by Pamela Morsi
“I get it that there’s no big miracle in my future,” she whispered. “Just a little help is all I’m asking today.”
The small dimly lit room was air-conditioned, but far from cool. Lime green paint was peeling off the stucco walls. The dark green linoleum tile was missing in several places.
Behind the low counter that served as a desk for the receptionist, a heavyset brunette woman of indeterminate age was talking on the phone. When the bell heralded Ellen’s arrival, the woman looked up immediately and smiled.
“Can I help you?” she asked eagerly.
“I’m Ellen Jameson,” she announced with a smile that hopefully looked genuine. “I have an appointment with Mr. Roper.”
The woman nodded eagerly.
“Listen, Marlene, I gotta go,” she said into the phone. “Somebody’s here to see Max. You can call me later if you need to talk.”
The receptionist paused as the person on the other end of the line responded. The woman took the respite opportunity to suck upon the straw of what must have been the largest carbonated beverage cup ever molded from plastic, emblazoned on the side with its name and explanation: Thirst Slaker.
“Believe me,” she told the woman on the phone. “The worst thing about a colonoscopy is having nothing to eat the day before. The actual test is kind of entertaining really, seeing your own guts on a television screen is pretty interesting after all. And they take Polaroids of all your polyps. It’ll be something to show at Bingo.”
Another hesitation.
“Yeah sure, call me. Okay.”
The brunette hung up the phone and immediately rose to her feet offering her hand to Ellen.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m so sorry I was on the phone. I’ve got a friend going in for tests tomorrow. She’s had diarrhea for a month. She’s tried all the stuff over the counter and nothing works. I told her, hey, diarrhea is your friend, but then I’m speaking as a woman who’s been constipated for thirty years. I’m Yolanda Ruiz by the way. And you’re Ellen. You don’t mind if I call you Ellen?”
“That’s fine, I…”
“So I looked at your résumé,” she said. “Pretty impressive. You’re not divorced? A nice-looking woman like you, surely you’re not divorced.”
“Ah…no, I’m a widow.”
“Oh, a widow, I’m so sorry. Car wreck?”
“What?”
“Did he die in a car wreck?”
“No.”
“Oh, well that’s good,” she said. “Lots of younger widows have husbands who died in car wrecks. So what was it? Heart disease?”
“Cancer.”
“Oh, cancer, I’m so, so sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Lung? Brain? Where’d he have his cancer?”
“Bone cancer.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“So now you’re out looking for a job,” she said.
“Yes.”
“What happened to this CPA you worked for?”
“It was my husband’s firm,” Ellen explained. “And without a CPA, you don’t have a CPA firm.”
“Oh, right, sure,” she said. “You got kids?”
“Yes.”
“Girls? Boys?”
“A daughter.”
“Teenager?”
“She’s twenty-one.”
“Good Lord! You must’ve been a child bride, huh?”
“Well, no, I…”
“Is she in college?”
“No, she works at the mall.”
“She works at the mall,” Yolanda repeated as if that was exceptional. “Does she have a boyfriend?”
“A boyfriend?” Ellen didn’t quite know how to answer. “No. I mean, well, I don’t think there’s anybody special.”
“Ahhhhh.”
Yolanda drew out the sound through a half-dozen meaningful syllables.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I got cousins, I got nephews. I’ve even got a kid brother who works at the post office. All the cute single men in the world work at the post office. We’ll have her fixed up in no time.”
“Well, I…ah…I don’t know, she…”
“For crying out loud, Yolanda,” a voice called out from the back. “Are you going to talk the woman to death or bring her back here for an interview?”
“I’m just getting acquainted,” she yelled back. She turned to Ellen and said, “Don’t pay any attention to Max. He’s old and he’s cranky. He’s always been that way.”
“Yolanda!”
“Go on back,” she said. “He’s been antsy all day. We really need some good help, he just can’t imagine that you’d really come to work here.”
“Yolan-da!”
“Second office on the left.”
“Thank you.”
The receptionist had no time to acknowledge her words—she was back to phone duty immediately.
Ellen walked the length of the office at a careful pace. Not so quick as to seem hurried, not so sedate as to seem slack. She was nervous. And that’s the one thing she didn’t want. A person couldn’t help but be nervous, but it was dangerous to appear nervous.
She tried to imagine herself working here. It was all she could do to restrain a shudder. The office in the Bank One Tower had been professionally decorated, with beautiful views from three sides. This building had no views at all. The only windows were covered by dingy miniblinds.
She found Roper’s office easily enough—there were only two and one was empty. The office was occupied by a large, lanky older man in a buff-colored sports jacket, a western shirt with pearl-colored snaps and a bolo tie. His white straw cowboy hat hung on the rack behind him. He waved her inside.
“Sorry about Yolanda,” he said. “I tell her she’s wasted here. She ought to work for the CIA. She can get information out of anyone.”
“I heard that,” Yolanda called out from the other room.
“Then stop eavesdropping,” he answered back.
Ellen decided to ignore the entire unprofessional incident.
“Mr. Roper, I’m here about the accounts supervisor position,” she said, offering her hand across the desk.
He took it in his own, his grip was strong, though his hand was marred with age. His smile was welcoming.
“Have a seat, have a seat,” he offered. “And call me Max, everybody does.”
The utilitarian plastic and chrome furniture was old, scarred and looked as if it had been picked up very cheaply at a university rummage sale. Max Roper was equally old school.
Ellen seated herself on the edge of the chair, back straight and chin up. Bravely, she put a determined smile upon her face.
“You’re just a downright pretty thing,” Max told her. “From this résumé I really expected an older girl.”
Neither older nor girl were designations that Ellen particularly liked, but she chose not to take offense.
“I’m forty-two,” she answered.
“Well, you look thirty-two,” he said with certainty. “And hell, I think I was still in knee britches at your age.”
Ellen smiled politely at his attempt at humor.
He was still chuckling as he looked over her résumé.
“An associate degree in accounting,” he said. “We don’t see those much anymore.”
Ellen flushed, embarrassed. She didn’t look good on paper. That’s what the woman at the state unemployment office had told her. For the kind of job she was seeking, interviewers saw men and women every day who were half her age and had twice her education.
It was a comedown in status, as bad as any other she’d suffered. She had been the top student in her class, a perfect four point grade average. But she’d settled for a two-year degree to get married and help pay for her husband’s education. At the time it hadn’t seemed to matter.
“I have over twenty years of experience,” she pointed out.
The man continued to read through the pages in his hands. “Several different tax p
reparation companies, but that was a long time ago,” he pointed out. “Then you were the manager for your husband’s firm downtown,” he said.
“Yes.”
He gave her a long look. “Were you the real manager, or just on the payroll as such?”
He’d asked his question so frankly it would have been impossible not to give a truthful answer.
Ellen swallowed before tackling the man’s directness.
“I worked for my husband when he was just getting started,” she replied. “Then I went to part-time, while my daughter was a baby. Once my husband became ill, I began to work more and more. Ultimately, I ran everything. For the last two years of his life my husband was too sick to go to the office at all.”
Max Roper nodded. He appeared sympathetic, but realistic as well.
“When your husband died you sold the business?”
“My husband’s cancer treatment was not covered by our health insurance,” she explained candidly. “I spent all our savings, cashed in our investments and retirement funds. I even borrowed against the business.”
Just talking about that financial snake pit made Ellen’s stomach tighten miserably. Vomiting during a job interview was never a good thing.
“I sold what I could and then filed Chapter Eleven,” Ellen admitted.
Max leaned back in his chair and threaded his hands together on top of his chest.
“So you’re broke,” he said.
“Yes, I am.” It was amazing how easily the admission came.
“Well, that’s a damn shame for you,” Max said. “But it’s a stroke of luck for me. Can you start tomorrow?”
Ellen was shocked. She hadn’t expected it to be so easy. She hadn’t worked for anyone else in two decades, she’d come off a failed business and a bankruptcy. She hadn’t even been able to get an interview among any of the firms run by her husband’s former friends. Now, in a run-down neighborhood, and with peeling green stucco aside, this strange old cowboy accountant, who knew almost nothing about her, wanted her.
“Y-yes, I can start tomorrow,” she assured him.
Wilma sat on the back step. She had been watching Jet race around the backyard, arms wide, flapping up and down, as she pretended to be a little bird. But she soon tired of that. Now she was seated beside her great-grandmother, expectantly. Wilma had no idea what to do.
From the pocket of her slacks she pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Menthols. She’d been smoking menthols since her throat got bad. About fifteen years, she guessed. Nobody believed anymore that menthols were better for your throat. But she’d grown used to them. Why change?
Wilma flicked the flint on her orange plastic disposable lighter and took a big draw.
She used to never ask herself about change. Change was a way of life. Clean slate. Start over. Get it right next time. Wilma’d lived an entire lifetime in the midst of change.
She snorted in a rather unladylike fashion and thought to herself. Hey, maybe it’s time to change that.
Keeping a three-year-old was certainly a change for her. And not as easy as Wilma had hoped. All morning long she’d been run ragged. She’d played Button-Button, Drop the Handkerchief and Hot Potato a dozen times each. They’d straightened Jet’s room, completed puzzles and read books. They’d even watched Barney on TV, a totally new experience for Wilma. The morning wasn’t even half over and she was already wrung out like an old, thin dishrag.
“Why don’t we go in and take a little nap,” she suggested.
Jet looked at her with that serious expression so often used on clueless grown-ups. “I don’t take naps in the morning, Wil-ma,” she explained. “I only nap in the afternoon.”
“Oh, right, okay,” Wilma agreed.
What was she going to do until afternoon? What did this child usually do?
Wilma should have asked Amber or Ellen before they left. But she’d felt so sure of herself when she’d insisted that she could take care of a three-year-old. She had, after all, raised two kids of her own. Lots of grandmothers were taking care of little ones these days.
Of course, most of those women weren’t great-grandmothers. And most had probably been maternal with their own children. Wilma had never been particularly competent or even interested in motherhood. She’d loved her kids, but she’d always been so distracted by the men in her life. She probably shouldn’t have ever had children, she thought. But those were the days before the pill. If you didn’t want children, you had to forgo men as well. She’d never been able to do without some kind of fellow hanging around her back door…and her bedroom.
She examined her cigarette closely for a moment and then expertly broke off the filter and dropped it in the dirt beside her. She ground it into the earth with her foot and then took a deep drag off her unfiltered tobacco. It tasted so good. But she couldn’t help but feel guilty about it.
If she wasn’t going to get any stronger, who would take care of Jet? So far, it was Ellen who’d done most of the childrearing. But she needed to get a job of her own. Not just for the money they needed so desperately, but also because she needed to get out and have a life of her own. She’d spent far too much time dwelling on all that she’d lost.
Lots of single women sent their kids to day care. But day care costs money. A lot more than Amber could afford to spend on it. Of course, Amber could quit her job, stay home with Jet and go on welfare. Somehow she was pretty sure that proud young woman would never do that. And even if they could find a nice place to keep her and could afford to send her there, there was still the problem of getting the child to the school and home again. That old Chrysler of Ellen’s wasn’t going to last forever. They aged in dog years. Every year on a Camry was worth seven on a Chrysler.
She’d hate to see Amber trying to drag that child across town on a city bus.
No, Wilma had to take care of the girl herself. She simply had to do her part, she decided. She felt as if for most of her life, she’d let her kids down. Right now, Ellen really needed her. She had to rise to the occasion, whatever that occasion might be.
“Let’s go to the grocery store,” Wilma suggested to Jet.
If she had no idea what the child normally did with her mornings, then why not do what Wilma normally did.
“Okay!” Jet agreed excitedly.
“Go find Wil-ma’s pocketbook,” she told the child as she stubbed out her cigarette. “I’ll get my oxygen and we’ll be ready to go.”
The child scampered to the bedroom. Wilma followed her inside and dragged the cursed oxygen tank next to her chair in the front room. Once seated, she unwound the see-through plastic tubing draped around the handle and fitted the nose piece into her nostrils and hooked the lines behind her ears. She screwed the valve open. Immediately the gas began flowing and she felt significantly better.
“Emphysema’s a disease you can live with,” her doctor told her.
He was not, of course, the person who had to live with it. The stuffy M.D., thirty-five going on ninety, at Surety Health, Wilma’s HMO, was younger than her children. What did he know about what she could stand and how well she could stand it.
With a stroke of his magic pen he had medicare provide her with a mobile respiration unit. She hadn’t thanked him. Wilma hated the tank. She hated its clumsy omnipresence and she hated what it represented: old age, ill health, weakness and payback for a million cigarettes smoked. But without it, she’d be housebound at the very least.
“Here it is, Wil-ma,” Jet said as she came running back into the room.
“Thank you, sugarplum,” she answered.
Wilma hooked her purse on the handle of the oxygen tank.
“Now, I’ve got to take it real slow,” she told the child. “So you’ve got to stay with me and hold my hand, because I can’t chase you if you run off from me.”
Jet’s bright brown eyes were solemn and serious. “Don’t worry, Wil-ma,” she assured her great-grandma. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”
Wilma laughed at that
and took the little girl’s hand.
They locked the front door and headed up the street. There was a sidewalk for two blocks, then a large parking lot to cross before Broadway. Jet stayed right at Wilma’s side the whole way. She chattered for a little bit and then began to sing. She had a sweet voice. She must have got that from Ellen. She’d always been something of a singer, too. Wilma remembered hearing her daughter rocking and singing lullabies to Bud when he was a baby.
Ellen hardly ever sang anymore. Another loss that remained unmeasured.
They reached the bus stop and Wilma seated herself upon the bench. Jet snuggled right up beside her and watched the street as they waited.
Wilma was thoughtful and sighed. Wilbur’s family taking the house from her was a blow. Not because she particularly liked the house—she didn’t. And she’d never really tried to stay anywhere for long. But she had been so glad to have it to offer when things went bad for Ellen. She knew that her daughter had been loathe to accept it. But finally the financial realities couldn’t be ignored.
What the family needed was money. There was no way that Ellen was going to pull them out of her current tailspin without a thorough infusion of cold hard cash.
As far as Wilma knew there were only four ways to get money. You had to earn it, inherit it, marry it or steal it.
“I should rob a bank,” she suggested to herself aloud.
“What did you say, Wil-ma?” Jet asked.
“Oh, nothing,” she answered. “I was just thinking of something funny.”
It was the truth. She had a pleasant chuckle at her own imagination, visualizing herself dressed in sleek black, cat-burglarizing among the casinos of Monte Carlo.
Stealing was definitely not an option.
Earning wasn’t much of one either. Wilma wasn’t averse to wages. At one time or another she’d done practically every kind of work a lady could do. And a couple of good paying jobs that no lady would have ever considered. But even the lowest tavern or the grimiest strip joint wouldn’t be interested in an old woman pulling her oxygen canister. Besides, she didn’t know how any income might affect the two hundred and ninety dollars a month she got from Social Security.