Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 49888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 249(@200wpm)___ 200(@250wpm)___ 166(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 249(@200wpm)___ 200(@250wpm)___ 166(@300wpm)
But now she doesn’t talk about any of that too much. I don’t even really know where her family is. Any time that I have tried to ask her about her life, she kind of stiffens up and changes the subject.
Now that I think about it, I bet she’s not joking. I bet she means it. I should keep an eye out for extra firemen, in case one is available.
“Say, do you have any more of those cookies?” she suddenly asks.
“Actually, I do,” I answer as I stand, trying not to wince too obviously.
“You should do that,” she says.
“Do what?” I ask, carrying the plates back toward her.
She selects the smallest, most perfect cookie and holds it up between her thumb and forefinger, turning it in the light.
“Bake,” she says simply before popping it into her mouth.
“Bake? Like, cookies?”
Her eyes are bright as she chews thoughtfully. “Hell, yes,” she nods,chewing more decisively, if that’s possible. “Absolutely.”
“I can’t just make cookies, like as a job,” I reply irritably.
“Okay,” she smiles with a gleam in her eye. “What else can you make?”
“Jeez, I don’t know…” I muse. “I mean, are you asking me if I have a specialty? Of course, everybody likes desserts. Cakes and stuff. I have some family recipes for coffee cake that would probably blow your mind…”
“Do tell!”
“But I think... my favorite,” I continue, remembering way back. “My favorite would have to be those big meals, you know what I mean? The kind of thing that you only do for holidays and get-togethers. Pot roast, chili, beef stew, stuffed cabbage…”
Her eyes are bright and keen. “Sounds like you are cooking for an army!”
“Yeah, not exactly fine dining,” I admit. “More like homestyle cafeteria food! Do you think anybody wants to hire me for that?”
“Maybe an orphanage?” she suggests helpfully.
“Yeah, right. I’ll just have a look in the employment ads and see if anybody needs a nanny for six.”
“Well, why not?” Betty continues reasonably. “I mean, all these rich people have nannies, right? And nannies cook. How do you feel about children?”
“How do I feel about children…” I repeat, trying to imagine it.
Children? They are fine. In the abstract. Far away. I have some cousins somewhere with children. On the East Coast, where my family lives. I have to admit, I’ve never really been terribly motivated to go visit them. I can’t even remember what their little faces look like, even though people have sent me pictures of them from birth onward. Photos arrive and I scrutinize them for a moment, and then I stick them between the pages of a book and forget they exist. Until I stumble across them again.
“I can see from the look on your face this isn’t particularly intriguing,” Betty chuckles. “But it’s worth a try, right? Isn’t it worth a shot?”
“You’re right,” I answer.
The truth is, even if I got hired today… Even tonight! I don’t think it would make a difference. I saw the look in Roger’s eyes when he told me to get out. He meant it. And even if he didn’t completely mean it, he made me deeply uncomfortable. Scared. Even if I catch up now, is this a stable place to live anymore? Or is he just eager to find a different reason to get me out of here?
After Betty leaves and I shut and carefully lock the door behind her, I go ahead and check the employment websites for the local community. There are three advertisements for nannies in my immediate neighborhood. I wouldn’t even have to drive. One of them even includes room and board.
I squint and lean closer to the laptop. There’s a picture of the family here. Mom, dad. White people who dress in matching sweaters to take black-and-white photographs of their family. Attractive people. Rich people. Their children are arranged in front of them like dried flowers, also in matching sweaters, carefully positioned so that they look easygoing and yet as cute as possible at the same time.
The mom looks like a doctor or something. She has that professionally straight hair, long dimples around her mouth from smiling politely. One hand rests gently on the shoulder of a boy about eight years old.
Dad looks like one of those guys whose job involves about 75 percent golf. Outings to bars to meet “clients.” Maybe he’s a salesman, maybe an investment advisor. Maybe a venture capitalist, who knows. He’s got a lot of teeth in that smile. Broad shoulders. A bit of a twist to that grin.
There are five children here. The youngest seems to be about two. The oldest seems to be that eight-year-old. They look very clean. Very well cared for.
Could I do that? Could I really take care of somebody’s kids? Go ahead and mother them all day long… Cook, clean, teach, arrange activities, basically keep them from dying or being suddenly indoctrinated by weirdos before their mom gets home? Be a regular Mary Poppins?