eight o’clock class, the professor would dock his grade. Last week, I started calling him every morning.”
“He’s only been there two weeks. How many classes has he missed?”
“Too many, obviously.”
“Getting to class on time is Troy’s responsibility, not yo—”
“Good morning, sweetie,” I say, interrupting Carl when Troy utters a groggy H’lo at the other end of the line.
“Rise and shine!”
Troy groans.
Carl shakes his head and mutters something under his breath.
“Are you getting up?” I say into the phone.
“Yeah,” Troy answers in a hoarse whisper.
“Are you sure? Or do I need to call again in five minutes?”
I hear rustling, then he says, “No, I’m up.”
“Okay, sweetie. Have a good day.” After I break the connection and put down the phone, I turn to find Carl squinting at me. “What?” I ask.
He reaches for the paper and begins scanning the Help Wanted ads. “So…what kind of job are you thinking about?”
CHAPTER 6
Five Weeks Later
“Dana?” A knock sounds at my bedroom door. Tugging the blanket more tightly around my shoulders, I continue to stare out the window into the backyard, and rock.
It’s windy and unseasonably cool. In the wee hours of this morning, when I couldn’t sleep, the Weather Channel predicted an early winter nationwide. That might explain the squirrel’s frantic behavior. The one who lives in the oak tree. I’ve named her Tizzy, and she’s late this morning. She hasn’t made an appearance.
I say the squirrel is a she. For the past few days, Tizzy has run frantically up and down the tree trunk gathering grass and twigs, scraps of paper that have blown into the yard, then taken them back to the nest she’s building, tucked away up high in the crook between two branches. On occasion, one of her babies ventures partway down the trunk and the dog next door, whose head is, more often than not, poked through a hole in our fence, goes into a barking frenzy. Then Tizzy appears out of nowhere, putting herself between her tiny offspring and the dog, chattering and darting back and forth at the base of the tree until her baby goes back where he belongs.
Another knock sounds. The door squeaks open. “Dana? It’s Polly. Can I come in?”
I turn and see her curly dark head poking into the room. “Sure.” I return my attention to the window as Polly crosses to stand beside the rocking chair I’m in.
“When you didn’t answer the door, I called information for Carl,” she says. “He gave me the combination to your garage-door opener and told me to come in. You’d better call and let him know you’re okay.”
I don’t tell her that I’d be lying; I’m not okay. I don’t know what I am, but okay isn’t on the list of possibilities.
“Are you going to call him?”
“When he doesn’t hear from you in the next few minutes that I’m hurt or dead, he’ll assume I’m okay, put me right out of his mind, and get back to work.”
I hear the musical beeps from her cell phone as she punches in numbers. While she murmurs quietly to my husband, I continue rocking.
“Why haven’t you answered any of my calls these past couple of weeks?” Polly asks when she’s finished talking to Carl.
“I didn’t know you’d called.”
“I must’ve left at least twenty messages.”
“I haven’t checked them, and Carl never does.” That’s my job. Menial. Easy. Right up my alley.
“Carl’s worried about you, honey. I am, too.”
“Join the club. Mother thinks I’m off my rocker. That’s what she told me last night.” I laugh a little. “She’s wrong about that. I’ve spent the past three…” I frown. “Or maybe it’s been four days… Anyway, I’ve sat right here in this rocking chair for quite some time, and I don’t plan to get off of it anytime soon.”
Except maybe to go to Tuesday night bridge at Lynette’s, though even that has begun to lose its luster. Still, Lynette and her friends provide the only good laugh I get these days. And I don’t even indulge in the leafy green appetizer. The stoned bridge ladies have been discussing a road trip sometime in the near future and tossing around possible destinations. They’re looking for somewhere they haven’t already visited a dozen times, which is difficult since travel is high on their list of pastimes. They want a place they can spend their husbands’ money on jewelry and clothing, great food
