Work for Hire

by Margo Karasek

  “And how do I know this? The woman had the audacity to actually check that your father was telling the truth. She made her son talk to your brother to confirm the fact, and then came all the way back to the restaurant to tell your father all about it! Then she wanted to know how he managed to get his son into such a fine school. The nerve. How the hell did she manage to get her own son in?”

  My mother paused, watched me fork two more bites and then went for the kill.

  “Of course, if she had been looking for a nanny, we could’ve sent you.”

  “Mom,” I moaned, and dropped my fork. My shoulders drooped. Clearly, I was an embarrassment to my family and country of origin. “I am not a nanny. I’m a tutor. There is a difference.” And there was. There was.

  “Tutor, nanny, same thing.”

  My mother shrugged and finally filled her own plate. She did, however, make her portion smaller—because she watched her weight. Religiously. She was determined to stay a size eight until her dying day.

  And my mother was well on her way. At nearly fifty, her body looked as shapely as it had when she was twenty years younger. “Genetics,” she called it. Too bad I hadn’t inherited from the same gene pool, because while her carefully maintained curves screamed “WOMAN!” mine spelled “s-t-r-i-n-g-b-e-a-n.” Any excess fat she gained went to all the right places, whereas mine slid right off me.

  “It’s the same thing,” my mother concluded as she cut into her chicken. “You’re babysitting other people’s children, and that’s not what you went to law school for.”

  She nibbled on the piece of chicken, and when the meat was finally gone, pointed her empty fork straight at me. “I just knew you should’ve gone to medical school. They would’ve kept you busy enough and away from such nonsense. And we finally would’ve had a doctor in the family.”

  My being a doctor had been my mother’s fondest wish. She herself had started medical school in Poland, but our forced move ended those aspirations. She got an accounting degree from a local community college in Brooklyn instead. It had been more practical. She could start earning money and helping the struggling family much faster. She figured her daughter would naturally continue the dream, even if said daughter turned green at the very sight of blood.

  “But no.” My mother stabbed at another piece of meat. “You had to be your father’s child in everything. The legal superstar. But if your father hadn’t been such a big star, he wouldn’t have thought to take on the whole Communist government, by himself, and we still could’ve been living in Poland. Instead, he’s slaving away at the restaurant and you’re wiping spoiled kids’ noses.”

  “I’m not babysitting or wiping noses,” I bristled. It wasn’t my father’s fault life had sometimes been difficult for us. He had stood up for his principles. That was worth something. And, anyway, I liked living in America. Actually, I could hardly remember our life in Poland. “I’m helping two high-school-age kids with schoolwork. And I get paid well for doing so. And look,” I said, showing off my new bag, “I even got this, as a bonus.”

  “Pff … ” My mother rested her cutlery against the plate, reached for a napkin and dabbed at her lips. “Expensive bribery from absent parents,” she derided, even though she adored designer brands. “When you were little and needed help with homework, I always stayed up with you, even when I didn’t know English well. I would study the dictionary, sometimes all night, just so I could answer your questions. I did the same with your brother. That’s called ‘parenting,’ and you should never outsource that responsibility, even if you can afford to. You think you’re helping those kids, but you’re not, really. They need their mother, not a nanny.”

  “Leave her alone, zlotko.”

  My father strolled into the dining room, salad in hand. He leaned over my mother, kissed the top of her head, and took a seat next to her.

  I smiled, both at the Polish endearment he had called my mother all my life, and his face, so similar to mine, down to its pale skin and blue eyes. Even our bodies shared the same lanky frame. Only our hair was different: while he sported a wave of blonde locks, I had my mother’s dark color. As a teen, I bemoaned nature’s unfairness: why couldn’t I have Dad’s blonde curls and Mom’s womanly curves?

  “She needs the money for her dorm and tuition, and the job pays well. End of story,” my father proclaimed as he deposited the salad on the table and reached for the potatoes.

  The dinner had been his doing. He might have once been an accomplished lawyer, but he was now a master chef. There was nothing he couldn’t cook, even if his bread-and-butter was in traditional Polish cuisine. Secretly, I always suspected he enjoyed the cooking far more than he had the lawyering.

  “We can’t change how other people run their families,” my father elaborated. “And who started dinner without me, when the vegetables weren’t ready yet? Meat and potatoes alone should never be a staple of any diet.”

  “Sorry, Daddy,” I apologized as I reached for the salad. “Mom thought I would starve if we waited any longer.”

  “Rubbish!” My mother waved my father’s comment away. “Why does she need to kill herself slaving over other people’s children when she has a room right here at home? Our house is nice and big.”

  She gestured to the space around us, to its lacy curtains, pastel walls and ‘80s-inspired décor. It was comfortable. I had always loved its oversized furniture and traditional Polish bric-a-brac. The hand-painted plates, embroidered tablecloths and dried bouquets had been there throughout my childhood. Still.

  “She gets the food for free. When I was her age, I was thrilled to be living in my parents’ home.”

  “Yes, well, zlotko,” my father said as he winked at me, “you are the exception. Most young people want their own lives. Parents are nice to visit, but that’s it. Isn’t that right, Tekla?”

  I grinned, but at my mother’s glare ducked my eyes back to the plate.

  We spent the rest of dinner discussing my father’s restaurant.

  “WHO WANTS DESSERT?” my mother asked when she cleared the plates away. “Your father baked an apple tart.”

  “Sure,” I agreed before I helped my mother carry the plates into the kitchen.

  “Tekla,” my father called as he followed us in, my ringing cell phone in his hand, “I think someone’s calling you.”

  I reached for the phone and glanced at the display panel. It was Ms. Jacobs.

  “Who is it?” My mother abandoned the tart and faced me.

  I hesitated. “It’s the woman from the tutoring agency.”

  My mother grimaced and returned to the tart.

  “What does she want from you on a Sunday? Doesn’t she respect your days off, or do you now work on weekends?”

  “I don’t know.” I stared at the phone, reluctant to answer, certain my mother would listen in on the conversation. My father tapped my arm.

  “Go to your room and answer it there. You’ll have more privacy. We’ll have dessert later.”

  I nodded. My mother glared at my father.

  “Hello?”

  I walked into my old bedroom. It looked exactly as it had when I was a teenager. The walls were still peach. The bed overflowed with stuffed animals. A Brad Pitt poster hung over the desk. My old cheerleading poms hung on the doorknob, right above an abused pair of toe shoes.

  “Hi, Tekla,” Mrs. Jacobs said. I pushed some bears out of the way and sat on the bed, on its candy-pink comforter. “I just wanted to touch base and hear how everything’s going with the Lamonts. How are they? How are you?”

  “Eh, good. I guess.” I hugged a heart-shaped pillow to my chest.

  “Good. Excellent,” Ms. Jacobs chirped. “The Lamonts are a wonderful family. Well, glad to hear all’s well. If you have any questions or problems, remember to call me. That’s what I’m here for.” She sounded ready to disconnect.

  “Well,” I said, rushing to stop her before she did. After all, she had volunteered. “There is one small thing. Remember how you
said we should never actually do our students’ homework? Well … ” How to phrase it correctly? “I’m sort of doing just that.”

  Silence.

  “What do you mean?” Ms. Jacobs finally shrieked.

  “Well, like with Gemma. She won’t do her math homework. I show her how to solve the problems, but in the end, I do all of them myself. What should I do?”

  Silence.

  “Hello?” I pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at the display, to check the signal. It seemed fine. “Ms. Jacobs? Are you there?”

  “Yes, yes,” she shrieked even louder. “Well, now, if you’re just showing her how to do the problems, that’s okay. I’m sure she’ll eventually catch on. Don’t worry. That’s not the same as actually doing the work. Is that all?”

  I pulled the phone away again and scowled at the receiver. She couldn’t be serious.

  “Well, no,” I tried again. “Xander actually expected me to write his English essay for him. He called it ‘editing.’”

  More silence.

  “Tried?” Ms. Jacobs finally asked.

  “Yes.” I got off the bed and paced the bedroom. “I said no, but I have a feeling he’ll ask again.” I stopped by the poster to finger Brad’s luscious lips.

  “Well,” Ms. Jacobs chuckled. The sound came off strained. “Why worry about something that hasn’t happened yet?”

  My finger dropped from Brad’s face.

  “And, really, Tekla, a little editing is harmless. All my tutors do it. No worries. Enjoy yourself. And keep in touch.”

  The phone went dead. I snorted—Ms. Jacobs was some help—and returned to the bed. A little nap would be grand.

  I buried my face in a pillow. It smelled like orange blossoms. Boy, I missed those uncomplicated days when my parents paid the bills and I just had to get good grades. The memory lulled me to sleep …

  Until the phone sprang to life again.

  What now? I groaned and glanced at the caller ID.

  Gemma.

  Shit. I crawled up in bed. What did she want on a Sunday? I was tempted to ignore the call, but finally—reluctantly—gave in.

  “Hey, Gemma.” I pitched my voice to a cheery note, reminding myself that $150 per hour went a long way. “How’s it going?”

  My happy words fell on deaf ears.

  A sob.

  “Gemma? Are you okay?” I dropped my legs to the floor.

  More sniffling.

  “Gemma, come on, talk to me. What’s the matter?”

  “Tekla,” a voice croaked. “My life is over, Tekla.”

  An explosion of sobbing.

  “Hey, come on.” What was this? Had a boy dumped her? Had she gotten into a fight with her best friend? “Tell me what happened.”

  Gemma hesitated and then whispered, “Tekla, I think my parents are getting divorced.”

  My body sprang to standing attention. I searched for an appropriate comment to such sudden news, but I could only think how any potential divorce would impact my future employment.

  “Er,” I fumbled as Gemma wailed louder.

  “It’s awful, Tekla,” she hiccupped. “Maman came home and found out Daddy had taken Lisa to an important party. It was in all the gossip columns. She was furious. She screamed about how an ‘open marriage’ didn’t mean he could flaunt his mistresses in public. Daddy yelled that she was crazy, that she flaunted her boy models and assistants everywhere she went. Then he left—with Lisa—and Maman is threatening to move Xander and me back to Paris.”

  I reeled at the implications. Paris. I would surely be out a job if the Lamonts moved to Paris. It would be back to Brooklyn for good.

  “Tekla,” Gemma sniffed. “I don’t want to go to Paris.”

  I didn’t want that either!

  “Tekla?”

  The sound of my mother’s voice startled me. I jumped at the sound—so unexpected, so unwanted—and twirled in its direction, just in time to see my mother march into my bedroom. She paused by the door and glowered.

  “What are you doing in here for so long? We’re waiting for you to finish. Don’t you think you’re being rude?”

  “Mom,” I said as I covered the receiver with my hand—lest Gemma hear—and whispered, “it’s important. I’ll be right out.”

  My mother didn’t budge.

  “Who are you talking to?” she demanded, folding her hands over her impressive bosom. “Is it that woman still?”

  I shook my head no, anything to get her out of the room. My mother persisted.

  “It’s one of those kids, isn’t it? Since when do they have homework on Sundays?”

  “Mom,” I pleaded, “please let me finish. I’ll be right out. I promise.”

  “Tutor, my foot,” my mother huffed as she left the room. “You’re a nanny, plain as day.”

  “Tekla? Are you still there?” Gemma sniffed even louder.

  “Er, yes.” I observed my mother’s retreating back until she was safely out of earshot.

  “What should I do, Tekla?” Gemma whined.

  I hadn’t the foggiest idea.

  “Where’s your mom now?” I stalled, tapping my foot against the bed and reaching for a stuffed rabbit. Mr. Bunny had been my favorite toy when I was a girl. He slept in my bed to keep me company at night, when it was dark.

  I twisted Mr. Bunny’s oversized ear until it almost came off in my hand. “Can you talk to her? Maybe things aren’t as bad as you think?”

  Even to my own ears, I was grasping at straws.

  “She’s locked up in her room,” Gemma hiccupped. “She won’t talk to anybody.”

  Great.

  “How about Xander?” Yeah, that was it. Xander. “Why don’t you talk to your brother? You can keep each other company until your parents calm down.”

  “He left with Daddy.”

  I bit back a moan and dumped the rabbit back on the bed. Come on, God. Give me a break. I am running out of options here.

  “Okay,” I raised my eyes to the heavens, seeking divine intervention. “How about if I call your brother and ask him to go back home, so the two of you can hang out. Would that make you feel better?”

  “I guess,” Gemma responded, but she didn’t sound too enthused by the prospect.

  Too bad. Xander was the best I could come up with on such short notice.

  “Great,” I chirped, all sugary optimism. Tony the Kellogg’s Tiger had nothing on me. “Let me give your brother a call, and we’ll take it from there. You just hold on. Everything’s going to be okay, you’ll see.”

  I dialed Xander.

  “Yo, Tekla, how’s it going?” He sounded remarkably calm and cheery for a guy whose family was about to disintegrate.

  “Fine, Xander, but how are you doing?” I proceeded with caution. Boys usually liked to front and hide their true feelings.

  “Good, good. Though I am having trouble with the essay. I don’t know about this talking out loud stuff. I feel stupid, and the essay sounds no better.”

  Essay? He was worried about the essay at a time like this?

  “Oh, well, keep at it. The method takes practice … Ah … listen, Xander, I just spoke to Gemma.”

  Silence.

  “Xander?” I reached for Mr. Bunny again and, rabbit in hand, circled the room.

  “Let me guess,” he sighed. “She’s crying.”

  “Well, yeah.” I stopped by my desk and sat Mr. Rabbit on its counter. The surface was spotless. I ran my hand over the white laminate. My mother kept my bedroom immaculate. “She’s kinda really upset about your parents.”

  “She’s stupid,” he spat out.

  “Xander!”

  “Well, she is,” he complained on the other end of the phone. “Listen, our parents fight like this every time Maman comes back to New York. It’s no big deal. They’ll be over it tomorrow. That’s how they are. Gemma’s just being a baby. As always.”

  I plopped against the desk and stared ahead, not really seeing anything, my head throbbing. These people w
ere incredible. Was there nothing normal about them?

  “That may be the case,” I responded carefully, although I couldn’t see how. But I’d take Xander’s word for it: he knew his parents far better than I ever could. “Still, your sister is really upset. I think it would be nice if you went back to the house and spent some time with her. I’m sure that would help.”

  No response.

  I closed my eyes. This was getting harder by the minute.

  “Xander, please, as a favor to me. She is your sister.”

  Still nothing.

  “Xander, if you go,” I swallowed, “I’ll … ” I couldn’t believe I was about to stoop so low—and for what? So Gemma could feel better? What was she to me?

  $150 per hour, that’s what, I reminded myself. $150, a job and freedom from maternal concern. I hung my head low. “I’ll write a paragraph of your English essay for you.”

  I held my breath.

  Finally …

  “How about two?” Xander wheedled.

  “One.”

  More dead air. Clearly, Xander was weighing his options, figuring just how far I would go for Gemma.

  “Fine,” he shot back. “But I still think she’s stupid.”

  I exhaled. “Call me when you get there, so I know she’s okay. And Xander … you still write the rest.”

  “Whatever.”

  The connection went dead. I pushed away from the desk and trudged back to the dining room, to my parents, feeling dirty, as if somehow I had sold a part of me. But it was just a paragraph, one measly, short paragraph—no more than five sentences.

  “All done?” my father asked as he handed me a plate of tart.

  My mother—blessedly—said nothing.

  “Yeah.” I took the plate and ate without thinking, my parents’ company soothing me so much so that when the cell rang again, I momentarily didn’t register its ring.

  My mother wasn’t so fortunate. “Here we go again,” she shot out, throwing her hands up in the air. “Can’t we finish a meal in peace? You come to this house once in a blue moon, and even then you can’t devote fifteen uninterrupted minutes to your parents. I thought we raised you better than that.”