Help Wanted

by Barbara Valentin

  When they began to protest about the expense, she silenced them with, "I made reservations at Stevens."

  Stevens, one of the last remaining old-time supper clubs in the Chicago area, was their favorite steak place and located not far from their old neighborhood.

  Knowing that she finally had their undivided attention, she continued.

  "Tomorrow, Mom, you and I are going to Michigan Avenue to do some shopping, and Dad, Dave, and Tom will be getting here at about 11:30 to pick you up for lunch."

  "Hey, that's great," he replied, clearly looking forward to catching up with two longtime buddies.

  "Then on Wednesday, I'm going to have to make the pies, so we'll be stuck here for a while before going to Claire's on Thursday."

  "Sounds great." Louise clapped her hands together, obviously not hearing much after the words "shopping" and "Michigan Avenue."

  * * *

  The Wednesday before Thanksgiving, Claire brought the twenty-two-pound turkey up from the refrigerator in the garage and dropped it in the empty kitchen sink, which she filled with cold water before heading out the door. She made a mental note to call Paul later to make sure the sink stayed filled with cold water.

  She was not surprised to see that the train was practically empty. Certain that the last day of her contract position was rapidly approaching, she pulled out her notebook and made a quick list of all of the headhunters she knew she should contact and the companies to which she would apply after the holiday weekend. While John had remained elusive about her future there and had, so far, been able to find small assignments to retain her, experience told her that the end was near.

  The heels of her shoes echoed loudly as she stomped off the train platform and into the station with a dozen or so other commuters arriving at the same time that she had. Going through the revolving doors, she breathed in the unseasonably warm air, wanting to store the memory of it away for future reference when the frigid onslaught of winter arrived.

  Arriving at the nearly deserted office, she went into the kitchenette and started the coffee, a bit unnerved by the silence. By 9:30, only three other employees had arrived, and Claire was finding it increasingly hard to concentrate on work-related tasks. Fifteen minutes later, John stopped by her cube, looking more relaxed and happy than he had the entire time she had worked there.

  "Look at you," she couldn't help but say at the sight of him, wearing jeans and a sweater, looking as if he had enjoyed the first good night's sleep in a long while.

  "I didn't expect to see you today," she continued when he didn't respond to her with anything but a smile. "What's going on? Win the lottery?"

  "Better."

  "Oh yeah? The lottery and a private concert with Eric Clapton?"

  He laughed and then sat on the edge of her desk. Talking a deep breath, he said, "You're looking at Cavanaugh Community College's newest adjunct professor. I start right after the New Year."

  Claire tilted her head as if she didn't hear him correctly. "Wow," she exclaimed, frowning. "I thought you were kidding."

  "You know it's always been a dream of mine to teach. I've just had enough of—" At a loss for words, he held his hands in the air and finished with, "This."

  She got up and threw her arms around his shoulders. "I'm so happy for you. This is great news."

  Smiling again, he stood to hug her back. "That's my pal."

  When she pulled away and sat back in her chair, he sat down again and said, "Now here's the best part. I've recommended you as my replacement. Management agrees. Based on your experience, you're the obvious choice."

  "What?" she said again, shocked for the second time in just as many minutes. "You're full of surprises this morning, aren't you?"

  "Yep. You interested?"

  "Uh. Yeah, maybe." She raised both eyebrows in an attempt to look more enthusiastic than she felt.

  Her friend shrugged. "Well, think it over. You've probably got a couple of weeks to decide. They'll have to post the opening, go through the motions of interviewing anybody who applies. You know the routine."

  She nodded, grateful she didn't have to make a decision on the spot.

  "Now listen, get outta here. Go enjoy your family. I'll see you Monday."

  "Thanks. Hey, give Donna my best," she yelled after him.

  "Will do," he called over his shoulder on his way to the elevator bank.

  Claire hung back, mulling over what had just happened. After a few minutes, she got up and walked into his dark, unlocked office and closed the door behind her.

  The furniture layout was similar to that of the office she had at her last job. She slowly walked behind his desk and stood there imagining Amanda sitting in one of the chairs facing her, asking why she was overlooked for the managerial spot. Claire sat in John's chair and put her hands on top of his desk. Her fingertips brushed an interoffice envelope that sat there unopened. Just like the one containing that anonymous message she received before she got laid off.

  You are a miserable person.

  She looked down at it, covered her face with her hands, and whispered, "Oh God, I don't mean to be ungrateful, but I could use a little help here."

  As she sat there, the office walls slowly closing in on her, she took a deep breath and flipped a notebook on the desk to a blank page. On one side, she wrote, "Plate Spinner." On the other, she wrote, "Manager."

  After listing out the pros and cons to each opportunity, she got up, returned to her cube, packed her things, and made her way to the train station, hoping to catch the express home.

  CHAPTER NINE

  "Thanksgiving dinners take eighteen hours to prepare. They are consumed in twelve minutes. Halftimes take twelve minutes. This is not coincidence." —Erma Bombeck

  Up at dawn, partly by habit, partly by necessity, Claire sat in the family room still dressed in the sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt she had worn as pajamas. Keeping the television volume very low, she watched the news while folding a load of linens that she'd put in the dryer before going to bed the night before. When she was done, she ironed her best tablecloth that would grace the dining room table. Working the cloth over the ironing board, she mulled what John had told her the day before. While she wasn't banking heavily on a position at the Gazette paying her enough to cover their monthly expenses, let alone offer benefit coverage, she decided to wait until after the fundraiser to tell Paul about John's job offer.

  When the aroma of freshly brewed coffee reached her nose, she sniffed the air as if she were trying to detect a gas leak. Instead of eliciting the impulse to fill a cup, she felt the impulse to throw up.

  Oh no. I can't be sick. Not today.

  On her way to duck into the guest bathroom off of the darkened foyer, she almost collided with Paul, who had just bounded downstairs in running shorts and a T-shirt.

  Without so much as a "good morning," she asked, "Can you start the grill?"

  In reply, Paul slipped on his running shoes. "Can it wait until I get back? I want to get this in before everybody gets here."

  "Whatever."

  Narrowing his eyes, he asked, "You ok?"

  Before she could answer, she ducked into the bathroom, lifted the lid on the toilet, and started retching.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Paul pull some toilet paper from the roll and hand it to her. As her body convulsed, she felt his hand smoothing the hair off of her face and holding it behind her head.

  "It's all right. Everything's gonna be all right," he cooed, just as he had when Tomas and Jonah caught the stomach flu the year before.

  When she was done, he handed her a clean wad of toilet paper, wiped down the toilet seat with a bleach-soaked wipe, and flushed it while she sat down on the floor, wondering what could have prompted it.

  Helping her up, he stood her at the sink. "I'll go get your tooth brush. Stay here."

  In a minute he was back and stayed with her while she cleaned herself up.

  "You ok?"

  She took a deep breath
and looked up at him. "Yeah. I'm fine."

  He didn't look convinced.

  "Something going around the office?"

  Claire shrugged. "No. It's probably just nerves. So much going on today. Mom and Dad coming over." She gave her head a quick shake. "I feel much better, really. Thanks for your help. Go run, and I'll put you to work when you get back."

  "You sure?"

  "I'm sure."

  Claire watched as he descended the front stairs and ran toward the forest preserve. Hoping a quick shower would revive her, she headed upstairs, grateful the boys were all still sleeping.

  When she was done, she retrieved the tablecloth from the ironing board and, with matching napkins in hand, pulled the chairs away from the dining room table. Shaking the burgundy tablecloth above it, she watched as it landed gracefully on the surface. Centering it to the best of her ability, she got out eight large dinner plates, eight bread plates, and eight settings of silverware and arranged them around the table. Right in the middle, she set a turkey centerpiece that Jonah had made in school. On either side of it, she placed crystal candleholders and inserted two new taper candles to lend an air of elegance to the otherwise homey dining room.

  She figured she'd ask one of the boys to bring up the card table from the basement, dust it off, and put it at the far end of the dining room table so the entire family could sit together. Otherwise, the younger boys would be relegated to the dreaded "kiddie table"—a designation given to the kitchen table when additional relatives and friends came for special dinners.

  When Paul returned from his run, he went directly to the kitchen, checked on Claire, and headed out the back door so he could prep the grill before showering. Claire, in the meantime, tried focusing on the task at hand—prepping the poultry.

  She took the turkey out of its wrapper, rinsed it off, and set it in the aluminum pan. Stuffing it with an onion, two celery stalks, and a carrot, she then smeared the bird with oil, realizing only after she had done so that she should've pinned back the wings and tied up the legs first.

  After Paul came back inside, she asked him to help her batten down the bird.

  Obediently, he pressed his finger on the string Claire had laced around the legs so she could tie the knot. He then grabbed a pin while she tried holding on to the rest of the bird. As he pushed on it, the bird started to slip out of her hands. It would've ended up on the floor if Paul hadn't braced himself against the pan.

  After a couple of tries, they were both laughing so hard that they considered leaving it as it was before remembering that the grill lid wouldn't fit over it if they didn't pin the legs down. It took five more minutes before the two college-educated adults were able to successfully hog-tie the turkey.

  Claire left it on the counter until the coals were ready, then washed her hands and set about making a German coffee cake using her mother's recipe. She always associated its buttery cinnamon-infused aroma with the memory of waking up on holiday mornings as a child. After putting it in the oven, she took out her large Crock-Pot and gathered the ingredients for the stuffing, humming the entire time.

  After his shower, Paul brought the paper to the kitchen table and spread it out before him to read during the quiet time before the boys came downstairs. With her back to him, Claire began dicing celery stalks and an onion on the cutting board when she heard him exclaim, "Man, I don't remember the last time I was able to sit down and read the paper front to back."

  Stopping mid-chop, she stared at the cutting board.

  Front to back?

  She turned to face him. "I'm sorry—before you do, could you get the folding table from the basement? I hate to wake up the boys before the coffee cake is ready."

  Paul looked up at her. "Yeah. Sure."

  As soon as was gone, she pulled the Lifestyle section of the paper and crammed it into the recycling bin, making a mental note to retrieve it later.

  When he returned to his seat, he was none the wiser.

  By the time Claire had finished mixing the ingredients for the stuffing and transferring it to her Crock-Pot, the coffee cake was done, and she removed it from the oven to cool.

  Five hours later, the temperature in their backyard had risen to a high of sixty-eight degrees, and the turkey was browning nicely on their trusty charcoal grill. Paul, Claire, Kate, Paul Senior, Burt, and Louise sat around the picnic table, talking, joking, and relaxing, watching the boys shoot hoops in their short driveway while enjoying the warmth coming off of the grill.

  "I just don't know what to make of this weather," Burt exclaimed.

  "It's global warming," Kate concluded.

  "Oh, it's just a late Indian summer. That's all," Louise said.

  "Well, whatever it is, it's not going to last," Paul's dad announced. "They're talking bad storms tonight followed by a good couple of inches of snow."

  Paul raised his water bottle and made a toast. "To crazy Chicago winters!"

  "To crazy Chicago winters," they all chimed in.

  When Paul got up to check the temperature on the turkey, Louise looked at her youngest daughter and asked, "You're sure there's nothing I can help you with, honey?"

  Claire smiled. "No, Mom. Everything's taken care of. Relax."

  By the time the elegant taper candles on the dining room table were reduced to waxy stubs and the plates were long cleared from the table, everyone remained immersed in conversation while the two youngest boys enjoyed a game of pin-the-feather-on-the-turkey in the family room. Paul, Luke, and Marc listened intently as Burt and Paul Senior reminisced about their days serving in Vietnam. Louise and Kate gave a detailed account of their shopping trip at the Magnificent Mile a few days earlier to Claire. When Claire and Paul's eyes met, she smiled, and he winked.

  At three o'clock, during a brief lull in the conversation, Paul announced, "I say it's time for dessert and football."

  Claire asked Kate if she thought her apple pie needed to be warmed before serving, but before she could reply, Burt said, "No, if Katie made it, it will taste just as good at room temperature."

  Turning to Paul Senior, he added, "I almost snuck down during the night to steal a piece."

  "You better not have. Did you or did you not hear Dr. Sawyer tell you that you're prediabetic?" Louise snapped. She then turned to Paul Senior and announced, "His doctor told him he has to watch his sugar, but does he? No."

  An uncomfortable silence settled over the room.

  Kate cut her mother a biting look and said, "Mom. It's Thanksgiving. If Dad wants pie, I'm givin' him pie. Now what kind would you like?"

  Mildly miffed, Louise replied, "Pumpkin. With whipped cream."

  Claire, stationed at Kate's elbow, exclaimed, "Of course. What's pumpkin pie without whipped cream?"

  When Paul went to round up the two younger boys, she brought the pies to the table along with plates, forks, and the obligatory can of whipped cream.

  As Kate cut the pies, Claire eased slices onto the plates. "Ok, who wants what?"

  After each piece was ready for distribution, Claire shook the can of whipped cream and sprayed it generously onto the pieces of pie. She then turned to Jonah, who opened his mouth wide, and she sprayed some into it.

  Louise made a face and protested, "Claire!"

  "Oh, please, Mom. Dad did that to us all the time, didn't you?" she asked Burt, who pretended not to hear her.

  "No," Kate interjected. "He used to have us hold out our finger like this"—she held her index finger out like a pretend pistol—"and he covered it."

  For that, Burt, now smiling, took full credit. "That's right."

  Claire sprayed a dollop of whipped cream into Tomas's open mouth next, then turned and squirted some on Marc's nose.

  "Hey!" He began laughing, then dipped his finger in the cream covering his pie and flicked it at Luke, who was sitting next to him. It landed on his cheek. When Paul let out a laugh, Luke scooped some off of his plate with his fork and flung it at him. Not reacting in time, Paul's chin got coated.


  "Ok, smart guy." Burt took a glob of his and covered Luke's nose with it.

  "Boys," Louise cried. "Stop being so—oh!" Jonah had launched a dollop that landed on her cheek.

  At this point, Claire stopped laughing long enough to tell everyone that her cheeks were beginning to hurt.

  Paul's dad sat quietly chuckling to himself at the end of the table opposite his son. "Ah, this is what I'm thankful for."

  Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at him quizzically.

  He put his two hands on the table in front of him and said, "Family. I am thankful for my family."

  He then took the can of whipped cream and sprayed it directly into his mouth.

  * * *

  Claire was sitting on the 5:40, the most crowded of the trains heading out of the city, watching as it filled up with commuters eager to get home. She couldn't take her eyes off of a young man with dark hair, clutching a backpack in his lap, his eyes darting all around him. She hadn't seen him before. For that matter, she rarely saw students of any age taking that particular train from downtown.

  Before the doors closed and the train pulled away from the platform, a conductor made his way down the aisle. She grabbed his arm.

  He turned, looked down at her, and asked, "Can I help you?"

  She pulled him down closer to her and whispered, "Don't look, but there's a guy over there with a backpack on his lap, and he's acting really odd. Suspicious. Aren't we supposed to report people like that?"

  The conductor quickly stood up, made his way to the door, and picked up the phone. Claire, certain she and everyone else on the train were in danger, got up and started making her way for the door. Just as she passed him, the man with the backpack followed her out. As they both went down the stairs and onto the crowded platform, he grabbed her arm from behind and whispered in her ear, "Listen to me. I'm strapped with explosives. I'm going to blow this entire station to bits. Now, just keep walking, and do what I tell you to do."

  Claire calmly did as he said.

  No one noticed as the man led her, against the rush of hundreds of people, off of the platform and within yards of a policeman restraining a bomb-sniffing dog. When they stopped in the middle of the station, he dropped the backpack to the ground and yelled something in a language she didn't understand while opening his jacket with his free hand to reveal the explosives. He then pulled Claire in front of him again as a shield.