“I mean, is it okay here?”
“It’s work. It’s fine. Senator Roberts is a nice enough man.” She placed the bacon on a paper towel to collect the grease. “What do you want on the bread? Anything?”
“Mayonnaise?” I asked.
When the sandwich was prepared, she placed it on a plate that looked like something you’d use at a wedding, like it would break if you breathed on it. “Can I eat it at the counter?” I asked, and Mary shrugged. Of course, of course, it was the best sandwich I’d ever eaten. I first thought it was just because someone had made it for me, but my mom had made some sorry sandwiches for me in my life, so maybe it was the atmosphere. I tried not to overthink it. “This is so good,” I told Mary, who just nodded. I ate it in three bites and then looked at the plate, unsure what to do with it. Mary took it and washed it right in front of me. I let it happen. That’s how easy it was, I guess.
“So you were here when Mr. Roberts was married to his second wife?” I asked Mary.
“Yes, of course,” she said.
“What were the kids like?” I asked.
“What are kids like?” she replied. “They are kids. Wild.”
“Like Timothy?” I asked, and I thought I almost made her smile.
“No, not like Timothy,” she said. Her posture relaxed as she tried to explain. “Wild. In a good way. Sweet, wild kids. They would make a mess, but I didn’t mind cleaning it up.”
“I’m going to take care of them,” I said.
“I know,” she said, but I wasn’t entirely sure that she already knew this. She was good. She’d been doing this awhile.
“Madison is my best friend,” I said, so stupid, and Mary knew it was stupid because she didn’t dignify it with a response. “Thank you for the sandwich,” I said, and she turned in the exact direction of work that was waiting for her.
I walked around the house, checking all the rooms, just getting used to the sensation of my body being inside this mansion, this estate. I tried to guess what each room was for, what distinguished it from another one. The floor of the hallway was marble, and I hated the way it felt on my socked feet, but the rooms all had beautiful hardwood floors with giant rugs from, I don’t know, Civil War times. There was a game room, but that wasn’t the right word. I remembered the board game Clue: the Billiards Room. There was a pool table in the middle and a pinball game against one wall, a chessboard with two cushy chairs on either side. There was a bar in the corner with all manner of dusty liquors. I reached into one of the pockets of the pool table, removed a ball, and hid it in an empty ice bucket. I pushed the start button on the pinball game, Monster Bash, and it lit right up, no quarters required. I immediately slammed the side of the machine and the word tilt appeared and the game went dead. I took the white queen from the chessboard and was going to take it with me, but I got sheepish and put it back.
I went back to my own room to get my shoes so I could walk around the grounds. There was a woman in the room, and she was making up the bed. I instantly felt guilty that I hadn’t done it after I woke up. “Hey,” I said, and she startled, but then relaxed.
“Hello, ma’am,” she said.
“Thank you for making up the bed,” I told her, but she looked embarrassed. I grabbed my shoes and hustled out of there. I still hadn’t brushed my hair or my teeth. I hadn’t brought anything with me. I knew that if I asked, a hairbrush would appear, a toothbrush and four different kinds of toothpaste, but I tried to pretend I was self-sufficient. A lot of times when I think I’m being self-sufficient, I’m really just learning to live without the things that I need.
I followed a stone path to the guesthouse, where I’d be living with the kids. It was a two-story wooden house, white with dark red shutters. The door didn’t even have a lock on it; I walked right in. The walls were painted with orange and yellow polka dots on a white background. The floors were made of a kind of spongy material, bright blue. There were lots of beanbag chairs, primary school furniture. The whole place felt like Sesame Street mixed with a mental health facility. But it wasn’t bad. It was clean, like someone had designed a scientific experiment, but inviting enough that I could live in it. There was so much space that I thought I’d have places to hide when I felt like strangling the kids.
When I looked up, I saw an unbelievably complicated sprinkler system and blinking red lights from smoke detectors. I wondered if the house had been stuffed full of asbestos. How did one prepare a house for the possibility of fire children?
“Do you like it?” someone behind me suddenly said.
“Fuck!” I shouted, whirling around, my leg involuntarily doing this little judo kick. Carl was standing there, his arms crossed. He wasn’t even looking at me; he was staring at the sprinkler system.
“I’m sorry,” he said, but he actually didn’t seem all that sorry. It felt like this had been a test, to see how badly I could be scared. I had pegged Carl as a cop, but now I reconsidered. He seemed like one of those faceless suits in sunglasses who tracks down E.T. He was the bad guy in an eighties movie.
“You scared the shit out of me,” I told him.
“The door was open,” he said. “I was just checking it out.”
“This is where I’m going to live,” I said.
“Yes, for now,” he said. “And Mrs. Roberts has informed you of the situation?”
I stared at him because it felt good to make him work for it.
“The children?” he finally said. “Their . . . situation?”
“They catch on fire,” I said. “I know.”
“May I ask you something, Ms. Breaker?”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Do you have any experience with childcare? Do you have medical training? Do you have a degree in child psychology?”
“I can take care of two kids,” I told him.
“I’m not trying to be rude. For instance, do you know CPR?”
“Jesus, Carl, yes, I know CPR,” I said. “I have a certificate, even. I’m certified. I can bring the kids back to life.” Two years ago, an old lady had died in the produce section while I knelt over her, waiting for the ambulance. After that, the owner of the store made everyone get trained in CPR and first aid.
“Okay, that’s good,” he said, smiling.
“I took a class in fire safety, too,” I said. “I know how to use a fire extinguisher.”
“On a child?” he asked.
“If they’re on fire,” I told him.
He walked over to the kitchen and opened the door to what I thought was a pantry. Instead, it was filled top to bottom with gleaming red fire extinguishers. “Well, then I guess you’ll be fine.”
“Carl?” I said.
“Yes?” he replied.
“Do you think I came up with this idea? Do you think I scammed Madison into giving me a job taking care of these weird fucking kids?”
“No, not at all. I think Senator Roberts and Mrs. Roberts have been placed in an unusual situation. I think they are doing the best that they can; they are trying to be responsible and empathetic, considering the circumstances. And I think you are simply a part of that larger desire to help these children. But I do not think this is the correct response. I think this is going to be a disaster.”