Help Wanted

by Barbara Valentin

  While he had his eyes glued to the TV, switching between the three major networks' sports coverage on the news to avoid commercials, her eyes fell on the basket.

  A basic, rectangular white plastic bin, it was not unlike the one that had sat unattended in the laundry room of her residence hall on that fateful night (sorry, but really—who knew?) when she first encountered Paul Mendez.

  It all came flooding back—especially the instant but unexplainable recognition.

  Never one to consider herself sappy, emotional, or romantic, she had been surprised and a little embarrassed when she came close to blurting "It's you" at the sight of him.

  And then there was the physical attraction. While they spent the next hour talking, and she heard him say that he was a finance major who had his sights set on becoming the CFO of a major global conglomerate someday, what she saw was that he was an incredibly h-o-t finance major who had his sights set on becoming the CFO of a major whatever—who cares? She just wanted to rip his clothes off. They were practically setting off sparks by the time he finally asked if he could kiss her.

  Claire felt her heart race at the memory and wondered if she would have fallen for him if he had divulged that he'd had his sights set on becoming the best stay-at-home dad ever?

  Hmm…

  "Earth to Claire."

  Paul, sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him on the floor, nudged her knee with his foot. With his arms folded, he narrowed his eyes as he waited for her reply.

  Claire blinked while the whisper of a thought crossed her mind. You are so not who I thought you were.

  To him, though, she mumbled, "It's been a long day."

  "See what I mean?" he asked in a not unpatronizing tone.

  "Oh, I know. I get it," she surrendered. "Your days are crazy."

  Together, they began silently folding the contents of the laundry basket while watching the news. On a commercial break, Claire brought some towels up to the linen closet. When she returned, Paul had turned off the TV and was pairing socks.

  She took the opportunity to counter with, "So with all you've got going on around here, when exactly do you expect me to job hunt?"

  With a shrug, he replied, "Well, after the boys get off to school in the morning, just head up into the office and do whatever you need to do. It'll be as if you're working from home."

  I.e., nothing's changed.

  "And you'll be doing what?" Not wanting to start yet another argument, she added, "Besides bringing me coffee refills."

  "Don't push your luck," he responded, throwing a rolled up pair of socks into the basket. "Two points."

  The day over, her vision of resurrecting a long-shelved manuscript had all but evaporated. Despite Paul's assurances on their financial viability, the weight of responsibility and the gnawing disappointment she felt poked her wide awake at one in the morning.

  CHAPTER THREE

  "If love is the answer, could you please rephrase the question?" —Lily Tomlin

  With a mug of steaming coffee in hand, Claire once again made her daily ascent to the smallest bedroom in their house that had been dubbed "the office" ever since they had moved in. While it contained a PC, a wireless laptop, and a combination printer/fax/copier sitting on top of a two-drawer file cabinet, the room had all the markings of a man cave. Futon couch. Big comfy chair in the corner. Small flat-screen TV attached to the wall between posters of sports greats. A pull-up bar in the walk-in closet doorway. Paul's dusty old trophies sitting on a rack of shelves affixed to the opposite windowless wall. All that was missing was a neon beer sign and a pool table.

  She flipped on the computer and opened her email inbox. It appeared to be filled with more meaningless messages from job search sites and recruiters trolling the Internet for fresh blood.

  Her shoulders slumped. She had about as much desire to job hunt as a woman who found herself suddenly single and was loathe to jump back into the dating pool.

  Still, for the next hour, she reset her search engines on popular job boards so they would stop sending her notices of openings for funeral directors and collection agents. After getting herself a coffee refill, she had just returned to the office when she saw a new message appear in her email inbox.

  It was from platespinner@gazette.com.

  She stared at it for a few minutes before deciding to reread the email she had sent a few weeks back. When she had finished, her pulse sped up several notches as she tried anticipating the reply.

  Dear B.O.B.—Get some professional help. Or better yet, Dear B.O.B.—You're a whiny, self-centered woman whose sense of entitlement rivals that of Donald Trump.

  Taking a big gulp of hot coffee, she winced and opened the email. It read: "Dear Burned-Out Breadwinner—You didn't mention what you do for a living, but I wonder if you've ever given any thought to becoming a working parent advice columnist. I have a hunch you'd be great at it, and I can promise you two things: the salary will definitely not hold you hostage, and you can get your life back. If interested, please send me brief responses to each of the sample letters below. Your prompt reply would be appreciated. Sincerely, Mattie J. Ross, Chicago Gazette."

  Claire's mouth fell open as she stared at the monitor.

  For the past three years, she had looked forward to reading every single Plate Spinner column almost as much as she looked forward to having her first cup of coffee in the morning or watching her boys sleep on the nights when she'd get home too late to see them awake.

  Each new column held its own treasure, whether it was pertinent advice, a snarky smack down, outrageously good but easy recipes, or wickedly funny tales of the writer's own familial multitasking feats. At least Claire assumed they were supposed to be funny. She couldn't imagine a working mother tackling all that this one allegedly did—not without a full support staff working feverishly behind the scenes anyway.

  At the start of the New Year, though, the Gazette changed the column when it not only revealed the author's identity, but also announced she'd be chronicling her efforts to train for the Chicago Marathon. Since then, Claire had held out hope that, once the event was behind her, Mattie would revive her old format. But that all changed in July.

  After she completed the Firecracker half marathon, it came to light that Mattie was not married and did not have a family. While this revelation ought to have made it easier to denounce the columnist as a fraud, Claire instead felt vindicated and remained a loyal fan.

  She reread the email. Mattie must be moving on to something else after she completes the marathon in October. Why else would the Gazette need a new columnist?

  You can get your life back.

  She clapped her hands together once and cried "Seriously?" to the Chicago Blackhawks 2013 Stanley Cup champions who were looking down at her from a poster hanging over the desk.

  They each seemed to grin "Seriously" back in reply.

  While advice columnist was definitely not topping her list of preferred career choices, she had to admit, it was a step—albeit a small one, like in a size two shoe—in the right direction.

  She gave her head a quick shake and read the first statement: "I can't say 'no' to my kids."

  Channeling the snarky tone Mattie used to use when doling out advice, Claire typed the first thing that popped into her head.

  "I'm guessing you're making up for not being indulged as a child. If this is the case, get thee to a spa and pamper the heck out of yourself so you can remember how amazing you are. Then go home and show those kids who's boss. Otherwise, get used to the fact that you're one of 'those parents' who will forever be credited with increased crime rates, the popularity of reality TV, and eventually, the downfall of modern civilization."

  Satisfied with her reply, she moved on to the second statement: "My spouse spends more than I make."

  Although this concept was completely foreign to her, she took a stab at a response.

  "Since you don't specify what exactly your spouse is spending your hard-earned money on, o
r provide a suspected reason for the overspending, I'll go out on a limb and suggest that he or she is seeking to fill a void in their life. Whether it's caused by a lack of quality attention on your part because you're working so hard to support their spending habits (a vicious cycle, I know) or an innate need to 'keep up with the Joneses,' my advice is that you help him or her fill it with nonmaterial things like an unexpected picnic lunch, a bunch of hand-picked flowers, a back rub, or an offer to help them make dinner, clean the house, or do the laundry."

  This is so easy. And so much fun.

  Feeling more energized than she had in ages, she moved on to the last statement.

  "My fifteen-year-old daughter wants to get a tattoo."

  With notably more confidence than she had writing the first two, Claire responded with what she would do to her boys if they ever approached her with a similar demand.

  "Assuming you are opposed to her desire to permanently deface herself, I recommend the following. First, ask her to hand you her favorite thing ever—be it an article of clothing, a poster, an iPad, a stuffed animal, etc. Then, holding up a black permanent marker, ask her how she would feel if you were to use it on her favorite thing ever. When she balks, explain to her that she is your favorite thing ever. Case closed."

  A smiley face emoticon next to her name and contact information followed, as did a call later that afternoon from Dianne Devane, managing editor of the Gazette's Lifestyle section, requesting that she come in for a face-to-face the very next day.

  So enthused was Claire over this unexpected but wildly exciting career development that she didn't mind in the least when Paul announced over dinner that they would be hosting a cross-country team dinner. In two days.

  Having never so much as broken a sweat in high school, the concept of team dinners was completely foreign to her. As she sat at the opposite end of the kitchen table from Paul, stabbing green beans with her fork, she asked, "So the entire team comes here for dinner the night before the meet to carb load?"

  He nodded his reply.

  "How many boys are we talking? A dozen?"

  Paul smirked. Looking toward his oldest for confirmation, he ventured, "What, sixty?"

  Luke, a mini-me of his father, shrugged. "Sounds about right."

  "Sounds like fun." Claire tore her roll in two and shoved one half in her mouth.

  After swallowing, she asked, "What are you going to make?"

  At this, Paul, who had been shooting her curious glances during this entire exchange, laughed out loud. "I'm not cooking anything. The parents volunteer to bring everything—pasta, salad, bread, water, fruit. It's all taken care of."

  Seeing that everyone had finished eating, he announced, "Marc and Tomas. It's your turn to clear and wash tonight. Luke, homework. Jonah, lay out your clothes for tomorrow and pick out a book for bedtime."

  Try as she might, Claire still couldn't manage to keep the thrill of a potential new career opportunity at bay. Apparently, Paul noticed.

  "What's with you?" he asked, sounding more annoyed than inquisitive.

  "What?"

  "It doesn't faze you in the least that we're about to be invaded by sixty boys?"

  "Please. We already have four. What's fifty-six more?"

  Paul stood and picked up his empty plate. Pointing to hers, he asked, "Finished?"

  She shoved it toward him. "Thanks. That was good."

  After rinsing them off and placing them in the dishwasher, he returned to his seat at the table with a stack of recently clipped coupons in one hand and a little collapsible coupon holder in the other.

  "Seriously, what's with you today?" he asked as he started categorizing the clipped coupons into neat little stacks on the table before him, squinting carefully at each one before placing it in the correct pile and tossing any that had expired.

  Knowing full well she should tell him about her interview, she just wasn't sure how to do it without sacrificing her good mood in the process.

  Stop stalling.

  "Listen, I've got an interview first thing tomorrow morning. Shouldn't take long."

  Her insides contracted, bracing for the argument she was sure would follow.

  Paul's head shot up. "Oh? Where?"

  "Downtown."

  When she said nothing more, he asked, "Permanent or temporary?"

  Claire frowned. "I'm not sure."

  His narrowed eyes shot a question at her. "How can you not know?"

  Then he ventured, "Is it a start-up?"

  Biting her lower lip, she raised her eyebrows and answered brightly, "No, actually. It's a newspaper."

  When Paul didn't respond right away, she could feel her happy mood dissipating faster than a one-pound box of Frango Mints at a Weight Watchers meeting.

  "Doing what?" he finally asked.

  "Something I think I'd really like," she replied, making quotation marks around the last two words.

  "Yeah, but how much does it pay?" he asked flatly.

  "Don't know. I'll find out more tomorrow."

  Paul stood and went upstairs.

  Here we go.

  She followed him into the office and closed the door so the boys wouldn't overhear. Paul was sitting in the desk chair rifling through the top drawer of the file cabinet.

  Leaning against the arm of the recliner, Claire asked, "What are you looking for?"

  When he didn't respond, her already low reserve of patience abandoned her altogether. "Please be ok with this."

  Nice.

  In that one statement, she skipped reason and went directly to begging.

  Head bent over his files, he responded, "With what?"

  "With me doing the kind of writing I want to do."

  He pulled a sheet of paper out of a file folder and handed it to her. It was a printout of a spreadsheet.

  "And this is…?"

  "Our monthly expenses."

  As her eyes grazed the piece of paper, she recited the categories listed aloud, the irritation growing in her voice with each one. "Groceries, mortgage, clothing, school expense, electric, gas, cable, car repairs, and house expense."

  She looked at him expectantly. "So you track every dime we spend. To the penny."

  He reached over and pointed. "That total at the bottom? That's how much we spend each month. I don't know what reporters make, but I'm guessing it's not gonna cover that."

  Claire stared at the figure, frustration welling up inside of her. Fighting the urge to wad up the piece of paper and pelt him with it, she shoved it back into the folder, not caring if she jammed, wrinkled, or tore it, and slammed the file drawer closed with a bang.

  "Hey." Paul jerked his knee away just in time. He shot an angry glare in her direction.

  Just wanted to level the playing field.

  "Well, if you hadn't—" she started.

  "Hadn't what?" he prompted, his mouth in a tight line as if he already knew what she would say.

  "Lost our nest egg."

  There. She'd said it. Out loud.

  Dredging up the unfortunate chain of events during which his stock portfolio evaporated before he could reinvest it was a cheap shot. He had always referred to it as their "nest egg." Before he knew it, they went from contemplating paying off their hefty mortgage to trying desperately to reclaim some of its lost value from federal regulators.

  His expression was a mixture of shock and defeat. "Really. Wow."

  She felt awful, as if she had just kicked a kitten.

  "Please understand," she said about a thousand times softer as she laid her hand tentatively on his arm. "This might be my only chance to be a real writer."

  Her voice sounded as small as she felt.

  Looking in the direction of the wall behind her, Paul replied, "I don't know what more to tell you."

  With that, he got up and went back downstairs, leaving her in the fading light of the office-slash-man cave. Uncomfortable under the admonishing glares of Michael Jordan and Walter Payton, she headed to Jonah's room to help him pick o
ut a bedtime book, grateful that she didn't have to recite any stupid fairy-tale lies.

  * * *

  The next morning, Paul had no sooner gotten back home after dropping everyone off at school than Luke called to tell him he needed a pair of running spikes for practice after school. That was the only reason he found himself kneeling in front of a small mountain of shoes piled high in the bedroom closet of his two youngest sons. Some had belonged to the older two boys, but one pair had belonged to him.

  He started removing the shoes a pair at a time. With vigor.

  By the time he had gotten back from his run that morning, Claire was already gone, presumably on her interview at the newspaper. He had no idea which one. While he knew there were about a dozen better ways he could have reacted to her news the night before, her asking where she could find their marriage license was, to say the least, a low blow. What she intended to do with it, besides riling him, he had no idea.

  He nearly fell over backward when he tugged out a beaten-up pair of black running spikes with a jerk. Holding the bottom of one up against a newer running shoe of Luke's to check the size, he was relieved to see that it was a perfect match.

  Yes.

  Paul set them to the side and started returning the other old shoes to the closet, weeding out any that were too small for Jonah or too beat up for anyone else to wear again. When he was finished, he gathered the discarded shoes and carried them out to the garage. After dumping them in the garbage can, he secured the lid and looked around.

  "What else can I get rid of…?" he asked out loud as dust bunnies swirled in the stream of sunshine coming in through the opened door.

  His eyes fell on a gray plastic storage bin sitting under the tool bench. Swatting at the cobwebs that clung to its plastic edges, he dragged it to an open space and snapped the lid off. A pair of black glass eyes sewn on a cloth face surrounded by red yarn stared up at him. He picked up the doll and examined it.