by Robyn Carr
“It’s the real story,” Meg said. “Not the tidied-up version.”
“It is that,” Charley said. “And that’s when Mother really changed. Louise was never easy. In fact, she was damn difficult at times. She always had an ugly temper.”
“But not around Aunt Jo,” Megan reminded her.
“That’s why summers were so great,” Charley said in a somewhat reverent breath. “Aside from some occasional bickering, there was no craziness. I used to like my mother.”
“I loved Aunt Lou,” Krista said. “She was strong and brave.”
“And funny,” Charley said. “So funny she’d have us all wetting our pants.”
“And decisive,” Meg said. “No matter what came up, she knew what she wanted to do. She never hesitated.”
“It’s like all the good parts of Louise were sucked right out of her,” Charley said. Then more quietly: “I used to depend on my mother. I used to love her. But when I needed her most she turned on me.”
Chapter Eight
A couple of days later Krista decided she couldn’t put it off another minute—she needed a job. The enormity of this challenge threatened to paralyze her, so she thought she’d better get right to it. She didn’t drive and she had no vehicle; she would have to find work close by or impose on Charley. Plus, her job skills were worse than minimal; they were felonious. She could see only one option at the outset—the lodge.
As she approached, she was impressed by the condition of the place. It had been renovated and expanded. It didn’t appear to have gone a year without fresh paint; the grounds were lush and immaculate. The big central lodge rivaled any major citified hotel—she knew this from pictures in magazines. She looked through the brochure she found in the huge lobby—there were banquet rooms, a large dining room, cocktail lounge and gift shop. There were over a hundred rooms. The facilities included tennis courts, riding stables, outboard docks, boat ramps, a bait and tackle shop. There were also cabins—a long string of them along the shoreline. The cabins had their own kitchens and patios and were reserved long in advance of the peak summer season.
When Krista was a kid, the lodge had been a summer place only, but one glance at the brochure showed it was now a year-round destination. There were no major hills for ski slopes nearby but the lodge boasted ice fishing, cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, snowmobile rentals and year-round trail riding.
She wore her nicest new shorts and tennis shoes to the lodge and, thanks to anal Charley, she now had a fashionably cropped haircut. Makeup was beyond her but a little lip gloss, at Charley’s and Megan’s insistence, was not out of the question.
She approached the front desk. “I wonder if you’re hiring?” she said to the desk clerk, her voice quaking.
The young woman might as well have said no. Instead, she looked at Krista as if she’d peed on her shoe, as if she already knew Krista’s entire history, but she reached under the desk for an application. The encounter was so negative Krista almost left. But she knew it might be the only game in town. “May I borrow a pen, please?” she asked, anxious to get the whole thing over with.
She looked around the lobby for an out of the way place to sit to fill out the form. There was a small, round table in the corner by the front window. From there she could take her time with the application and also watch as vacationers pulled up to the lodge. In fact, she watched three families arrive while she considered how to fill in the blanks. She was going to tell the truth, of course. She was too damn stubborn not to, but she wasn’t sure how to go about it. It was all so unacceptable. Who would hire her, knowing her story?
“Excuse me?” a voice said, pulling her out of her thoughts.
She looked up to find a man in his forties leaning both hands on the table, looking down at her. When she acknowledged him, he smiled and stuck out a hand. “My name is Jake McAllister, I’m the manager here. One of my jobs is hiring and right now I’m looking for kitchen and housekeeping staff. Any chance you’re interested in either of those positions? Or maybe another position I can help you with?”
“Ah,” Krista began tremulously. “Ah, yeah...I mean, yes. Maybe. I don’t, ah, have a lot of work experience actually.”
“They’re entry-level jobs. Why don’t you fill out the application as completely as you can and bring it to my office? Just tell Elizabeth over there when you’re ready. She’ll bring you around the desk.” He indicated the rude girl with his chin. “And you’re...?”
“Krista Hemp... Um, Hempstead.”
“It’s a pleasure, Ms. Hempstead.”
He wasn’t going to be this nice, she realized, once he found out she was an ex-con. She might as well enjoy it now. “Krista is fine,” she said.
“Good, Krista. Call me Jake, if you’re comfortable with that. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
“Do you have a lot of openings...Jake?” She wanted to know what the possibilities were. Before he clammed up, anyway.
“I’m always looking for good people, Krista. This place once relied almost solely on college kids, but since I’ve been here we’ve been trying to balance the staff a little better. I hope we can find something for you. We’ll see.”
He turned and walked away. Her eyes followed him. He stopped and talked to a young bellman in the lobby for a few moments. Both laughed before parting ways. He gave some smiling instruction to the concierge, who also appeared to like him, then he told Elizabeth that Krista would need an escort to his office. That caused Elizabeth to direct her rude stare at Krista.
Krista smiled at her and waved with her pen. Elizabeth looked down at something on her desk. What is up her butt? Krista wondered.
Well, no need to worry—it would be a short relationship. Chowchilla Federal Women’s Penitentiary, she wrote, 1993–2016. That should do it.
Krista felt a strange compression at the back of her throat; it was an alien sensation and caused her to frown in bewilderment for a moment. She thought about crumpling up the application and walking out; she thought about her mother’s old slacks and smock, worn shoes and the twenty-dollar bill she had slipped into her hand as they parted company; she thought about Charley buying her decent underwear and clothes; she thought about wealthy Hope neglecting their mother. Then she realized what she was feeling in her throat was the threat of tears—something banished twenty-three years ago and not heard from until now. Today. Because she had to face the outside world with her shame.
Well, shit, she thought. I sure paid for it. And then some. And right now I need a job. So I can buy my own goddamn underwear and give my mother a twenty now and then. There is only one way through this and that’s straight through.
She took a moment to write on the application some of the things she had learned to do in prison. She’d done some piecework sewing, some cooking—though surely not the kind needed here—lots of kitchen cleaning and of course her reading and writing. She had actual college credits now. Someplace here, probably the cleaning, there had to be a job for her.
Jake McAllister’s office was barely large enough for a desk and a couple of chairs, which put Krista pretty close to him. Her knees would have bumped up against his if it had been a table instead of a desk. She could watch him closely while he read over her application. She didn’t want to miss the look of shock wash over him when he saw it—twenty-three years in the pen. He’d think she must be one badass to do that much time. Then he’d want to know what a person has to do to get sent up for that long.
While she watched him, she noticed that his hair was probably as much silver as blond, thinning in front. But there was still a sort of boyishness about him. Maybe the way his hair kind of flopped over his forehead, even though it was sparse at the crown. Or the slightly pocked complexion, a legacy of teenage acne. Then, of course, there were the blue-blue eyes—something you had to get used to all over again if you hadn’t lived i
n Minnesota for a while.
“Looks like most of your experience would put you in Housekeeping, Krista, but I think that would only be a big headache for you. You don’t need the stress—cleaning rooms for guests. Our guests regularly lose things, go over the top and insist the maid took it, then they find it in their own suitcase... Frankly, it’s a pain in the ass. For you, it could cause you some anxious moments, getting it resolved.”
“Huh?” she asked, dumbfounded.
“Do you think you’d have any problem as a server, if we provided good training?”
“As a...waitress?”
“The dining room would be an obvious place to start. Lucky for you I have all the bussers and dishwashers I can stand...so this is a bad week for starting at the bottom. And there isn’t anybody here I’m looking to promote right now, beginning of the summer, you know. Lots of high school kids need work. So, if you could work mornings at first—breakfast and lunch—that would be great. We’re busy but not overwhelmed at that time of day. I’m not understaffed there at the moment, which would give you plenty of time to learn without the pressure of being too rushed. What do you think? Think you could handle that?”
“I, ah, sure I could. But—” She left it hanging. She didn’t have any buts.
“You didn’t fill in the space about expected salary,” he pointed out, turning the application back toward her.
“Because...” She left that hanging out there, too.
“Well, we used to start the servers below minimum wage and let them make up the difference in tips, but I’ve finally put that to an uneasy death. How about nine dollars an hour? We’ll give you one uniform and you can deduct the cost of a second from your paycheck if you like. You’re allowed to add a fifteen percent gratuity to the check if you serve a party of six or more. We pay your busman—kind of generous on our part, I think—and you’ll have to split your tips with your trainer the first week. A good waitress tips the busman, if she’s smart and wants good service.” He smiled at her. He had a very kind smile. “Give you some incentive to draw good tips.”
She nodded vigorously. She couldn’t speak. He was just giving her a job? Without worrying that she’d freak out and kill them all? Or rob them blind? Or kidnap the children?
“You’ll need uniforms, shoes, your food service license—you can get everything at this address in Brainerd. Do you have someone who can take you there?”
She nodded. “My, uh, cousin. I’m staying with my cousin. She’ll take me.”
“Good. We have a few forms for federal and state withholding. We have a benefit package—not great, but good enough. I’d like to improve that, too, but one thing at a time. Now,” he said, putting down her application and folding his hands on top of it. “Is there anyone I’m supposed to call? To verify your employment?”
“No,” she said, finding her voice at last. “She’ll call you. Patricia Driver, parole office, Grand Rapids.”
“Okay,” he said, smiling again. “Tell her to ask for me and not to talk to anyone else.” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a business card.
“Listen,” she said, scooting forward on her chair. “I really don’t know how to thank you for this. I really need a job and I—”
“I need good people, Krista. The staff here is friendly. Hardworking. You’re going to like it. Let me know if I can be of any further assistance.” He stood, stretched out his hand.
“Hey, did my cousin call you and offer to pay you to hire me?”
His look was one of such shock she abandoned the notion. “Well, really, thank you. I mean, thank you for giving me a chance. Thank you so much. You have no idea—”
“I base a lot of my decisions on first impressions and character assessments. And I like to give people the benefit of the doubt. You should try it sometime.”
She tilted her head. “Yeah. Maybe I will.”
“Personnel records are supposed to be confidential, Krista. I keep them in my office. I don’t have a secretary—just the desk clerks and payroll administrator. I lock my door when I leave at night. But...” He thought about what to say.
“I won’t be naive about it,” she said, helping him.
“I guess that’s what I meant. Can you get your license and uniform taken care of right away? Start on Friday and work the weekend?”
“You bet.”
He laughed at her. “Around here we say, You betcha.”
“You betcha, then.”
He leaned down and whispered to her. “The guests are almost all Midwestern tightwads. Friendly as hell but the tips suck.”
“I’ll be okay.” She laughed. She wanted to jump up and down. To throw her arms around him and kiss him. To shout to the heavens that her life was now officially beginning.
After completing the rest of the required paperwork, having a tour of the dining room and kitchen, meeting a few of the staff and learning how to punch in and out, Krista began the long walk back to the house. It was late afternoon, nearly four. A nice time of day. She hadn’t let Charley drive her over, though of course she had offered. Surely Charley had not called this nice Mr. McAllister and begged him to give her a job, then act all surprised if Krista mentioned her? No, Mr. McAllister’s surprise was genuine. And he had this thing about giving people a chance, that was easy to see. Everyone liked him there, too; people couldn’t fake that all the time. Except Elizabeth, the sourpuss, who didn’t like anyone. People made faces when her name came up, though no one said anything.
Krista wouldn’t ask about her. She wasn’t going to ask any questions! She just wanted to work; she wanted to pitch in for groceries, give her mother some money, buy her own underwear, live a real life.
Halfway home she passed an empty lot with a boat ramp and dock. Not an uncommon sight. Many people bought a lot, erected the dock and plowed a ramp, but were years away or maybe never intended to build a house. They might bring a trailer up here or camp for a couple of weeks each summer and leave the land as it was.
She walked down the sloping lot toward the lake. There was a nice swing hanging from a broad-boughed elm. People must not steal much around here, she thought. She sat on the swing, took off her shoes and leaned back, guiding the swing to and fro with her toes on the grass. Staring out at the beautiful, still lake.
There was that feeling again. In her throat. And along with the feeling came thoughts of work, her mother, Meg’s cancer, seeing Charley’s son, maybe even seeing Charley’s long-lost daughter, then work again and the idea of buying her mother a cell phone. And then she let it go. Let it all flood out of her in great gulps and sobs. Loud cries, unlike anything she’d done in years. You didn’t dare show this kind of weakness in prison. “Oh, God, oh, God, thank you, God, thank you, God, thank you, God,” she cried. And then she drew up her knees, embraced them with her arms and laid her head down for a good, healthy, cleansing cry. Everything was going to be all right. Finally. Finally. Finally. It flooded out of her in relief such as she had never known.
* * *
Krista let herself cry for a good half hour until it left her eyes feeling swollen and her cheeks chapped. She never let herself obsess about the past, but today it all came back. Megan and Charley knew her story, of course, and they didn’t expect her to go over it again. But she asked herself, What would I do if Mr. McAllister asked me? She’d tell him, she decided at once. Because not only had he earned the right, taking a chance on her as he had, but if he wanted to, he could look it up. No convicted criminal’s story was private.
She’d written about it in the autobiographical story she’d been working on. That, in fact, was a relatively short and simple account. Krista started getting into trouble early, at about the time everyone bailed out and left her, at the age of fourteen, to hold things together. It was an impossible job. Her cousin drowned, her dad fled, her little sister was put first in a ho
spital and then in foster care; her mother fell into a dark and relentless depression, and her older sister, Hope, had somehow convinced their grandparents to remove her from the discomforts of her dysfunctional family and take her in. Hope had been like that all her life—able to detach herself from reality while she concentrated on her fantasy life. Krista often tried to imagine how that worked. Let’s see—Mom can’t get off the couch, Dad’s gone, Bev’s in the booby hatch, Krista’s in jail... Do you think we could have squab at my graduation party, Grandma?
Krista was fourteen when she was the only one left but her mother. And her mother was not up to speed, as they say.
“And how about you, Krista?” the judge had asked after Hope went to him. “Are you of a mind to come and live with us, follow our rules and meet our expectations?”
Krista wouldn’t leave Jo. The judge was willing to give his daughter a little money on which to survive and there was some government check of some kind because there was no income to support them, but unless Jo agreed to let the judge work a divorce from her wayward, missing spouse, she was on her own. Krista didn’t quite understand why Jo wouldn’t do that but there was a young, inexperienced part of her that felt a certain relief that Jo didn’t completely give up on Roy. It made no sense, but he was her father. How could Krista leave her, too? And live in that rigid mausoleum on Grand Avenue with Aunt Lou dropping in regularly to count the silver and look down her nose at Hope and Krista? And be in by nine p.m. and wear frilly crap to church every Sunday? So, in her first step on the road to rebellion to her grandfather, she said, “Hell, no. I’d rather eat shit and die.”
Krista did it her way. She hung out with bad kids, got in trouble for everything from shoplifting to possession of marijuana, dropped out of school—to the relief of her teachers—and verbally abused her mother, who she loved. After about three years of that Krista ran away at the age of seventeen with an older guy named Rick French and they lived day to day and town to town all the way to California.
