by Julia Kent
“Amanda?” Corrine asks kindly. “Is something wrong?”
My hand goes to my belly and I give her a shaky smile. “I'm fine.”
“You're cooking two at a time. That's superhero level. I remember being pregnant with my daughter like it was yesterday.”
“You gave birth before ultrasounds, Agnes.”
“I gave birth before television was invented, Corrine.”
“When was that?” I ask.
“1960.”
“We had television in 1950, Agnes,” Corrine says.
“We weren't rich like you, I guess,” she says with a sniff.
“It's not my fault my dad was the town doctor and had a thing for electronics.”
“He sure did pass on that love of electronics to you, didn't he? Too bad you like the perverted kind.”
“Agnes!”
“HEY!”
We turn toward the voice. It's Carol, standing in the doorway. I missed her knock, or she didn't bother. Either way, I'm relieved to see her.
“If you two old biddies can knock it off for three seconds, let's get this all figured out.” Carol strides across the room and sets two manila folders on the desk in front of me. “Contracts for these two. I have no idea why you're hiring them.”
“Because we're old and you need people who are collagen-challenged.”
Agnes looks at Corrine like she just sprouted horns. “Who’re what?”
“Collagen-challenged. It's a fancy new term for being old.”
“We need new terms for it? It sucks being old. Why sugarcoat it?”
“Because it's not our fault time ticks away. Old feels like an insult.”
“Only if you're offended by the truth.”
“Agnes,” Corrine says with a playful slap on her friend's arm.
“What? You're old. I'm old. I'm ninety, for goodness sake! If I can't call myself old, who can?”
Corrine looks at her. “What?”
“What?”
“What did you say?”
“I said, if I can't call myself old, who can?”
“What?”
“Aw, hell, Corrine. Quit pretending you can't hear me. I'm onto you.” Agnes snatches one of the manila folders from my desk.
Before Carol can leave, I say, “Stay. You're better at explaining what they need to do than I am.”
“You just want reinforcements,” she hisses.
“Yep.”
Agnes chuckles. “I'll go down to a hundred fifty grand a year, but I won't budge on the pool boy.” She flips open the folder and begins reading, her mouth so set in a frown, she has grooves in her chin like Thanos.
“I'll take whatever you're offering,” Corrine chirps. “I just like being wanted.”
“Geeee-odd, Corrine. And you say I suck at negotiation?”
“What negotiation?”
Agnes spirals her finger around her ear and points at Corrine. I notice a bumper sticker on her walker that reads, My amygdala is my favorite scapegoat.
With a pink brain on it.
“Here,” Carol says, handing Corrine her folder. I motion for Carol to take a seat.
She shakes her head.
I cock my eyebrow.
Her nonverbal reply says, Oh, please. You can do better than that.
She is Marie Jacoby's daughter, after all. She doesn’t cower easily.
I change my expression to pleeeeease, and add a belly rub for good measure.
Her eyes jump to my hand. Guilting people into doing stuff for me because I'm pregnant with twins has turned out to be far easier than I expected.
“Fine,” she hisses, taking a seat and turning to Agnes and Corrine. Her finger comes out, like she's scolding an errant child. “I'm going to explain the job, and you're going to listen.”
Corrine smiles sweetly.
Agnes rolls her eyes.
“We own assisted living homes as well as retail spaces, resorts, and restaurants. It's the assisted living homes that require your help. Quality control is important, but we also need to track other issues. How women are treated versus men. Minorities, immigrants. LGBTQIA seniors. People who don't speak English well. Income level. All of those factors and more. We need to track customer service in every way possible.”
“Sounds like a lot of detail. My memory is great, but Corrine's is absolute crap.”
“Hey!” Corrine objects.
“Am I wrong?”
“About what?”
Agnes tilts her head and gestures at her friend. “See?”
“Actually,” I interject, “that's what we need. Authenticity. Genuine senior citizen behavior.”
“Well, you've come to the mother lode,” Corrine says, glaring at Agnes. But her expression falters, concern creeping in. “But we don't need jobs. I've got my late husband's pension and social security. And I can't come into Boston every day. Heck, Agnes isn't even allowed to drive anymore–”
“HEY! THAT'S PRIVATE, CORRINE!” Agnes bellows.
“You talk about getting pissed on during sex and suddenly you're offended I told the truth about losing your driving privileges?” Corrine says in a smug voice.
Carol looks at me and whispers, “This will be you and Shannon in sixty years.”
“I hate you,” I hiss back.
“Corrine. Agnes,” Carol says smoothly. “This isn't a regular job. We'd need a commitment of about one to two mystery shops per week, especially when we're dealing with theft issues in stores and have time windows we're focused on. You do need transportation, though. Do you have someone who could drive you there, reliably?”
They both frown.
Until Corrine lights up, her hand going into the air, finger pointing up.
“I know!” She looks at me. “What about Gerald?”
“Gerald?”
“You know. Gerald Wright? Your husband's chauffeur?”
“I know who Gerald is. What about him? You know him?”
“We take sculpting courses from him at the Westside Center for the Arts. And he's a professional driver. Why not have him drive us to these mystery shops?”
“Damn it, Corrine, there you go again.”
“What?”
“Just when I've written you off as a typical dumb blonde, you go and get a great idea. Why didn't I think of that?”
“Because you're an angry old bat who only thinks about herself?”
“No. That doesn't explain it.”
“Gerald has a job, Corrine,” I explain.
“Can't your husband spare him four times a month?”
“No,” Carol says firmly, in a voice that surprises everyone. Even Agnes doesn't argue.
“In order to do these jobs, you need three things: transportation, a smartphone, and a younger family member to go with you and evaluate how family members are treated.”
“I am not bringing my daughter along! She might like one of these homes and decide to put me in it!” Agnes shouts.
“My children all live far away,” Corrine says in such a mournful voice, I'm close to tears.
“And I have no use for those smartphones. My grandson tried to teach me how to use that Facetime thing and I ended up turning it on while I was washing my pits,” Agnes adds.
My tears turn to nausea.
“Hey!” Corrine chirps. “What about Cassie?”
“Cassie? The woman who was just here?” I ask.
Corrine nudges Agnes. “Cassie's not in police school now, and she doesn’t have a regular job. She could be our driver. She knows how to use a smartphone.” Corrine turns to me. “Why does she need one?”
“To answer questions about the mystery shop in the app. Quietly take pictures and upload. Add video when needed.”
“Oh, we definitely need Cassie, then. Would Anterdec pay her to help us? She's smart. She was studying to be a cop.”
“A cop?”
“She's not anymore,” Corrine says quickly. “But she wants to be a private investigator.”
“Actually, mys
tery shopping and PI work overlap,” Carol says, giving me a look I quickly understand. She thinks hiring Cassie is worth it.
So do I.
And if she might be willing to do some shops on her own, we could really make it worth her while.
Suddenly, someone's phone goes off, the ring tone the opening bars of “It's Raining Men.”
“Gawd,” Agnes groans, reaching into her purse, finally pulling out a flip phone that looks like something from 2004. When she opens it, the buttons are huge.
“Can you read that, Corrine?” she asks, squinting at the display screen. It's so big, I can read it from across the desk.
I could probably read it from the Grind It Fresh! Counter two blocks away.
Corrine digs through her own purse, finding readers. Except she already has readers on the top of her head.
Two pairs, in fact.
“It says, I'm in the lobby, Grandma. Call when you're ready.”
Agnes looks at me. “Are we ready?”
Carol and I lean toward each other. “Why don't you take Agnes and Corrine into your office,” I say, formulating a plan on the fly. “Meet with Cassie. See if there's a way to make this work for everyone. We really do need smart, trustworthy shoppers for our properties and so far, we've had nothing but trouble with the elder shoppers.”
“It's not their fault they keep dying, Amanda.”
“I don't mean that! But transportation is an issue for so many. And this is such an important evaluation. We need to know that our elders are being cared for with compassion and kindness, and the only way to do that is to have people like Agnes and Corrine rise to the occasion. They're special.”
“We are?” Corrine gasps, hands clasped over her heart.
“You heard that but you don't hear me half the time?”
“I hear nice things loud and clear, Agnes.”
“Hmph.” Agnes slowly stands, hands clasping the bar of her walker. “Okay, Carol. Let's call Cassie and bang out a deal. She needs something good in her life after the whole police academy mess, so I'm willing to take whatever offer you have–even without a pool boy–if it helps my granddaughter. Why not hire her full time? She can snoop and drive us around and do the smartphone thing and probably work even harder on other stuff for this crazy corporation.”
Agnes' business instincts mirror mine. Not sure whether to be impressed or horrified.
“Why do you call it crazy?” Carol asks, bemused.
“Because you're offering to hire us. Anyone who offers employment to a batshit old woman is crazy.”
“I'm so glad you're embracing calling yourself old, Agnes,” Corrine gushes as they shuffle toward the door.
“I was talking about you, Corrine,” Agnes grouses.
Carol turns to me, finger in my face, teeth bared. “I get four hours of comp time for taking this over. And maybe a raise.”
My stomach gurgles, a fluttering sensation making me halt.
“What?” she asks, eyes wide, looking like her mom again.
“I think–I think there are a bunch of bubbles in me.”
She grins, then moves to the door, clutching the manila folders, as Agnes and Corinne argue about using Agnes's flip phone. “Call Andrew. That's not gas.”
“What is it?”
“You just felt your babies move. Congrats!”
And with that, she takes over with the old ladies, and I stare at my bulging belly.
Bubbles never felt so good.
8
Andrew
“I am sure you're wondering why I asked you to lunch, Andrew.”
“Because you're my father and you love me and want to spend time getting to know me better?”
We both snort.
“Good one,” he mutters around a highball glass filled with ice cubes and the remains of his pre-lunch cocktail.
“You want to talk about the Dong-Wei deal, don't you? The sheetrock for the Australian resort was a problem, but the customs officials said–”
He's obviously ignoring me, waving his empty glass in the air like a really bad lacrosse player going for the ball.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to get more lunch.”
“How about we order actual food?”
“If they add three olives to this, that should count.”
The server appears, an older gentleman in a white jacket and black tie. “Mr. McCormick?”
Everyone here knows Dad. A very regular customer, he has his table in his corner and his wish is their command.
Also, Anterdec owns the place.
“Another, Paolo.”
“Of course.” His eyes catch mine. “And will you be ordering lunch, sir?”
I don't even need a menu. “Two tenderloins, both rare, mine with the balsamic fig glaze, his with the bleu cheese reduction. Grilled Brussels sprouts and two watermelon radish salads.”
“You're making me eat that crap?” Dad grouses. How many drinks has he already had?
“Very good,” Paolo says, taking his leave as I wonder what kind of dressing down I'm about to get.
Silence prevails as Dad looks anywhere but at me until his fresh drink arrives, accompanied by my own vodka and soda. It's one in the afternoon and I have back-to-back calls until six p.m., but if I'm a little loose for my two o'clock, the world won't end.
If I endure this conversation without a little liquid sustenance, though, it might.
“I asked you to lunch because it's time to talk, man to man, about being a father.”
Oh, boy. Where's Paolo?
I need a second drink already.
“Okay,” I say slowly, then drain my entire cocktail in one smooth gulp.
“You're about to have twin boys.”
“Yes.”
“Which means you'll be raising men.” The way he says that last word makes my gut clench.
“Mmm.”
“You were so close to the Olympics, Andrew. So close. This time, we have a chance of making it.”
We.
“Amanda's tall, but not quite as long-torsoed as your mother. Her genes plus mine gave you the perfect swimmer's physique. And if it weren't for–you know,” he says, slugging down the rest of his drink. The “you know” is understood:
My mother's death of anaphylactic shock from a wasp sting.
And my own near-death experience from the same.
I don't make a sound. Don't move a muscle. Don't even breathe.
Because my father can be highly unpredictable in emotional moments. Hell, in any moment. And right now, I don't have the bandwidth for James McCormick to get some bull-headed idea in his stubborn brain and expect me to be a minion in its perfect execution.
“You have a chance to get it right with these boys. I built Anterdec from the ground up, so you and your brothers got a head start in life from me. But the third generation is where people like us have the opportunity to really shine. Sometimes they do. Sometimes they fall apart completely.”
People like us.
“How so?” I ask, noncommittal, but my jaw won't unclench. I crick my neck, something popping.
Probably my b.s. detector, breaking from overuse.
“You can make certain your boys get it all. Private coaches. Baby swim lessons. If they don't have the physique, we can test them to find their own talent, then nurture it from childhood. You can achieve what I couldn't.”
Paolo appears with bread and a charcuterie board. Dad layers prosciutto on rosemary focaccia and takes a bite.
I let his words hang. I'm not buying any of this.
So I make a different choice.
“Did you have this conversation with Declan?”
“What?”
“When Shannon was pregnant with Ellie, did you talk about this?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Why not?”
“Because it's different.”
“Because she's a girl?”
“That.” He takes a sip of the dregs of his drink, not
even acknowledging the sickening sexism. “But also because Declan never had the sports success you did. You were my crowning achievement, Andrew. You. And now your boys will be a new opportunity to–”
I stand before I realize I'm doing it, feet flat on the ground, palms sensing every fiber of the tablecloth as I lean on it, hovering over my father, who is seasoned enough not to flinch.
“My children are not opportunities. My children are not chances. My children are not experiments.”
He does a slow eye roll, the kind that takes its time. It’s infused with contempt but suppressed enough to make sure I know he's not investing enough emotion in me to react more. “Simmer down. You're making a fool of yourself in public.”
“I don't care. It's better than being a tone-deaf idiot in private.”
That makes him flinch.
It also makes me feel like crap, not that he doesn't deserve it.
“I'm trying to talk to you about legacy.”
“So am I.”
“My legacy, Andrew. Not yours.”
“Your legacy is this, Dad: Treating people like they're nothing more than opportunities to make you look better.”
Contempt is gone, replaced by a shocked, hollow look in his eyes. “You really think that of me?”
I hate the emotional rollercoaster he puts me on. Dec would have stormed off by now. Terry would have avoided the conversation altogether. I accept Dad's invitations and let him into my life over and over again because I keep trying to elicit that piece of him that's more humane, more authentic, more...
Dad-like.
And then he does this.
“Your actions dictate what I think of you, Dad. And when you start talking about putting my toddlers under pressure to be super-humans who achieve greatness according to your metrics, then–yes.”
“What the hell is wrong with greatness?” He says it calmly, plucking a piece of fig cake off the wooden board. As he chews, he looks at me speculatively, as if he actually wants to know the answer, as if it's not a challenge.
“Greatness is truly great when it's intrinsic. Not when it's forced by someone else.”
“You're just going to waste your boys’ childhood? Never encourage or guide or structure their time so they can be molded to do more? Be more?”
“Not your way. No.”
“My way? There is no ‘my way’! It's the way, Andrew.” He shakes his head, a slow, sad gesture of disappointment. “One of those boys will run Anterdec someday. It's all you have, and when you're my age, you'll understand why legacy is important. You'll be in this exact position one day.”
