Shoe Addicts Anonymous

by Beth Harbison

  “We want to say good night,” Bart whined.

  Deena stopped just short of rolling her eyes and patted Colin, then Bart, gingerly on the head, saying, “Good night, boys. Don’t forget you and Jocelyn are going to the library tomorrow.”

  It was news to Joss, just like the wine run. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Oliver, but tomorrow is my day off.”

  “Oh, is it?” Deena looked surprised, as if she hadn’t even realized Joss was supposed to have any days off. And, actually, given the way she treated her, it seemed she wasn’t aware of it, since she was constantly asking Joss to go above and beyond the call of her contractual duty without regard to time or day.

  “Yes, it is,” Joss said, biting her tongue to keep from following up with some overstated apology.

  Deena eyed her skeptically. “Do you have plans?”

  Ah. Joss had gotten caught in this trap before. Staying in her room on a day off, or otherwise revealing she didn’t have solid plans for the day, had gotten her roped into extra hours (with no extra pay) on more than one occasion. It was hard, but she was trying not to fall into that trap, even though it meant she sometimes had to just go sit and read at the library or wander around the mall aimlessly.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t like taking care of the children. They weren’t exactly angels, God knew, but caring for them was still easier than killing eight hours in a mall.

  Just recently she’d begun looking into groups that met on her time off. The little southern Virginia town of Felling, where she came from, had a Kiwanis club, but that was it. Here in D.C. there were groups for everything—volleyball, softball, bikers, writers, puppeteers, you name it. Unfortunately, Joss wasn’t super athletic, and the grief groups were just too depressing. Still, she had to find some way to get out of the house when she had the chance or else she’d spend the rest of her life catering to Deena Oliver’s whims.

  It was the principle of the thing. Joss wasn’t being paid for overtime and being a general cook and bottle washer, so she shouldn’t be doing it.

  She also shouldn’t be doing laundry, scrubbing floors, picking up dry cleaning, grocery shopping, painting kitchens, or weeding the garden, but somehow, despite her resolutions to say no, she always ended up wimping out and saying okay.

  “I do have plans,” Joss forced herself to say. And she was going to get plans for all these days, somehow, so she’d have a place to go. Maybe the karaoke club, though the one time she’d gone, there had been a really creepy guy who spent the whole night singing songs to her by some old group called Air Supply. “I’ve got this…meeting. Sorry.”

  Before Deena could object or, worse, ask for details, Joss began herding the children off. “Let’s go upstairs, boys. Time for bed!” She knew those words were music to Deena’s ears, and, sure enough, Deena turned and went back to her party.

  As soon as she and the kids were out of sight, Joss relaxed a little. “You shouldn’t have gone down there,” she said to the two red-haired, pajama-clad boys who slumped up the steps in front of her. “She told you she was having a party and didn’t want to be interrupted.”

  “So what? She’s always doing something.” That was Colin, the older of the two, who was beginning to get his mother’s number already.

  “Someone in the kitchen was smoking pot,” Bart said, folding his arms in front of him.

  Joss stopped, midstep. “What?”

  Bart nodded, his expression faux-grim. “Mrs. Pryor was smoking pot. She always smokes pot. She is so dumb.”

  Joss thought a moment, then remembered who Mrs. Pryor was. One of the older, richer neighbors. A woman with blue hair and facial skin so tight, you could bounce a quarter off it. “No, no, Bart, honey, she was smoking a cigarette.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “It’s…” How the heck did he know about smoking pot but not about smoking cigarettes? Clearly the kid had his facts mixed up. Joss needed to give him just enough information to be correct, without overeducating him. “It’s tobacco. People smoke it, but it’s not illegal like pot is.”

  “What’s illegal mean?”

  “It’s—,” Joss began.

  “It means the police will put you in jail, idiot,” Colin said, perfectly mimicking the spirit, if not the wording, of his mother’s impatience.

  “If something is illegal,” she said, shooting Colin a silencing look before turning her gaze back to Bart, “that means it’s against the law. And yes, when people do things that are against the law, the police can arrest them and put them in jail.”

  “Is killing someone illegal?”

  “Yes. Big-time.”

  “What about stealing?”

  “Yes, stealing is illegal, too.”

  “Then that’s why my Uncle Billy is in jail.”

  “Shut up, stupid,” Colin interjected. “It is not.”

  “Uh-huh. I heard Mom telling Dad he was stealing Coke.” Bart screwed up his face. “Why would anyone steal a Coke?”

  Ooh, that was a little fact the Olivers probably didn’t want bantered around. “Let’s go up to bed, guys,” Joss said before they could repeat any of this loud enough to embarrass Deena and Kurt. Both of them prided themselves on their stations in D.C. society—stations secured and assured by Kurt’s booming German import car dealerships, Oliver’s Motorcars—and Joss shuddered to think what they might do to shut their children up if they heard them talking about Uncle Billy’s jail stint.

  Joss took the boys up and told them they couldn’t play computer games anymore, then supervised tooth-brushing and face-washing, told them again that they couldn’t play computer games, put them into their beds, tucked them in, then stood outside their door and said a prayer that they would stay in bed so she could have a little break for the night.

  She knew she should be firm with Deena about her work schedule. It didn’t matter, or at least it shouldn’t have, that she was at the house anyway; she was supposed to have her evenings off after 8 P.M. and all day and night off on Tuesdays and Sundays, but if she was in the house, she was inevitably at Deena’s service.

  Joss sat outside the boys’ room for ten minutes, watching the hall clock tick away into her supposed free time. When she was finally convinced that the boys were going to stay put, she went to her small room and took out the City Paper to read up on what other twenty-somethings were doing with their lives.

  It was a pretty sure bet that most of them weren’t being held prisoner in Chevy Chase homes.

  Around ten thirty, Joss’s stomach began to rumble, and she realized she hadn’t had anything to eat since the peanut butter and jelly sandwich she’d had with the boys at lunchtime. The party was still going strong downstairs, so she figured she could slip into the kitchen the back way and grab a few of the hot appetizers without Deena spotting her and asking her to—who knows—mow the lawn or something.

  “What a bitch,” one of the caterers, a middle-aged brunette woman who looked like she’d seen it all, was saying to another when Joss entered. “She’s one of those freaks that likes to yell at the help in front of her guests so she looks cool.”

  “We should have made the spinach feta puffs so she’d have spinach stuck in her teeth,” the other woman, younger and blonder but with the same basic look, agreed. “And what about that forehead? Did you notice? She’s had so much collagen pumped in, it’s sticking out like she’s Cro-Magnon!”

  The other laughed. “So instead of looking ten years younger, she looks two million years younger!”

  They laughed.

  “Thing is,” the younger of the two said. “She seemed so nice over the phone when she hired us.”

  “Don’t they all?”

  “Yeah, I guess. We’ve got to build a reputation somehow. Even if it means putting up with this shit sometimes.”

  The brunette nudged the blonde and shushed her when she saw Joss coming in.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” Joss said. “I was just hoping to grab a bite to eat.”

  “Oh
, sure, honey.” The brunette went to the oven and began putting an assortment of beautiful little puffs and dips on a plate. “I noticed you weren’t eating earlier when you were down with the kids.”

  Joss smiled. “Unless it’s peanut butter, pizza, or spaghetti, I don’t really get the chance to eat it.”

  “Lady of the house keeps you under wraps, huh?” the blonde asked.

  “Carrie!” It was the brunette, looking alarmed at her coworker’s indiscretion. “Sorry about that—Carrie sometimes speaks”—she shot Carrie another warning look—“without thinking. I’m Stella, by the way.”

  “Oh, so you own the company,” Joss said, thinking of the Occasionally Yours minivan out front that had the words STELLA ENGLISH and a phone number underneath it.

  “We both do,” Carrie said, shooting Stella an affectionate look. “It’s sort of a family business.”

  They didn’t look like family, but Joss didn’t ask questions. The food was delicious, and that was all she cared about right now. She chowed down on cheeses she’d never seen before, thinly sliced meats that tasted like bacon, puffed pastry things that looked sweet but tasted savory. Back in Felling, they didn’t ever serve this kind of food. If a clip-art picture of it wasn’t available for purchase to put on a restaurant wall, Joss had never eaten it.

  The door from what Deena called the great room swung open, and one of her guests edged in, a diminutive woman with glossy dark hair and a tight green dress painted over her trim figure.

  “Hello, ladies,” she drawled in a sharp Southern accent, her gaze lingering for just a moment longer on Joss than on the other two. “You did a marvelous job, just marvelous, on the food. Fan tabulous. I just love those little cheese pies, what do you call them?”

  “Quiche Lorraine?” Stella suggested.

  “Is that what they were? I’ve only had that in big slices. Well, they were fantabulous, let me tell you.” She looked at Joss again, holding her gaze. “And you were really something, too.”

  Joss felt uncomfortable.

  “I mean with the boys,” the woman went on. “That Bart can really be a handful, and I know it. He’s in my Katie’s class, and my goodness, Ms. Hudson sometimes has to put him in time-out for the entire morning.”

  Joss didn’t doubt it. Bart was on his way to being a real hellion. Joss was able to get him under control sometimes, but Deena invariably undid all her work by ignoring everything he did wrong when she was around. If Joss tried to discipline him at a time like that, Deena would object, favoring quiet over tantrums at all costs.

  “Where are my manners?” the woman went on. “I’m Lois Bradley.”

  Joss had heard Kurt Oliver talking about Porter Bradley’s pool and patio business several times, so Joss figured Lois must be his wife. “Joss Bowen,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  Lois put a hand on the small of Joss’s back and guided her farther away from Carrie and Stella, to a darker corner of the kitchen.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” Joss asked uncomfortably. She didn’t know what Lois Bradley was up to, but in Felling people didn’t touch people they didn’t know.

  Everything was different up north.

  “As a matter of fact, there is,” Lois said in a hushed voice. “And I think there’s something I can do for you.”

  Instinctively, Joss glanced around, looking for an exit, or maybe emergency intervention from Carrie and Stella. But Carrie and Stella were banging around with dishes, not paying attention to Joss and Lois.

  “I don’t understand,” Joss said, looking down at Lois, who had gotten disturbingly close.

  “If you come work for me, I will give you a twenty percent raise,” Lois whispered, glancing around herself, just as Joss had a moment before. “And I can guarantee you that my Katie is a whole lot easier than Bart and Colin Oliver.” She practically spat the boys’ names out.

  Joss was taken aback. “Gosh, Mrs. Bradley, that’s flattering, but with everything I’m doing here, it just wouldn’t be possible for me to fit another job in.”

  “You wouldn’t be working here anymore—”

  The words were like the angels singing.

  “—you’d just work for us. You could have whatever two days off you wanted every week, though I’d prefer you took the weekends off—”

  The weekends off! Joss might actually be able to have a social life!

  “—plus, of course you’d have your own car, and your suite at the house—”

  Suite!

  “—has a private entrance and full bath.” She stopped talking and looked at Joss expectantly. It was like the quiet between One! and Happy New Year!

  “Thank you so much for the offer, Mrs. Bradley.” This was painful. “But I can’t leave the Olivers. My contract is for a year, and that’s not up until next June.”

  Lois looked at her as if she’d just said she preferred squirrel over filet mignon. “Are you saying you prefer to work for the Olivers?”

  Lord no, Joss wanted to say, but she knew she couldn’t be quite that honest about her employers. “Well, I have a contract,” Joss said evasively. “I’m committed through June.”

  “And there’s no way I can persuade you to leave it?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t.” Not for the first time, Joss wished to heaven she’d never signed that document, but it was thorough and included a no-compete clause, meaning she couldn’t work for anyone within fifty miles of Chevy Chase for the next year.

  Lois’s expression was a mixture of disappointment and irritation, but there was also a small shine of admiration in her eyes. “I wish I’d gotten a hold of you first,” she said, a bit wistfully. “Please at least think about it, would you?”

  It was foreign to Joss, this apparent longing for her. Even Joey McAllister hadn’t looked at her with this kind of desire, and she’d gone out with him for two years. She’d never even heard the term blue balls, or learned of the condition’s supposed ill health effects, until Joey had pleaded with her for sex in the backseat of his 1985 Chevy Impala, and even he hadn’t looked at her with such intense interest.

  That was just sad.

  “I’m really sorry, Mrs. Bradley.”

  Lois Bradley reached into the little purse she had slung over her shoulder and handed her a card. “That’s my home phone number and e-mail address,” she said. “If you reconsider, or even if you just want to talk about the possibilities, please contact me. I’ll be very discreet.”

  “I really don’t think I should—” Joss tried to hand the card back, but Lois closed her fingers over it.

  “Shhh. Keep it. Just in case.”

  Rather than argue, Joss decided it was best just to keep the card and dispose of it later so as not to embarrass anyone. “I appreciate your interest, Mrs. Bradley,” she said, sounding like an operator who was trying to sell a magazine subscription or something. “Thank you.”

  Lois left, as stealthily as she’d come in, gesturing as she went for Joss to put the card into her pocket.

  After she’d gone, and Joss was still staring after the door, Carrie came over to her. “Was she trying to nanny-nap you?”

  Joss turned to her. “What?”

  “That woman. She wanted to steal you and have you come work for her, right?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Oh, honey,” Stella said, coming over to join them with three glasses of Mrs. Oliver’s champagne in her hands. “We see it all the time. More business connections are made at these little rich-folk get-togethers than you could imagine.”

  “So what did you say?” Carrie asked.

  “I told her I had a contract with the Olivers.” Joss sighed, taking the glass that Stella had offered. She’d never tried champagne, but she’d always wanted to. “It’s too bad, because she seemed so nice.”

  “They all seem nice when they want you,” Carrie said, and Stella nodded her agreement. “All that changes once they have you. The nannies are always prettier on the other side of the fence.
”

  In the distance, though as loud as if it were in the next room, Joss heard a shriek of laughter.

  Colin!

  She knew—she just knew—Deena had heard it, too, and she was probably on her way upstairs to reprimand Joss right now for letting the boys be so loud.

  “I’ve gotta run,” Joss said, setting the glass down untouched. There was no time to regret lost alcohol opportunities now, though. “Thanks, ladies, you’ve been real nice.”

  “Good luck, honey,” Stella called as Joss hurried from the room.

  “What are you two doing?” Joss demanded when she found the boys in front of the computer in her room.

  Two faces, illuminated by the dull greenish-white glow of the computer screen, turned to her in surprise.

  “Nothing,” Colin said, instantly belligerent.

  “Yeah, nothing,” Bart added, not helping his brother’s case one iota.

  “Okay, guys, move over.” Joss didn’t wait for a response, but pushed between them to get to the computer screen before they exited out of whatever godforsaken Web site they’d wandered onto.

  “What the heck is Gregslist?” she asked, more to herself than the boys, as they clearly weren’t going to give a straight answer.

  “I was, uh, just looking for used dirt bikes for sale,” Colin sputtered. “My mom thinks you’re stupid, you know.”

  “You must, too,” Joss responded, looking closer at the list on the computer screen. “Unless the dirt bike you wanted was a blonde with blue eyes and—” She looked closer. “—a passion for stargazing.”

  Colin looked at her slack-jawed. “Huh?”

  She turned her gaze to Bart. “Was it you or Colin that wrote back to this dirt bike saying,” she read, “‘I like your tits. Meet me at Babes Friday at seven’?” Joss turned her attention back to Colin. “That sounds like a very interesting dirt bike.”

  “Don’t tell our mom,” Bart said impulsively. He was always the first to break in these situations.

  Colin flashed his brother a silencing look, then said to Joss, “Yeah, she’d be really mad at you for letting us on your computer, so you better not tell.”