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ON MONDAY MORNING Susan Swenson greeted me like a kid with the keys to the candy store—flushed face, irrepressible grin.
“You’re on time,” she trilled with wide-eyed surprise, right away a not-so-good sign. Wasn’t being on time pretty much the first rule of gainful employment?
Nervous. She was probably just nervous, but now I was, too.
“You look nice.” I made the bland remark to settle us both down. Anyhow, Susan’s outfit did flatter her slim figure, and the black and white combination looked businesslike.
“You think so?” Fishing for praise, but forgivable under the circumstances. How could she be anything but insecure married to Mr. Wives-Belong-At-Home Mike?
“Great first impression,” I assured her.
Susan's eyebrows lowered with concern. “The problem is it’s the only outfit I’ve got. Any chance you can stay a couple hours longer so I can shop?”
I didn't want to disappoint the woman, but I didn’t want her to think I was a doormat either. I compromised and said I hoped to be home by three.
“Sure. Absolutely. Whatever you say.”
“So where’s little Jack?”
“Oh! Kitchen.” She waved a hand toward the back of the house.
Strapped into his high chair, the toddler grinned mischievously then slammed his tray and sprayed Cheerios in a five-foot radius.
“Hiya, Jack” I greeted him. “Aren’t you cute?”
He swept the tray with his arm, sending more cereal, applesauce, and milk flying.
“Really cute.”
Susan slipped into the kitchen to hand me a computer printout of her child’s routine. The list extended well into the afternoon, suggesting that Mommy had anticipated a positive answer to her shopping request. Hoped for, I corrected myself giving her the benefit of a doubt. Still...
Susan spun on her heel as if preparing to leave.
“Don’t forget to give me Jack's car seat,” I called after her.
She spun back. “Why?”
Why?
“So he’ll be safe if I have to take him anywhere?”
Or just to go someplace more stimulating than this house, I might have added. There was no space for Jack to run outside, and frankly the Swenson’s home depressed me. The blank walls and unadorned windows. The lack of throw pillows or knickknacks. No magazines or books, just a heap of plastic toys in the corner of the living room, a sofa, two chairs, and a TV. The dining room offered a table and four chairs, one plant on the windowsill, and a changing pad on top of a short file cabinet. All in all the impression was of an unloved home, or a temporary home, or a bare-bones home because there was no money. No matter which description fit, I didn’t see myself spending all of my Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings stuck here. It certainly wouldn’t do Jack much good either.
“Okay.” Susan nodded with finality. “Bye,” she said over her shoulder as she pulled the front door shut with those manicured fingers.
I opened it again. “Car seat, Susan! And how about a door key?”
She barked out a nervous giggle. Then she extracted the seat from her car and danced it to me with an eye-roll at her own expense.
“Key?” I repeated.
A key was swiftly retrieved from a drawer, and Susan was swiftly gone.
When I returned to unharness Jack from his high chair, he was yelling "Mama" and crying as if his heart would break.
I carried the squirming boy to the sink, wiped the applesauce from his face and hands, then set him on his feet.
Zoom, he was through the dining room and into the living room. “Mama,” he cried as he pounded his fists on the front door.
“A cannibal king,” I sang as I sidled up to him, “with a big nose ring...”
“Mama!”
I chose to let the kid cry it out. I was a stranger, after all, and should expect to be distrusted.
Meanwhile, I dug out the crayons Jack had been using when we met and began to draw circles on yesterday’s newspaper. I hummed my song, too, because now the tune was in my head.
When Jack finally flopped on the floor beside me, I thought I heard a squish. Breakfast, milk, diaper. That had been the routine of every child I ever met.
“Are you wet?” I asked.
Blank stare.
“Want a new diaper?” The toddler was probably old enough to realize when he needed changing. Maybe Susan had begun to point it out.
Nothing.
“Okay, buddy. We have to start somewhere.” I scooped him off the floor. “Dang, you’re heavy.” After depositing him on the changing pad in the dining room, I removed the soggy diaper.
"Wet," I told him pointedly, holding up the evidence.
“Now you say it—wet. Oooh et.” Although I seemed to have his attention, what I got was another blank stare.
After playing at home for a while, I took him to Petco to buy dog food for Fideaux. Jack loved the parakeets and kittens but seemed especially entranced by a cage full of ferrets. When that novelty wore off, he ran the aisles like a cyclist biking the hills of France.
I lumbered along like a support-vehicle low on gas. In desperation I lunged and finally caught him. He squirmed and giggled in my arms.
Good, I thought. Now we’re having fun.
At naptime Jack slept like a hibernating bear while I watched my favorite HGTV show with drooping eyelids.
Three o’clock came and went without Susan.
At three-thirty I began to worry.
At four I began to fume.
Susan breezed in at four-twenty. “Oh, what a day,” she said, angling shopping bags through the doorway.
I didn’t say a thing.
“...The job is great. I love the people, and you should see what I bought.”
“I really can’t,” I told her. “You said you’d be back by three.”
Susan blushed. “I’m sorry. I thought it would be okay.”
We shared a weighty stare, then she waved away the awkwardness. “How was Jack anyway? Any problems?”
“None,” I replied. At lunchtime he’d spit carrots on himself and also on me, but that wasn’t worth mentioning.
What did concern me was Susan, her eagerness to escape, her reluctance to return. It was too early to make much of it, but I was uncomfortable with our beginning.
***
WHEN I FINALLY arrived home, a strange man stepped out of the shadow of my front door stoop.