For Better or Worse

by Donna Huston Murray

  “Babysit Jack? I don’t know...”

  “That was Susan,” he informed me. “She and Mike had a battle royal—obviously—but she managed to bring him around.”

  “Good for her.”

  “One contingency...”

  “Oh?”

  “She wants you.”

  “What about Mike?”

  “Oh, you’ll love this.” George slipped me a sly smile. “He told Susan you’re part of the deal.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s you or nobody.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. The officious bastard was confident I would say no, and he would get his way after all.

  I withheld the four-letter word on the tip of my tongue.

  Babysitters don't talk like that.

  Chapter 9

  IN SPITE OF the Swenson’s ultimatum I told George, “No, I don’t think so,” regarding the babysitting question.

  “Please,” George said. “Take a day to think about it.” No begging or cajoling, just a reasonable request delivered with dignity and hope.

  "How about if I call Susan tomorrow night?” My answer probably wouldn't change, but at least George could report that he’d done his best.

  “Thank you,” he told me with a small smile.

  In the parking lot I thanked him in return for the luxurious dinner and for being patient with me.

  Then I hurried on home to Fideaux.

  Our nighttime routine began with a prowl around the yard in the dark. While he patrolled the perimeter for raccoons and deer, I enjoyed the fireflies and stars and listened to crickets and owls and distant traffic, all of which helped to pinpoint my miniscule place in the universe.

  In the morning I was back at my daughter’s by eight. A benign cloud cover held the temperature to a comfortable sixty-nine, so I attached Fideaux’s long leash to the huge oak by the side of the yard where he could play sphinx until it was time to nap.

  “Water coming right up,” I told him. The house had an outside faucet on the suspicious side, the side with the falling trash bags and explosions. When I looked up from filling Fideaux’s borrowed bowl, I encountered the scowling countenance of the neighbor in question. Never mind that Mrs. Zumstein remained firmly on her own side of the fence, her expression was right in my face.

  “You talk to your dog?” A transparent haze of colorless hair exposed the shape of the tiny woman’s skull while sagging puffs of flesh made her appear to be melting.

  “Sometimes,” I admitted.

  “Sign of insanity, you know.”

  Or loneliness, I might have argued, but I didn’t. Or maybe I just have an affection for animals, how about that?

  She sent a sneering glance over her shoulder before turning back toward her dingy house.

  “Sometimes he answers back,” I called after her, but Mrs. Zumstein didn’t appear to hear. She was switching a coil of clothesline from her right hand to her left in order to pull at her sticky door.

  Was that a noose on one end? I wondered, shuddering at the thought. Whatever the woman was up to, it certainly wasn't normal...and you think I'm crazy?

  The creepiness of Mrs. Zumstein's noose and the loneliness nerve she’d inadvertently exposed haunted me most of the morning. Yet when I went to relieve Fideaux from the escalating midday heat, the neighboring house looked so ordinary and harmless I convinced myself to focus on something else, specifically whether or not to help Susan Swenson find herself.

  I still hadn’t decided when I put down the last tile and stood to admire my work. I confess it wasn’t lost on me that Susan Swenson was yearning for the same sort of satisfaction—with the added incentive of cash, a bonus that would also be mine if I accepted the babysitting job.

  By three-thirty I’d put my tools away, swept the floor spotless, and deposited my trash outside in the proper can.

  From the open window above me I could hear that baby Caroline was well into her afternoon wail.

  Why not? I decided.

  Rounding the thick hedge that separated the houses, I tapped on the Voight’s front door, and in short order Cissie greeted me with the howling baby propped against her shoulder.

  “Ms. Barnes! What a nice surprise.”

  “I’ve got some time to kill. How about if I take Caroline for a walk?”

  “You serious? That’d be great. You sure? I mean...”

  “I’m sure.”

  The young mother couldn’t retrieve the stroller fast enough. Stored in a corner of the entrance hall, it opened with a jerk of the wrist. While Cissie settled the squalling child and fastened straps, she vented her exasperation.

  “It’s just her fussy time, I guess. I’ve tried everything—food, diaper, music, the Binkie, her swing. Nothing seems to help. You don’t think she’s sick, do you?”

  I touched the baby’s red face, pressed her stomach. No change in the crying. “I don’t think so,” I concluded. “Some kids just get overtired. I know mine did. Tough to settle them down then.”

  “You think?”

  “Why don’t you do something for yourself while we’re gone? If she’s still crying when we get back, then you can call her doctor.”

  “Sure,” Cissie said, but her wrinkled forehead said otherwise. “You won’t be gone long, right?”

  “Half an hour. A little longer if she settles down. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  Baby Caroline fell asleep before the middle of the next block, so I ventured only as far as the small park down the street and flopped gratefully onto a bench. For forty minutes I watched the sun dapple the dancing leaves of the pin oaks above and the three children using the swing set in the corner by the creek. Passing by as they left, their mother said ‘hi’ and nodded.

  I smiled and nodded back. Had we been alone on a city street, the greeting probably wouldn’t have occurred. But women with children, even children not their own, shared a mutual bond.

  Which brought Susan Swenson to mind again in a different way. Something seemed off about her interactions with Jack. I wondered if the husband demanded so much of her attention that precious little could be spared for the child. Or maybe it had nothing to do with the father and everything to do with Susan herself. Those long nails and perfect coif, impractical to say the least. I had watched the family interact too briefly to guess what was wrong, but what I'd seen made me curious, and when I get curious...

  No. I’d been insulted. Demeaned. I didn’t need people like that no matter how much they might need me. It was summer. Surely a hundred college students would apply for the job I intended to turn down. The Swensons would have three whole months to look for a permanent sitter.

  I glanced at my watch. Time to go back before Cissie began to think I’d kidnapped her daughter.

  She greeted me warmly at the door.

  “Overly tired,” I confirmed, regarding the baby’s crying jag.

  “Phew.” Cissie playfully brushed her brow with her hand. “Now I know. Thanks a million.”

  I explained that I’d finished working at Chelsea’s and wouldn’t be around for a while. “But for sure I’ll say hello when I’m here. Okay?”

  That earned me a hug around the neck and a kiss on my cheek. Women with children; members of the same club.

  My own heart did a little giddyup when I saw my own daughter’s car in the drive.

  “Mom! It looks gorgeous," she effused as I entered the backdoor. "Thank you so much.”

  “Glad you like it.” Glad was only half of how I felt. Relieved was the other.

  “Like it? I love it. Bobby will, too.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  We carried glasses of iced tea into the living room and settled down for a chat.

  “How was your day?” I inquired, which prompted a litany of the issues and deadlines that plague teachers at the end of the school year.

  “By the way,” I remarked when Chelsea finished. “Mrs. Zumstein thinks I’m crazy.”

  The left corner of Chelsea’s lips
lifted. “Takes one to know one.”

  I gave that the grunt it deserved. Then I mentioned that I’d also met Cissie Voight. “What’s her husband like?”

  “An asshole,” my daughter declared without an instant’s thought. “I swear he mows his grass when you’re having a cookout—on purpose. Then when he has company, he parks so nobody can get into our drive.” She waved her head. “I don’t know how Cissie can stand him.”

  Not exactly what I’d been hoping to hear. “Maybe you can be nice to her now and then.”

  Chelsea shot me that look. “In my spare time?”

  “Speaking of spare time...” I described the babysitting job offer and Susan Swenson’s dilemma.

  “Reminds me of some Dad’s Bryn Derwyn families. And mine,” Chelsea observed. “Messed up parents; messed up kids.”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  “You’d be great with Jack,” Chelsea concluded, “but do you really want the job?”

  I lifted my eyes from the spot I’d been staring past and stated what I thought was the truth.

  Yes,” I said. “I believe I do.”

  Chapter 10

  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.

  Chapter 11

  WHERE I LIVE strange men rarely show up on one’s doorstep, maybe a pair of religious recruiters once a year, or a guy running for school board every four. For one thing, we have no sidewalks and some of our driveways only a Mountain Goat could love. Girl Scouts don’t even venture down Beech Tree Lane during cookie season.

  So, naturally, I was wary of the man with the clipboard.

  He stood abou
t five-ten and had the rounded edges of middle age, but just because he looked marshmallowy did not mean he was soft.

  “Ms. Barnes?” he addressed me in a predictably saccharine tone. “I’m John Butler from the Census Bureau.”

  “Oh?” I challenged. I’d been thinking “salesman,” but since I’d heard nothing about a census being conducted, “con man” seemed more likely. I selected the front-door key from the bunch in my hand.

  “Yes. I need to ask you a few questions. Do you have a few minutes?”

  “No, sorry. I don’t.”

  “You were chosen specifically to represent this area. Can you suggest a better time?”

  How about never! “I’m not comfortable giving out personal information. Can’t you interview someone else?”

  “Not really. It won’t take...”

  I knew Fideaux often napped in the front hall while I was away, so I deliberately dropped my purse. His startled response was loud enough to induce a heart attack.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Butler,” I told the man as I slipped inside. Please don’t come back.

  I shut the door firmly behind me.

  “Good dog,” I cooed to my happy pet. “Very good dog. Let’s get you a treat.”

  After dinner, I checked for lurking men before hustling him into the car. Jack had about worn me out, but Fideaux needed to stretch his legs, and a walk in the woods wouldn’t hurt me either. At least I hoped not. Just to be safe, I opted for the park’s most popular trail along the creek.

  While Fideaux trotted a dozen yards uphill to investigate an interesting smell, I thought back on my day. Maybe I should take Jack to the toddlers' story hour at the library, or maybe bring him to play in the creek on a hot day, let him feel a little mud between his toes. I knew of a school jungle-gym that neighbors were free to use when classes were over...

  “Charlie! Charlie!” called a male voice as a brown blur sped past my legs. Spotting Fideaux, the blur slowed to a trot. Then a walk. He and Fideaux engaged in the usual sniff routine.

  The Hunter, as I mentally dubbed the German Shorthaired's owner, came to a breathless halt six feet away.

  This was a test, I decided. Would I allow myself to be rattled by every stranger I met simply because one marshmallowy, self-described census taker surprised me on my doorstep? Or would I disown my jitters and behave like my old, intrepid self?