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“Shall we begin?” She inquires with a gentle smile as she glances at the file in front of her which, presumably, includes my resume. What there is of it. With what I can imagine took a lot of training, her face remains expressionless as she peruses my work history. It’s a short read.
“I know there isn’t much to it,” I admit the obvious, “but I’d like to change that with your help.” I go on to explain my situation, sticking strictly to the facts, though I’m sure some of the emotion surrounding them leaks through. “It’s a tale of woe many have endured before me, as will many after me,” I tell her. She nods in understanding, thankfully not asking me to go into details. However, I do state, “Suffice it to say, I didn’t have the same opportunities most my age did, which hindered my ability to enter the work force as I would’ve liked.”
“But you’re able to change that now.”
“Correct.”
She’s quiet so long I’m worried I’m about to be escorted out, but when she speaks, it takes me a moment to process as that isn’t the case at all. “Okay then. Let’s see what we can find you.”
“Thank you,” I tell her with the utmost sincerity. As her gaze fixates on the laptop in front of her, I rapidly blink my eyes, hoping to force the tears that are ready to spring forth back to where they came. When I feel as if I’m once more under control, I glance up, relieved to see she’s still occupied.
“I’m assuming you aren’t opposed to relocating?”
“I’d prefer it, to be honest.”
“Good.” Then she hums, as if my answer pleases her. “And how do you feel about cleaning?”
As I hate lying, what comes out of my mouth is the truth. “It’s not my favorite, but I have no problem doing it if need be. My experience with that type of thing is personal only, not professional, if that makes a difference.” It’s something I started doing at a young age, wanting to do my part as mom was working two jobs to support us. She’d gotten pregnant with me right after high school, derailing her college plans. And, after my birth since she was left to raise me alone, she was too busy providing for us to go. Not that she could afford it.
She shrugs as if that’s neither here nor there. “Since you’re wanting to move, I expanded my search to include openings coming through our offices in various states and ignoring those here.” This woman…I owe her more than she’ll ever know. “There’s one that is, of course, a live-in position on a farm in the Midwest.” That intrigues me as mom and I used to dream about moving to the country and riding horses. “Your duties would include, but are not limited to, keeping the house, preparing meals, running errands, and so on. The rest will be discussed between you and the other party to determine what you’re each comfortable with.” I’m not sure what to make of that last sentence, but the first half sounds like the usual responsibilities of a housekeeper to me. As she continues, even though I should be listening, I let my mind wander and eagerly visualize the new life I can have while simultaneously wishing my mom was here to go with me. “Ms. Rayne?” Shoot. Her tone indicates she’s tried to get my attention more than once. Think fast, Mads.
“Sorry,” I reply, and I am. “I was taking everything in and my mind went to recipes I could use that my mom taught me.”
Mrs. Pederson accepts my reason, then asks, “Do you feel this is a position you’d like?”
“I do,” I confirm, curious at the twinkle in her eyes at my response. But it’s her next words that really have me wondering.
“Exactly.”
Chapter Three
Cain
April 9th…
My first thought when the alarm jolts me from a sound sleep is 'I don’t wanna.' But I do it anyway because I’m a fucking adult. Even if I’d rather not be some days.
Getting to my feet, I stagger to the shower with my eyes closed since I can walk through this house blindfolded if need be. Of course, I have no clue why I would need to, but there you have it.
Thirty minutes later, I’m presentable after showering, shaving, brushing my teeth, and getting dressed. For the final act, I run a comb through my hair before plopping my ever present cowboy hat on top of it. Following a quick breakfast of a toasted English muffin buttered and sprinkled with a mixture of cinnamon and sugar, I meet Mason on my wraparound porch where I hand him a travel mug of coffee. Gripping my own, he and I walk down the steps and begin waking up the farm while we wait for the caffeine to do the same for us.
Once everything is taken care of, or as much as can be before I have to leave, I make the drive into town, parking my well-used truck in the parking lot of Grove Elementary. I nod at the co-workers I pass on the way to my classroom, then plop my messenger bag – I just can’t do the briefcase thing, it’s not me – on my desk where I proceed to remove the homework I need to finish grading.
I’d meant to do it last night, but sleep won out, as it tends to do more and more frequently. I enjoy my jobs, love them even, and am honored that I have a hand in teaching the next generation year after year, but I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this up. Or if I even want to.
Then the kids enter, twenty-five fourth graders, each greeting me, seemingly eager to learn, and that’s my motivation to get through the next few hours. I mentally take attendance as they settle in their assigned seats, take out their books, then begin going through my lesson plan following the bell. We’re starting with history.
“Who knows when Ohio became a state?” The majority raise their hands, ready to prove they did their homework, and I randomly call on one, congratulating them when they get it correct.
After that, I test them on the capitals and so forth. Prior to the lunch bell, we switch subjects and discuss the science projects that are due next week. Being such a small town, the teachers in our district are responsible for a variety of courses as there isn’t enough staff for each of us to focus solely on one. An arrangement that suits me fine as it keeps the days from being monotonous.
While they’re gone, this not being my week for cafeteria duty, I call my mom as her text requested I do when I get a chance. “Hello, my boy,” she greets me in her customary manner despite the fact I’m in my early-thirties.
“Hey, ma,” I respond. “Everything okay?”
“Better than ever,” she informs me, the smile I can hear in her voice a testament to just how much she means it. When she doesn’t continue, I give her a nudge, knowing my students will be returning before I know it.
“What’s up?”
