Help Wanted (19 page)

It was true. When she wasn't getting weepy over her conflicted feelings for him, her impending career choice, car commercials, or her rapidly deteriorating multitasking capabilities, she sang—in the car, in the shower, in aisle six of their local grocery store, in her cube when she thought no one else was around.

With each day that had passed since her concussion, she worried that it had caused more damage than a scar on her scalp.

Must call doctor.

When Claire reached the end of the aisle, she heard Paul ask the stock boy, "Did you hear her singing?"

"Stop," Claire admonished.

"She's pretty good, isn't she?"

She turned to see the gum-chewing sixteen-year-old look at Paul, pull his earplugs out by the cord, and ask, "Can I help you?"

*   *   *

On Monday morning, Di stopped to pick up a café au lait at Chez Doug's before heading into her office. The week's Lifestyle content had been planned out weeks before, but she still had to finalize her budget projections for the following year. Setting the coffee cup on her desk, she pried off its lid, releasing the aromatic steam. She took a sip and watched as her email inbox loaded its new messages.

"Huh, what's this?" she wondered when she spotted an unexpected message from Claire. She had already received enough columns from her to finish out the year and was surprised to see yet another arrive during what she knew was a busy week for her popular columnist. She opened the attachment and began reading.

Ten minutes later, she shouted out the door to the new intern sitting at a desk just beyond her door. "Scotty. Can you come in here please?"

The thin young man jumped at the sound of her voice and rushed into her office, notebook in hand.

"Yes, Ms. Devane?"

"Ok, get over to layout and tell them we're pulling this Friday's column and replacing it with the one I'm sending down right now. Spacing shouldn't be a problem. I just want them to be sure they insert the right file. Got it?"

"Uh, I think so."

Pulling a tissue out of a box on her desk, she muttered, "Damn, I haven't cried since Marshall Field's closed its doors."

She then looked up at Scotty, still standing in her doorway, and asked, "Well, what are you waiting for?"

As she watched him scurry down the aisle, she called after him, "I appreciate everything you do."

Dialing Claire's number, she left her briefest message yet. "Got your latest column. We'll run it on Thanksgiving."

*   *   *

Burt and Louise Nelson, both Chicago natives, agreed on one thing and one thing only. If the weather had always been as pleasant during the month of November as it was when they stepped out of Midway Airport that Monday before Thanksgiving, they would never have moved to the Southwest.

As Kate drove them to her luxurious, parent-ready brownstone, they filled her in on all of their current physical ailments, correcting each other as they went along. Each of Kate's attempts to divert the conversation down a less argumentative path went unheeded.

When she pulled into her garage and began hoisting their luggage out of her trunk, Louise asked for the fifth time, "Are you sure we're not putting you out? We don't want you going to any trouble."

"Mom. For the fifth time, I'm not going to any trouble. It's ok. Relax."

As if she didn't hear what her daughter had just told her, she continued, "Burt, help Kate with the bags, and I'll get dinner started."

Watching as her mother made her way to the kitchen, he retorted, "I didn't come on this trip to haul your junk around. Some feminist you are."

Kate realized she had a long couple of weeks ahead of her.

"Ok, listen up. I'm going to bring everything up to the guest room. You guys get yourselves comfortable, and then we'll head out to dinner."

When they began to protest about the expense, she silenced them with, "I made reservations at Stevens."

Stevens, one of the last remaining old-time supper clubs in the Chicago area, was their favorite steak place and located not far from their old neighborhood.

Knowing that she finally had their undivided attention, she continued.

"Tomorrow, Mom, you and I are going to Michigan Avenue to do some shopping, and Dad, Dave, and Tom will be getting here at about 11:30 to pick you up for lunch."

"Hey, that's great," he replied, clearly looking forward to catching up with two longtime buddies.

"Then on Wednesday, I'm going to have to make the pies, so we'll be stuck here for a while before going to Claire's on Thursday."

"Sounds great." Louise clapped her hands together, obviously not hearing much after the words "shopping" and "Michigan Avenue."

*   *   *

The Wednesday before Thanksgiving, Claire brought the twenty-two-pound turkey up from the refrigerator in the garage and dropped it in the empty kitchen sink, which she filled with cold water before heading out the door. She made a mental note to call Paul later to make sure the sink stayed filled with cold water. 

She was not surprised to see that the train was practically empty. Certain that the last day of her contract position was rapidly approaching, she pulled out her notebook and made a quick list of all of the headhunters she knew she should contact and the companies to which she would apply after the holiday weekend. While John had remained elusive about her future there and had, so far, been able to find small assignments to retain her, experience told her that the end was near.

The heels of her shoes echoed loudly as she stomped off the train platform and into the station with a dozen or so other commuters arriving at the same time that she had. Going through the revolving doors, she breathed in the unseasonably warm air, wanting to store the memory of it away for future reference when the frigid onslaught of winter arrived.

Arriving at the nearly deserted office, she went into the kitchenette and started the coffee, a bit unnerved by the silence. By 9:30, only three other employees had arrived, and Claire was finding it increasingly hard to concentrate on work-related tasks. Fifteen minutes later, John stopped by her cube, looking more relaxed and happy than he had the entire time she had worked there.

"Look at you," she couldn't help but say at the sight of him, wearing jeans and a sweater, looking as if he had enjoyed the first good night's sleep in a long while.

"I didn't expect to see you today," she continued when he didn't respond to her with anything but a smile. "What's going on? Win the lottery?"

"Better."

"Oh yeah? The lottery and a private concert with Eric Clapton?"

He laughed and then sat on the edge of her desk. Talking a deep breath, he said, "You're looking at Cavanaugh Community College's newest adjunct professor. I start right after the New Year."

Claire tilted her head as if she didn't hear him correctly. "Wow," she exclaimed, frowning. "I thought you were kidding."

"You know it's always been a dream of mine to teach. I've just had enough of—" At a loss for words, he held his hands in the air and finished with, "This."

She got up and threw her arms around his shoulders. "I'm so happy for you. This is great news."

Smiling again, he stood to hug her back. "That's my pal."

When she pulled away and sat back in her chair, he sat down again and said, "Now here's the best part. I've recommended you as my replacement. Management agrees. Based on your experience, you're the obvious choice."

"What?" she said again, shocked for the second time in just as many minutes. "You're full of surprises this morning, aren't you?"

"Yep. You interested?"

"Uh. Yeah, maybe." She raised both eyebrows in an attempt to look more enthusiastic than she felt.

Her friend shrugged. "Well, think it over. You've probably got a couple of weeks to decide. They'll have to post the opening, go through the motions of interviewing anybody who applies. You know the routine."

She nodded, grateful she didn't have to make a decision on the spot.

"Now listen, get outta here. Go enjoy your family. I'll see you Monday."

"Thanks. Hey, give Donna my best," she yelled after him.

"Will do," he called over his shoulder on his way to the elevator bank. 

Claire hung back, mulling over what had just happened. After a few minutes, she got up and walked into his dark, unlocked office and closed the door behind her.

The furniture layout was similar to that of the office she had at her last job. She slowly walked behind his desk and stood there imagining Amanda sitting in one of the chairs facing her, asking why she was overlooked for the managerial spot. Claire sat in John's chair and put her hands on top of his desk. Her fingertips brushed an interoffice envelope that sat there unopened. Just like the one containing that anonymous message she received before she got laid off.

You are a miserable person.

She looked down at it, covered her face with her hands, and whispered, "Oh God, I don't mean to be ungrateful, but I could use a little help here." 

As she sat there, the office walls slowly closing in on her, she took a deep breath and flipped a notebook on the desk to a blank page. On one side, she wrote, "Plate Spinner." On the other, she wrote, "Manager."

After listing out the pros and cons to each opportunity, she got up, returned to her cube, packed her things, and made her way to the train station, hoping to catch the express home.

"Thanksgiving dinners take eighteen hours to prepare. They are consumed in twelve minutes. Halftimes take twelve minutes. This is not coincidence." —Erma Bombeck

Up at dawn, partly by habit, partly by necessity, Claire sat in the family room still dressed in the sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt she had worn as pajamas. Keeping the television volume very low, she watched the news while folding a load of linens that she'd put in the dryer before going to bed the night before. When she was done, she ironed her best tablecloth that would grace the dining room table. Working the cloth over the ironing board, she mulled what John had told her the day before. While she wasn't banking heavily on a position at the
Gazette
paying her enough to cover their monthly expenses, let alone offer benefit coverage, she decided to wait until after the fundraiser to tell Paul about John's job offer.  

When the aroma of freshly brewed coffee reached her nose, she sniffed the air as if she were trying to detect a gas leak. Instead of eliciting the impulse to fill a cup, she felt the impulse to throw up.

Oh no. I can't be sick. Not today.

On her way to duck into the guest bathroom off of the darkened foyer, she almost collided with Paul, who had just bounded downstairs in running shorts and a T-shirt.

Without so much as a "good morning," she asked, "Can you start the grill?"

In reply, Paul slipped on his running shoes. "Can it wait until I get back? I want to get this in before everybody gets here."

"Whatever."

Narrowing his eyes, he asked, "You ok?"

Before she could answer, she ducked into the bathroom, lifted the lid on the toilet, and started retching.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Paul pull some toilet paper from the roll and hand it to her. As her body convulsed, she felt his hand smoothing the hair off of her face and holding it behind her head.

"It's all right. Everything's gonna be all right," he cooed, just as he had when Tomas and Jonah caught the stomach flu the year before.

When she was done, he handed her a clean wad of toilet paper, wiped down the toilet seat with a bleach-soaked wipe, and flushed it while she sat down on the floor, wondering what could have prompted it.

Helping her up, he stood her at the sink. "I'll go get your tooth brush. Stay here."

In a minute he was back and stayed with her while she cleaned herself up.

"You ok?"

She took a deep breath and looked up at him. "Yeah. I'm fine."

He didn't look convinced.

"Something going around the office?"

Claire shrugged. "No. It's probably just nerves. So much going on today. Mom and Dad coming over." She gave her head a quick shake. "I feel much better, really. Thanks for your help. Go run, and I'll put you to work when you get back."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

Claire watched as he descended the front stairs and ran toward the forest preserve. Hoping a quick shower would revive her, she headed upstairs, grateful the boys were all still sleeping.

When she was done, she retrieved the tablecloth from the ironing board and, with matching napkins in hand, pulled the chairs away from the dining room table. Shaking the burgundy tablecloth above it, she watched as it landed gracefully on the surface. Centering it to the best of her ability, she got out eight large dinner plates, eight bread plates, and eight settings of silverware and arranged them around the table. Right in the middle, she set a turkey centerpiece that Jonah had made in school. On either side of it, she placed crystal candleholders and inserted two new taper candles to lend an air of elegance to the otherwise homey dining room.

She figured she'd ask one of the boys to bring up the card table from the basement, dust it off, and put it at the far end of the dining room table so the entire family could sit together. Otherwise, the younger boys would be relegated to the dreaded "kiddie table"—a designation given to the kitchen table when additional relatives and friends came for special dinners.

When Paul returned from his run, he went directly to the kitchen, checked on Claire, and headed out the back door so he could prep the grill before showering. Claire, in the meantime, tried focusing on the task at hand—prepping the poultry.

She took the turkey out of its wrapper, rinsed it off, and set it in the aluminum pan. Stuffing it with an onion, two celery stalks, and a carrot, she then smeared the bird with oil, realizing only after she had done so that she should've pinned back the wings and tied up the legs first.