Shop and Let Die (15 page)

“
The tutoring is helping.
He’d be doing fine if he just learned to ask for help when he
needed it. I’ve told him repeatedly that it is not a horrible thing
to ask for help. He has yet to show that he has heard me. He
prefers to look as though he can handle things—as long as no one
looked too closely, which his classroom teacher clearly is not
doing. Maybe you should tell him. Maybe he’d hear it if you said
it.”

Seth had tuned out my rant
by the end of the first sentence, I could tell by the way his gaze
was focused back on the computer. “Maybe we should pay for an extra
tutoring session a week. Get him up to speed so he doesn’t need any
help.”

“
He’s doing very well in
his program, he just needs to overcome that common tendency for
kids with dyslexia to avoid reading blocks of text that seem
irrelevant.” Like directions. “And it will take a while before the
tutoring helps his reading ability catch up to his grade
level.”

“
He’s a smart kid, he’ll
get it.”

“
He will. I’ll make sure
of it.” It would take time and vigilance, though, since Ryan had
his father’s independently proud nature. He would rather fail than
openly ask for help, which would be like painting a big red LOSER
on his forehead. I’d never gotten Seth to see that was not a useful
approach to life, so I couldn’t expect Ryan to embrace asking for
help.

“
Do you really think it
matters if you go back to work or not?”

“
I don’t know Seth. If
we’d caught it sooner…gotten him into the tutoring program in third
grade maybe…he’s so competitive, he’s internalized himself as
stupid. He does his homework, but not with any conviction that he
can do it right.”

Seth said sharply, “You
baby him. If he had strict consequences…”

“
What’s more strict than
an F? Humiliation before his peers?” Seth didn’t get it. Worse, he
didn’t want to get it. He wanted to believe his son would wake up
one day “cured” of dyslexia by the intense tutoring program we had
him in. The idea that it was a brain hardwiring issue that was as
real and as permanent as a limp was a reality he was not willing to
face. Like father, like son.

I’d bought several books
on dyslexia back when I was trying to figure out what to do to help
Ryan. They were all piled on the table beside Seth’s side of the
bed, decorated with a layer of dust. “Read the books, Seth, and
then you’ll understand.”

“
They’re just into scaring
money out of parents. Ryan’s a good kid, and he’ll get this reading
thing down soon, I know it.”

Right. I could argue with
him pointlessly, or enter my report. I chose to enter the report.
Seth watched as I logged into the report site and answered the long
string of questions in complete, descriptive sentences.

“
Why so fancy? It’s not as
if they’re paying you well—or quickly.”

“
It’s the job. The better
your reports, the better paying jobs you get. Two hundred bucks for
this is good pay. It would take me ten or more regular little jobs
to make that much. I want more jobs like this one, so we can afford
those little extras we both like, like hot water and
electricity.”

“
If you got a regular
part-time job—”

“
Regular jobs mean regular
hours, Seth. Are you willing to stay home with a sick kid if I’m
scheduled to work?”

“
Employers do have sick
leave and vacation.”

“
Yes, they do. And they do
get really impatient with people who mess up the work schedule by
using them without much notice.”

“
I heard of this thing
called job-flex. You could try that.”

“
I could.” I tried to say
it as if I had an open mind, but I think my general frustration and
disinterest came through because Seth slipped the laptop onto my
lap and stood up.

“
I’m going to bed. You
shouldn’t be too much longer. Don’t forget we have dinner with the
dean and his wife tomorrow.”

“
I’ll be up soon,” I
promised, not letting my expression reveal that I had forgotten
dinner. Again. Which meant I didn’t have a babysitter lined
up.

CHAPTER
TWELVE

Frustration Central

Finding a babysitter is one of those invisible
jobs that mothers do that they don’t get any credit for. First, you
have to find someone reliable, who will show up and pay attention
to the kids. Then, you have to find someone who won’t break the
monthly budget. Most importantly, you have to treat them well, so
that they want to work for you over all the other jobs they can
get.

Trying to get a babysitter
at the last minute, though, that takes a very long list of good
sitters. Because good sitters are booked days, if not weeks, in
advance.

Fortunately, I found one,
a good one, after calling twenty names on my list. Helen was a
grandmother, a nurse, and certified in CPR.

Unfortunately, we had to
drive the kids to her because she only babysat out of her own home,
which added time to getting ready in the already thin margin of
time after piano for Anna and tutoring for Ryan. This didn’t make
it any easier for us, when we both wanted to show up looking like
human beings who didn’t sweat. Impressing the Dean would take more
than that, but why start out on a bad footing?

It didn’t help that Seth
doesn’t like to be late. This usually works out fine, since I don’t
either. However, when circumstances conspire to make us late, it
always ends up my fault. In his mind, at least.

“
I can’t believe you
couldn’t get a babysitter to come to the house.”

I was not about to confess
that I’d forgotten about the dinner, and had had to do a last
minute marathon call this morning, so I simply said, “I guess it’s
just that time of year. Everyone was booked solid. If Helen hadn’t
had a cancellation, we’d have had to take the kids with
us.”

The thought of taking them
with us was horrifying enough that it killed the conversation until
we’d managed the drop-off portion of the evening.

But once they’d run inside
to wave goodbye through the window and Helen had hurried us off at
the driveway, with understanding for our desire to make a good
impression on the Dean, Seth began fretting, “We’re never going to
make it,” at every red light, stop sign, and turning vehicle in our
path to The Pearl Onion. “Did you have to take a
shower?”

“
I was downstairs before
you were.” I always tell myself not to be defensive. Easier said
than done, unfortunately. After one particularly close call with
the bumper of the car in front of us (which foolishly stopped when
the traffic light turned yellow rather than allowing Seth to skim
through behind it on a “barely red”) I said, “I’d rather be late
than dead, Seth.”

“
You have an airbag.” He
swore as the cautious yellow-light-stopper morphed into a driver
who didn’t start right at green, but waited a beat or two to make
sure that no one in the crossing lane would pull a Seth and kiss
the red. No one did and we were on our way.

The first sign that we
were going to have trouble parking was the lit marquee at The
Playhouse. “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern” was playing to what
promised to be a packed house. Trying to head off trouble, I said,
“You could just park in the parking garage this one
time.”

“
I won’t pay two dollars
just so I can park. It’s free on the street.”

“
But—”

“
Just look for a good
space.” Some restaurants in town have their own parking lots. The
Pearl Onion, being trendy, did not. They did have valet parking,
but that was much more expensive than the parking garage, so I
didn’t mention it.

Since Seth didn’t like
parallel parking, I was getting set for a long night of looking for
a space he could drive straight into. We circled the restaurant
twice with no luck. Not a space in sight, although there were
plenty of posters tacked to street lamps and telephone poles that
asked, “Have You Seen My Mom?” At first I thought they were sad
reminders of the latest victim, and then I sat up, noticing that
this was a new woman. A new missing mom.

I wondered if I was a bad
person for briefly considering taking them all down so my daughter
wouldn’t have any more nightmares about disappearing
mothers.

Seth stopped swearing and
started announcing the time. “Four minutes late. Six minutes late.”
At last, on the fifth go-around he stopped at the door to the
restaurant. For a moment I thought he was going to abandon the car,
but he only said, “Go in and give them my apologies. I’ll come in
as soon as I park.”

“
What will you do? Circle
forever?” I was only half kidding.

He grumbled, “I guess I’ll
use the garage, damned pirates.”

I would have been happier
at seeing him concede to a point of mine, if I wasn’t so nervous
about being the advance greeting party for the Dean and his wife.
“Why don’t I park and you go in.” I was never really meant to be a
faculty wife—which is much like being the wife of a minor
politician and having to make nice with all the slightly less minor
politicians and their wives.

“
Just go, damn it. Pretend
the Dean and his wife are a mystery shop assignment.”

He heard himself and gave
me an apologetic grin. “I’m sorry. I know you hate this. You don’t
have to be nervous. People like you. You’re a good mom. A good
wife. You’re funny. You’re smart.”

“
I wish I felt that way
when I have to be on my best behavior,” I confessed.

He grinned, a wicked light
in his eye erasing his irritation for a moment. “Why not take a
page from Serena’s book. Be confident. Act like you own the
world.”

I kissed him, half for
understanding why I worried about the evening and half for coming
up with a decent idea on how I could handle it. “Will do.” I rather
liked his idea. Well, I liked it better than the idea of continuing
to drive around The Pearl Onion looking for a parallel parking
space that could be entered head on. So I hopped out just before
the guy in the car behind us hit his horn.

Seth drove off and I stood
outside for a moment, gearing myself up as I did before a mystery
shop, letting Serena-Molly come out to play. The power bra
helped.

The truth is, I’m not a very social person. It’s
not that I don’t like people. I do. I love people and find them
fascinating. But I never know what to say or do—or think—when I’m
with too many at once. Or in the presence of those who hold the key
to the appointment my husband covets.

Right inside the doorway
the female maitre’d waited with a patient smile. “I’m late,” I
said, with my best mystery shopper smile. “My party is probably
already here.”

She glanced down at her
book. “Their name?”

Name. Right. First rule of
mystery shopping—names matter. What was his name? Albertson? No,
that was the old dean, who’d stepped down in a cloud of
scandal—only so far as a nicely paid professional position in which
he wasn’t required to deal with people—apparently not a skill he
possessed, and the reason even his boss had to stop making excuses
for his egregious flouting of the rules and standards for dean
behavior. What was this new one’s name?

One perfectly plucked
eyebrow came up at my hesitation. I dropped back into mystery
shopper mode. After all, I was the customer and I deserved good
customer service. “Dean…” I had a vague hope the name would simply
furnish itself from some dusty cranny of my memory. Unfortunately
it did not, even though I did a rapid alphabet check to dislodge
it. A…Albertson…nope, that was the old one. B…C…D…”

Perfectly Plucked was
apparently a student at the university, happily. “Dean
MacArthur?”

“
Yes. That’s right. My
husband is a professor in his college, but I’ve never met him
before and I had to search around for a babysitter today, so….” I
faltered in mystery shopper mode, reverting to my habit of
providing more information than anyone needed—or wanted—to know as
we traveled through the tightly arranged tables in an artificial
twilight of dim pot lights and tabletop candle glow. “My husband is
parking the car.”

Perfectly Plucked flashed
me a minimalist smile, to match the decor. “Here you are, ma’am.
Enjoy your meal.” She waved at a table as she stopped almost
imperceptibly before reversing course and heading back to her
station. If this had been a true mystery shop, I’d have given her
an A for efficiency, and a B+ for putting up with a gabbling
guest.

The Dean and his wife
looked up from their table as if I’d made a dreadful mistake. For a
moment I was afraid Perfectly Plucked had been given a good grade
too early. But then the Dean smiled broadly and stood
up.

As I adjusted to the quite
gentlemanly gesture, I remembered that he had come north from some
university in the south. Judging by the accent, he’d been raised
somewhere in the south as well. “You must be Seth’s
wife.”

“
Seth’s parking the car,”
I explained, when his glance went over my shoulder.