Help Wanted (3 page)

You gotta be kidding me.

Stunned, Paul barely listened as DeRosa rattled off a bunch of phony credentials, including, by the sound of it, breaking all of Paul's old records at the school (
you wish
) and, perhaps most ridiculous of all, winning a spot on the Men's Olympic Track and Field Team.

What a crock of sh—

Luke tugged at Paul's arm. "Come on, Dad. Let's go. I'm hungry."

The imposter had stopped talking, and the other parents were milling about, introducing themselves and volunteering for upcoming team dinners.

Digging the car keys out of his pocket, he handed them to his son and said, "I'll be right there. I wanna talk to the, um, coach for a minute."

Luke shrugged and headed toward the parking lot. Paul waited for the other parents to leave. When the two men stood alone, he had to fight back the urge to take him out, but given the ugly scar on the guy's chin, it looked like someone had already beaten him to it.

Instead, he sneered, "What the hell are you doing here?"

The coach looked surprised and more than a little confused. Narrowing his eyes, he cocked his head and asked, "I'm sorry. Have we met?"

Paul nearly choked. "Is this a joke? I have half a mind to call the cops right now."

At this, the man opened his mouth, and then shut it again. Taking off his cap, he put a hand on his chest, and with the resolution of a courtroom witness swearing on a Bible, said, "I'm Nick. Nick DeRosa."

Paul stared for a minute, not completely convinced he was telling the truth.

The man continued, "Could you, by any chance, have me confused with my evil twin?" Pointing to his chin, he added, "Happens a lot, unfortunately."

He extended his hand to Paul.

Taking Nick's hand in his, Paul gripped it. Hard.

"Didn't know Ed had a twin." He didn't bother keeping the snarl out of his voice.

"No worries," Nick replied, giving his hand a quick shake as soon as Paul let go.

A tentative smile returned to the coach's face. Nodding toward the parking lot, he asked, "So, you're Luke's dad?"

"Yep."

Glancing at his clipboard, Nick replied, "He's a good kid. Fast. Works hard. I can tell already that he'll be an asset to the team."

Damn straight.

At that, the proud father said, "I'm Paul Mendez."

He waited for any hint of recognition. Not seeing any, he nodded toward the school building. "Class of—" He stopped short, feeling old enough as it was. Why advertise it? "Well, I went here too."

Nick gave him a sideways glance. "Not Paul Mendez, as in cross-country and track all-conference champion Paul Mendez?"

Paul looked into his star struck face, certain that he had never shared those details with Ed or anyone else at his former job. For the first time in a long time, he felt ready to leave the past in the past.

Well, this part of his past, at least. He wasn't so sure he was ready to leave behind the performance review Claire had given him just yet.

Raking his hand through his hair, the former record holder took a deep breath and chuckled. "Yeah, that's me."

He gave Nick's shoulder a not-so-light smack and added, "But my friends just call me Paul."

*   *   *

Before heading home for the night, Claire stood in her manager's doorway and gave her best impersonation of an obedient, upbeat employee. "You wanted to see me?"

Tracy Decker-Slone, a curt, recently matriculated, MBA-cum-new mommy, turned from her computer screen to face her. Wearing what she described to anyone in the office who had the misfortune of making eye contact with her as her prebaby clothes, she looked her only direct report in the eye.

"We've decided to make a change."

Claire waited for her to elaborate. She had nothing to worry about. She'd been bleeding buckets for this company. Still, her palms started to sweat, and an odd sensation began a slow squeeze deep within her chest.

Raising both eyebrows, Tracy explained, "I.e., we're letting you go."

The words hit Claire in the gut, robbing her of breath like a sudden gust of frigid air.

Didn't see that coming.

After lowering the boom, her latest manager clicked her manicured nails on the desk and waited for a response. The designer reading glasses Claire suspected Tracy wore in an attempt to look wise beyond her years slid halfway down her nose. A view of a dilapidated parking garage graced the office window behind her.

"We?" Claire asked, her mind reeling. "Does Jerry know about this, or have you taken to using the royal 'We?'"

Jerry Pavel, two levels above Tracy and a longtime mentor to Claire, had been out of the office more often than not for the past month.

Tracy, possessing the interpersonal skills of an upright vacuum cleaner, responded, "Yes, he knows. Of course he knows. It was his idea."

Like hell.

She turned her attention back to her laptop. "I've called up HR to see you out. Leave your desk keys and badge with them."

Claire clenched her jaw and returned to the sanctuary of her office down the hall, feeling the eyes of her remaining team members follow her every step of the way. Sinking into her chair, she grasped the armrests and tried willing her body not to shake. Reaching forward, she yanked the yellow sticky note off of her monitor, balled it up with one hand, and tossed it in the blue plastic recycling bin under her desk.

So this is what it feels like
.

Truth be told, a small part of her had been hoping this would happen. Claire couldn't remember the last time she actually wrote something that wasn't a status report, program plan, email, or performance review. She couldn't even recall the last time she had actually looked forward to going to work.

Apparently, any attempt on her part to hide her disdain fell short. Why, just a week earlier, she had found an interoffice envelope in her mail slot. There was no telling who had sent it, but as she had pulled out the single sheet of paper, she somehow knew what it was going to say. In small, carefully disguised cursive were the words
You are a miserable person.

At that point, it became official. She hated her job, and everyone knew it. 

Not wanting to give Kristy the satisfaction of walking her out, Claire hiked the strap of her overstuffed briefcase, bursting with family photos, coffee mugs, and knick-knacks she had accumulated over the years, onto her shoulder. She strode into Tracy's office and tossed her keys, her badge, and her corporate credit card onto her desk.

"It's been a slice," she lied to her ex-boss's back and headed for the elevators.

Sixteen years working for the same company and nothing to show for it but a scrawny severance package.

The enormity of this revelation weighed on her more than the whispers and stares that accompanied her out of the building.

Once outside, everything felt different. Shielding her eyes from the light of the setting sun, the usual urge to rush home abandoned her. Instead, she meandered down the sidewalk that would take her to her train, moving in slow motion while getting jostled and bumped by hurried commuters on either side. With her mind singularly focused on her four boys, an overwhelming sense of responsibility crushed her tired shoulders. College, braces, food, mortgage. Her family's livelihood was all on her. That she had to bear that burden alone while an able-bodied adult was living under the same roof churned up the familiar bile of resentment she felt toward the ol' ball and chain.

Gazing out the window as her train rattled north alongside the Chicago River, she closed her eyes and thought of her mother, a fiercely independent career woman who had always resented her husband's complete lack of support.

Growing up in the grip of the incongruous union, Claire and her sister, Kate, knew with absolute certainty by the time they were in middle school that marriage was not for them. In a primal ceremony involving a Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robot game they retrofitted with their wedding-outfitted Barbie and Ken dolls, they made a pact to never get married to anybody,
ever
.

And Claire had had every intention of sticking to it, too. She even rebuffed the affections of one Jake Garnet, the drop-dead gorgeous older brother of her college roommate. Jake ultimately went on to grace the cover of
People
magazine's Sexiest Man Alive issue. Twice.

If only Paul hadn't
caught her eye
infiltrated her soul
stolen her laundry room time slot in college her senior year.

I was THIS close.

As her train cut through the River North district, Claire pulled out her phone and called home.

Paul picked up on the third ring. His voice full of caution, he sounded rather like someone awaiting ransom demands from a kidnapper.

"Hello?"

Feeling an almost imperceptible chink on her heart, she announced with steely resolve, "I'm on my way."

"Oh, ok." He sounded surprised. Not excited surprised. Annoyed surprised.

Chink, chink.

He waited a beat or two before continuing with a sigh, "We'll be here."

Worst day ever.

All she wanted to do was go home and head straight to bed. Alone, as usual.

Laying her head back against her seat, she closed her eyes and tried imagining how Paul would react to the news. She knew he'd been saving much of what she earned for the past several months, just in case. But still, she didn't want his sympathy. What she wanted was a different reaction entirely—one that would involve a wardrobe change. On his part.

In this particular fantasy, instead of his stay-at-home dad duds, Paul would greet her at the door, rocking a dark tailored suit with a white buttoned-down shirt and power tie. He'd flash that dazzling smile he used to save just for her and exclaim, with briefcase in hand, "Don't worry, babe. I'll take over from here."

He'd then pull her close and plant a passionate kiss on her lips, and she'd watch, heart bursting with joy, as he headed off to his own six-figure job, complete with medical and dental benefits.

And they would live happily ever after.

Right. Who am I kidding? The man's stubborn as a mule.

Claire knew she had a better chance of getting a million-dollar book advance than getting Paul to agree to swap places with her. Still, it didn't stop her from planning one last attempt to persuade him before she delivered her news.

"Getting divorced just because you don't love a man is almost as silly as getting married just because you do." —Zsa Zsa Gabor

Hanging up the wall-mounted kitchen phone, Paul stared at it a moment, a dozen unspeakable sentiments running through his head. He could tell from the tone of Claire's voice that something was wrong. With the resolve of a stay-at-home dad navigating the grocery store cereal aisle on double-coupon day, he braced himself for the imminent battle.

Dropping into the paint-chipped cane-back chair at the head of the kitchen table with a sigh, he tried to remember the last time he heard her laugh, the sound of which used to trigger a tingle from deep within his chest that would travel all the way to the tip of his toes and back again.

Coming up empty, he bent his head over his plate filled with steaming
arroz con gandules
,
or Puerto Rican rice. About to shovel a forkful into his mouth, he shifted in his seat as he felt two pairs of eyes bore holes into his forehead. Without looking up, he announced, "That was your mom. She had a bad day. Eat up."

Tomas, just twelve and the youngest student ever to be named editor of his school's monthly newsletter, asked his father, "What did she say?"

With his mouth now full of hot rice, Paul glanced at his son and mumbled, "That she's on her way home."

"What else did she say?"

Swallowing hard, he replied, "Nothing. Eat."

"So how do you know that she had a bad day?" the child asked while making quotation marks in the air with his fingers.

"Because when you know someone as long as I've known your mother, you just know."

"And how long is that exactly?" Tomas persisted.

"That we've known each other? Uh, sixteen years? Married for fourteen. It'll be fifteen years in December. Wait, that can't be right." Paul squinted at the calendar hanging across the room on the pantry door.

"How come you call Mommy 'Imp'?" Jonah, the youngest, asked.

"What?" Paul shifted his gaze from the calendar to his five-year-old. The only one of the boys with any resemblance to Claire, Jonah's khaki green eyes bore into him—just like Claire's did when she was about to launch an attack or, in better times, an invasion. Of him.

He gave the boy a nod. "Never you mind."

Idly wiping his mouth with his sleeve, the child repeated, "How come?"

"Aw, come on, bud. Use your napkin. I just washed that shirt."

Pulling it up over Jonah's head, Paul tossed it to Tomas. "Squirt some of that prewash stuff on it, would ya, pal?"

Nodding at his little brother before leaving the room, dirty shirt in hand, Tomas called over his shoulder, "It's 'cause she's short. That's why she calls Dad 'Stretch.'"

Jonah countered. "No, it's not. Mama told me it's because Daddy thinks she's imp-something. I can't remember."

Tomas bounded back into the kitchen, asking, "Impatient? Impetuous? Impertinent?"

All of the above.

Glancing at the clock on the wall, Paul clapped his hands together once and addressed his sons. "All right. That's enough. We've got a half hour, tops."

He walked into the foyer and called up the stairs, "Luke, Marc!"

A bedroom door flew open, and his two oldest sons appeared on the second floor landing.

"Mom's on her way home. I need it to be quiet when she gets here. If you're done with your homework, start getting yourselves ready for bed."

After seeing them each nod in agreement, he returned to the kitchen, addressing the youngest two boys, who typically took the longest to clear their plates.