by Darcie Chan
A waitress caught his eye. “Sit anywhere you’d like, hon. We’ve got plenty of empty tables.”
He nodded and approached a small table, although he didn’t sit down. “Ma’am, I’m not here for breakfast,” he said in low voice when she came over. “I’m actually looking for a job.”
“A job?” A few of the patrons in the restaurant glanced over at her shrill exclamation, and Michael felt a flush of heat color his face. “Sorry, hon, there’s nothing here. It’s just Luke and Larry behind the counter and me waiting tables. It’s a wonder we’re still here and getting paid, with business the way it’s been. Good luck finding something, though.”
Michael nodded and quickly left. He didn’t know what he could do in a restaurant, anyway, except perhaps clear tables, and there was a whole street of places to try.
For the rest of the morning, he made his way slowly up the street, stopping into each business to make inquiries. He visited shoe stores and department stores and more restaurants and cafés. There was a store that sold radios and phonographs. Another one sold refrigerators, the sleek new white ones made by General Electric.
None of those places was hiring. At one o’clock, disappointed, hungry, and with feet aching from being squeezed into shoes that were too small and heavily worn, he sat down on the stoop of a shuttered business and ate his second egg sandwich.
Maybe Grandma and Mother were right, he thought. Maybe it’s still impossible for anyone to find a job around here.
But he had to find something. His family was depending on him.
He stood up, stretched, and started out again. His hopes soared when he entered the grocery store his mother frequented and learned from one of the clerks that the store sometimes hired summer help.
“Let me get the manager so you can speak with him,” the young man told him before leaving to fetch his boss.
Michael waited anxiously at the front of the store. There was plenty to be done in such a large, busy place. Deliveries needed to be unloaded and stocked. Groceries needed to be checked out and bagged for customers. The whole store itself needed to be kept clean and tidy. And, it would be a pleasant place to work.
“Here’s Mr. Baird,” the clerk said breathlessly as he approached. The older man following him had a kindly face and salt-and-pepper hair.
“Hello, sir,” Michael said, extending a hand. “My name is Michael O’Brien, and I’m looking for a job for the summer.”
“I expect you are—you and the whole city.” The manager sighed as he shook his hand. “You look like a nice kid. Do you live here in Burlington?”
“Just outside the city a few miles, sir.”
“Um-hmm. And how old are you, Michael?”
“Fifteen, sir.”
Mr. Baird nodded. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but I just hired a couple of kids, and I’m afraid that’s all I can afford to hire right now, even paying reduced wages. I’m happy to take your name and address, though. If I have another position come open, I’ll contact you.”
Michael swallowed hard and struggled to keep his disappointment in check. “Thank you, Mr. Baird. I would appreciate that very much.”
“You have a good day, now, son,” the manager said, and Michael went back through the front doors.
One by one, he tried the rest of the businesses on Church Street. Without any employment prospects by late afternoon, he walked down a few of the other streets in the center of the city, stopping every so often to make inquiries. His desperation increased when he realized that the businesses had starting closing for the day. He was on a side street several blocks from where he had started in the morning when he looked up and realized that he was standing in front of the loan office.
The sign above the door was unchanged, a wrought-iron frame from which three gold balls were suspended, and the display of gleaming gold jewelry and watches in the front window was much the same. The other items in the window were different. A violin and bow rested in an opened case. A silver tea set and matching tray was arranged in one corner, and a pair of sterling candlesticks stood in the other. Up above, two hunting rifles were suspended, their shiny barrels pointing at each other and nearly touching in the center of the window.
Michael reached for the door handle, but as his fingers brushed the metal, he hesitated. Even though he had just turned fifteen, his mother might try to tan his hide if she learned that he had gone inside the loan office. Did he dare do it? And if he did, would it be to ask about a job or to satisfy his own curiosity?
He glanced nervously over his shoulder, but the sidewalk in front of the shop was empty in both directions. Without answering the last question, he pulled open the door and went inside.
It was much darker inside the loan office, and while his eyes adjusted to the change in light, his sense of smell enjoyed a moment of dominance. The air was heavy and musty and tinged with scents of damp cloth and grease and gunpowder. There was another odor, too, a distinct pungency emanating from a counter positioned farther in, against the wall. A woman was finishing up her business there. As she turned and came toward the door, the man behind the counter, who was undoubtedly the source of the odor, came into view.
Mr. Borisov fit his mother’s description exactly. Light brown hair, curly and greasy, was slicked back from a high, shiny forehead. Beads of sweat clustered along the sides of the forehead and lined up along the brow, then ran in shimmering rivulets downward from each graying temple. A pair of gold-framed spectacles rested halfway down the man’s nose and appeared ready to slide all the way down onto his bushy mustache. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, simultaneously exposing corpulent forearms while encasing doughlike rolls along his torso.
Michael quickly removed his cap and took another step forward. Mr. Borisov was writing in a ledger of some sort and gave him a cursory glance. “Yes?”
“Good afternoon, sir,” he began. “Are you Mr. Borisov?”
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
“My name is Michael O’Brien. I’ve finished school for the summer, and I’m looking for a job. I was wondering if you had any positions available.”
Mr. Borisov laid down his pen and stared at him. After Michael had finished speaking, there were a few seconds of silence before the man’s laugh filled the room. “Job? You want job?”
“Yes, sir.”
The man laughed again. “I haf people come in for many things. Sometimes loan, sometimes to sell something. Sometimes to ask for more time to pay loan. But never haf I had someone come here and ask for job. Tell me, what do you think you could do here? What kind of job do you want?”
Michael took a deep breath and quickly looked around. Behind the counter and on either side as high as the ceiling, the wall was covered by small cubicles. The contents of many were visible—clothing, shoes, hand tools, small firearms, and any other common possession one might venture to use as collateral for a loan. The remaining cubicles contained items wrapped in brown paper, for privacy, he assumed. Larger shelves and display racks picked up where the cubicles left off, to accommodate larger items. There was a section of long-handled tools: shovels, rakes, axes. Another portion of the wall was covered in paintings of various sizes and styles. The shelves held everything from kitchenware and small appliances to mantel clocks and sets of books with elegant gilded spines.
“I could keep the place neat. Maybe help with the displays in the front window. Or whatever else you might need help doing. I learn quickly, and I’m a hard worker.”
Mr. Borisov squinted at him and then shrugged. “Maybe you are hard worker. You look like nice boy. Skinny but clean. Speak good English. Why you want to work here, Michael O’Brien? Why not shoe store or grocery?”
“I’ve made inquires, sir, but they have no positions open. I asked at almost every place up Church Street and then some.”
“This not good place for nice boy to work. Besides, I always haf problems with O’Briens.” The owner’s tone was final and dismissive. Mi
chael felt a surge of panic as Mr. Borisov took up his pen and bent once more over his ledger.
“Please, sir. Please, I’ve got to find a job. My father’s gone away, and my mother’s been deathly sick. We need cash wages to pay her hospital bills. She’s expecting a baby, but it’s just me and my grandmother trying to take care of her.”
Mr. Borisov stopped writing but kept his gaze fixed downward. He remained this way for a good minute, and Michael scarcely breathed. Finally, he looked up with a stern expression. “All right. I gif you job as clerk. I teach what you need to know. Start Monday, nine o’clock to five o’clock closing time. I pay you only child wage, ten cents an hour. We try for two weeks. If you learn what I teach and work hard, we keep going. If not, you lose job. Do we haf deal?”
“Yes! Yes, sir, we do. Thank you,” Michael said. He extended his hand for Mr. Borisov to shake, and the smell surrounding the counter suddenly wasn’t quite as pungent as it had been. “I’ll be here on Monday morning at nine sharp.”
“Very good, Michael O’Brien. Very good. See you Monday.”
As Michael stepped outside the store, he was nearly overcome with joy and gratitude. He sucked in the fresh air as he walked briskly down the street. The ache in his feet notwithstanding, he almost gave in to the urge to kick up his heels. Against impossible odds, he had found a job. If Mr. Borisov kept him on past the initial trial period, he would be able to earn more than forty dollars by the end of the summer—enough, when combined with what they already had and what they could get from selling Onion’s new heifer calf, to pay the remainder of his mother’s hospital bill, the electric bill, and the property taxes that would be due on the farm.
Once his initial euphoria subsided, he began to wonder whether he’d accepted Mr. Borisov’s offer too quickly. Mainly, he wasn’t sure how he could convince his mother to let him work in the loan office. She would never approve, he was sure, and he was afraid to tell her. After his inquiries, he felt reasonably sure that he wouldn’t find another position in the city, but he hadn’t tried finding a job at any of the farms outside of Burlington. It was possible he could find a summer job picking produce or as a farmhand. Though he had no way of knowing what sort of wages he might be offered, it would be respectable work. Did he really want to forgo those possibilities to work in the loan office?
He could tell his mother and grandmother about a job on a farm. But there was no guarantee he could find a farm job, and if he did, it would mean less money. Plus, there might be no possibility of farmwork once the summer growing season was over. What if his father were unable to send money even when autumn came? If he worked in the loan office, he might be able to leave school temporarily and continue working through the fall until his father straightened things out with Seamus or else came home.
Michael hurried along the street, knowing that his mother and grandmother would be expecting him home. As he fell into the rhythm of fast walking, he came to the solemn realization that if he wanted to ensure the safety and security of his family, he had no choice but to work for Mr. Borisov. That meant that he would have to hide the truth about where he’d be working—this new secret of his own—even if it meant being purposefully dishonest. It was especially important that his mother not find out, because she would be terribly upset, and that was the last thing she needed in her condition.
He arrived back at the farm just as the sun was nearly to the horizon. The Colchester parish sedan was parked in front, and he quickened his step, wondering why his uncle had come. Has something happened to Mother? Has someone discovered the secret in the cemetery?
In the house, his mother was seated at the kitchen table, holding a handkerchief. Her face was moist with tears. His uncle sat with her, clasping her hand, and they both turned when they heard him come through the door.
“Mother? Is everything all right?”
“It’s Lizzie,” his mother choked. “She died this morning. When she didn’t come inside by noon, I went to the barn, looking for her. I’ve already called your father, and he’s on his way home.”
Chapter 25
On the Tuesday evening the week before Thanksgiving, Emily stood in the great room of the marble mansion. She stretched her back and yawned as she looked up and around at what she had accomplished.
The walls were freshly painted and bright, and the smooth wood floors gleamed with new stain and varnish. The trim and woodwork been painted or refinished as needed. Emily smiled as she approached the staircase. It had been painstaking work, stripping the stain from the beautiful handrail before sanding and refinishing it, but it looked brand-new.
The transformation extended to the rest of the house, down to the way the house smelled. The musty, stale air that had greeted her on her first visit to the marble mansion was gone, replaced by the scents of fresh paint and lumber and the leaves that had begun to rain down on the house and in the yard.
The bathrooms had been updated with new fixtures and mirrors, except the enormous cast-iron tub in the owner’s suite. Ruth had asked her not to replace it because she loved antique claw-footed tubs, and Emily had been happy to oblige, since she would’ve had to knock out a wall to remove the behemoth.
The kitchen was now a fully modernized workplace for Ruth, complete with a professional stove, dual ovens, and quartz countertops. Emily had reconfigured the cabinets to allow room for a commercial refrigerator and freezer, as well as a long length of counter space that could be used as a coffee and breakfast buffet for guests. She had cut a second door in a kitchen wall, which led conveniently into the dining room.
Most of the heavy lifting in giving the mansion a makeover was finished. She would begin to tackle the smaller items on her list in the morning, but right now, all she wanted to do was go home and collapse.
Emily tidied up the corner of the great room where she kept her toolbox and her other belongings while she was working. There were a few used plastic paint trays in the corner, and she smiled as she gathered them up to throw away. The day she’d fallen into one of those trays had been a turning point of sorts. Learning about Matt’s experience in the military had been eye-opening, and he’d handled her awkward mishap like a true gentleman when he could have made her feel even more foolish. In the few weeks that had passed since the paint incident, he hadn’t made as much as a single joke or snide comment, which had further tipped the scales in his favor. Plus, he’d continued to show up to help her at the mansion on his days off.
It was hard to admit it, but Matt’s volunteering days of his time to help her had been wearing down her own walls, the ones she kept close around her heart. She hadn’t truly opened her heart to someone since Andy had been killed. Neither of her two serious relationships after that had worked out. She knew now that she hadn’t been emotionally ready, but it was also true that neither of her post-Andy boyfriends had been anything like the wonderful man who had been ripped so suddenly from her life.
Matt, though, was turning out to be different. She’d forgiven his first attempt to get to know her as an epic fail at trying to be cute and clever. Throughout the hours and days they’d spent together in the mansion, she’d begun to feel more and more drawn to him. Of course, physically, he was extremely handsome. He also had the same quiet confidence and intelligence that Andy had exuded and that she found so attractive. She’d been surprised to discover that Matt had a goofball sense of humor, too.
On the third day he’d shown up to help her, she’d gone to use the restroom, leaving Matt and Gus alone in the bedroom they’d been painting. On her way back to the room, she’d heard someone singing in a strange voice, one that sounded like a higher-pitched version of Yoda from Star Wars. She’d tiptoed to the doorway and peeked in to see Matt holding up his index finger, bending it in time to his singing as if it were a little person. Gus was sitting on his dog bed, staring up at Matt with his ears pricked and his head cocked to one side. The tune was from “That Doggie in the Window,” but Matt had altered the lyrics:
Who left tha
t poor Gussie in the window?
The pup who’s infested with fleas?
I know why that Gussie’s in the window,
’Cause doggie farts smell worse than cheese.
Emily had clasped a hand over her mouth to keep her laughter from giving her away. After Matt had sung the verse one more time, he made a loud raspberry, perhaps to further illustrate the last line in the song. Gus bounded forward with his tail wagging and gave a huge WOOF.
“You like that, boy? Huh? You wanna sing with me?” Matt reached down to rumple the dog’s ears as she stepped into the room.
“You know, that wasn’t bad. You might have a future as a pop star if the cop gig doesn’t work out.”
The look on Matt’s face had been pure mortification and absolutely priceless. “Oh my God, you heard that?” He shook his head as a deep pink hue spread up his cheeks. “That was just something I made up while I was messing with Ruby. You know, she’s definitely part husky because she sings with me when I, uh—”
“—serenade her?”
“Yeah.” He grinned as the fuchsia creeping up his face made it all the way to his hairline.
It was at that moment that Emily had felt another shift. It was as if a long-frozen wall of ice had cracked, revealing an opening to her soul, and Matt’s silly antics with Gus rushed right through it.
The feeling terrified her.
What she really wished for was a talk with her mother, the kind they used to have when they’d sit and laugh and discuss everything. Her mother’s advice was nearly always spot-on, but they hadn’t connected like that in months, not since her mother faked her own death in a crazy, last-ditch attempt to get her daughters back on speaking terms. Emily had forgiven her for the stunt, but she hadn’t forgotten it, and she still didn’t feel enough time had passed since the incident to resume their mother-daughter chats.
Eager to shower and crawl into bed, Emily went home. Once she was clean and Gus was back inside from his pre-bedtime trip into the yard, she slid under her covers and sank onto her pillow. The briefcase from the mansion sat on her nightstand, but she was too tired to read any of the letters tonight. She didn’t want to think anymore about Matt, either, since her emotions were entirely unsettled. As she closed her eyes and began to drift off, she hoped only that somehow things would work out for the best.
