Help Wanted (6 page)

Claire held up her hand to silence him. "I'm going to unemployment."

*   *   *

After spotting the Illinois Department of Employment Services sign on the side of a nondescript, brick one-story building, she pulled into the parking lot on Diversey Avenue, eager to get that uniquely unpleasant task out of the way. She soon found herself sitting at a Formica table with other defeated souls filling out applications for government aid with stubby eraser-less pencils. Numbly, she filled in the forms, insensitive to the shame she supposed others felt. After all, she had done her best, and it still wasn't enough.

Right?

She spent the next three hours scanning the crowd for any familiar faces, bracing herself in the event she ran into any spiteful former employees, all from the discomfort of a government-issued folding chair.

The wait was interminable and held little reward at the end.

"Claire Mendez," an expressionless woman announced in a voice that barely made it over the din of the other applicants. If Claire's cell phone battery hadn't died, she would have missed her turn all together.

After giving her paperwork a cursory glance, the woman pulled out an information packet and circled an 800 number on the front of it.

"This is the number you call in two weeks to file your claim."

Claire was incredulous. "That's it?"

"Everything you need to know is in there," the state employee replied, pointing to the packet. "Have a nice day."

On her way out, Claire scribbled
How about installing a drive-through window?
on a scrap of paper and dropped it in the suggestion box bolted to the wall.

*   *   *

By late afternoon, Paul had apparently retrieved the remaining boys, because the foyer had once again transformed into an obstacle course of backpacks, instrument cases, and shoes.

Making her way to the kitchen, she saw that the pantry door hung open, as did the refrigerator. Her youngest was seated at the table, while the older three prowled the kitchen like young cougars hungry for fresh kill. With a vague recollection of Paul mentioning something at breakfast about their monthly grocery bill being bigger than their mortgage payment, Claire stood in the doorway. She watched, agape, as Paul maneuvered between the boys, pulling frozen snacks from the microwave and leftovers out of the oven before pouring drinks into glasses lined up on the counter.

If he won't go back to accounting, he could always be a short-order cook.

Catching his eye for a quick moment, she nodded up at the clock on the wall with an expression that read, "You're feeding them now?"

Paul acknowledged her inquiry. "It's like eating Chinese food," he explained over the sound of clanking dishes and scooting chairs. "They'll be hungry again in an hour."

Sure enough, they managed to polish off a dinner of salad, baked potatoes, and barbecue chicken that he had made on the grill an hour later.

Feeling like a stranger in her own home, Claire offered to clean up afterward while the older three boys tackled their homework and Paul took Jonah to his soccer practice. It was almost ten o'clock by the time she sat on the family room floor across from him and pulled a laundry basket, full of newly dried items, into the space between them.

While he had his eyes glued to the TV, switching between the three major networks' sports coverage on the news to avoid commercials, her eyes fell on the basket.

A basic, rectangular white plastic bin, it was not unlike the one that had sat unattended in the laundry room of her residence hall on that fateful night (sorry, but really—who knew?) when she first encountered Paul Mendez.

It all came flooding back—especially the instant but unexplainable recognition.

Never one to consider herself sappy, emotional, or romantic, she had been surprised and a little embarrassed when she came close to blurting "It's you" at the sight of him.

And then there was the physical attraction. While they spent the next hour talking, and she heard him say that he was a finance major who had his sights set on becoming the CFO of a major global conglomerate someday, what she
saw
was that he was an incredibly h-o-t finance major who had his sights set on becoming the CFO of a major whatever—who cares? She just wanted to rip his clothes off. They were practically setting off sparks by the time he finally asked if he could kiss her.

Claire felt her heart race at the memory and wondered if she would have fallen for him if he had divulged that he'd had his sights set on becoming the best stay-at-home dad ever?

Hmm…

"Earth to Claire."

Paul, sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him on the floor, nudged her knee with his foot. With his arms folded, he narrowed his eyes as he waited for her reply.

Claire blinked while the whisper of a thought crossed her mind.
You are so not who I thought you were.

To him, though, she mumbled, "It's been a long day."

"See what I mean?" he asked in a not unpatronizing tone.

"Oh, I know. I get it," she surrendered. "Your days are crazy."

Together, they began silently folding the contents of the laundry basket while watching the news. On a commercial break, Claire brought some towels up to the linen closet. When she returned, Paul had turned off the TV and was pairing socks.

She took the opportunity to counter with, "So with all you've got going on around here, when exactly do you expect me to job hunt?"

With a shrug, he replied, "Well, after the boys get off to school in the morning, just head up into the office and do whatever you need to do. It'll be as if you're working from home."

I.e., nothing's changed.

"And you'll be doing what?" Not wanting to start yet another argument, she added, "Besides bringing me coffee refills."

"Don't push your luck," he responded, throwing a rolled up pair of socks into the basket. "Two points."

The day over, her vision of resurrecting a long-shelved manuscript had all but evaporated. Despite Paul's assurances on their financial viability, the weight of responsibility and the gnawing disappointment she felt poked her wide awake at one in the morning. 

"If love is the answer, could you please rephrase the question?" —Lily Tomlin

With a mug of steaming coffee in hand, Claire once again made her daily ascent to the smallest bedroom in their house that had been dubbed "the office" ever since they had moved in. While it contained a PC, a wireless laptop, and a combination printer/fax/copier sitting on top of a two-drawer file cabinet, the room had all the markings of a man cave. Futon couch. Big comfy chair in the corner. Small flat-screen TV attached to the wall between posters of sports greats. A pull-up bar in the walk-in closet doorway. Paul's dusty old trophies sitting on a rack of shelves affixed to the opposite windowless wall. All that was missing was a neon beer sign and a pool table.

She flipped on the computer and opened her email inbox. It appeared to be filled with more meaningless messages from job search sites and recruiters trolling the Internet for fresh blood.

Her shoulders slumped. She had about as much desire to job hunt as a woman who found herself suddenly single and was loathe to jump back into the dating pool.

Still, for the next hour, she reset her search engines on popular job boards so they would stop sending her notices of openings for funeral directors and collection agents. After getting herself a coffee refill, she had just returned to the office when she saw a new message appear in her email inbox.

It was from
[email protected]
.

She stared at it for a few minutes before deciding to reread the email she had sent a few weeks back. When she had finished, her pulse sped up several notches as she tried anticipating the reply.

Dear B.O.B.—Get some professional help. Or better yet, Dear B.O.B.—You're a whiny, self-centered woman whose sense of entitlement rivals that of Donald Trump.

Taking a big gulp of hot coffee, she winced and opened the email. It read: "Dear Burned-Out Breadwinner—You didn't mention what you do for a living, but I wonder if you've ever given any thought to becoming a working parent advice columnist. I have a hunch you'd be great at it, and I can promise you two things: the salary will definitely not hold you hostage, and you can get your life back. If interested, please send me brief responses to each of the sample letters below. Your prompt reply would be appreciated. Sincerely, Mattie J. Ross,
Chicago Gazette
."

Claire's mouth fell open as she stared at the monitor.

For the past three years, she had looked forward to reading every single Plate Spinner column almost as much as she looked forward to having her first cup of coffee in the morning or watching her boys sleep on the nights when she'd get home too late to see them awake.

Each new column held its own treasure, whether it was pertinent advice, a snarky smack down, outrageously good but easy recipes, or wickedly funny tales of the writer's own familial multitasking feats. At least Claire assumed they were supposed to be funny. She couldn't imagine a working mother tackling all that this one allegedly did—not without a full support staff working feverishly behind the scenes anyway.

At the start of the New Year, though, the
Gazette
changed the column when it not only revealed the author's identity, but also announced she'd be chronicling her efforts to train for the Chicago Marathon. Since then, Claire had held out hope that, once the event was behind her, Mattie would revive her old format. But that all changed in July.

After she completed the Firecracker half marathon, it came to light that Mattie was not married and did not have a family. While this revelation ought to have made it easier to denounce the columnist as a fraud, Claire instead felt vindicated and remained a loyal fan.

 She reread the email. Mattie must be moving on to something else after she completes the marathon in October. Why else would the
Gazette
need a new columnist?

You can get your life back.

She clapped her hands together once and cried "Seriously?" to the Chicago Blackhawks 2013 Stanley Cup champions who were looking down at her from a poster hanging over the desk.

They each seemed to grin "Seriously" back in reply.

While advice columnist was definitely not topping her list of preferred career choices, she had to admit, it was a step—albeit a small one, like in a size two shoe—in the right direction.

She gave her head a quick shake and read the first statement: "I can't say 'no' to my kids."

Channeling the snarky tone Mattie used to use when doling out advice, Claire typed the first thing that popped into her head.

"I'm guessing you're making up for not being indulged as a child. If this is the case, get thee to a spa and pamper the heck out of yourself so you can remember how amazing you are. Then go home and show those kids who's boss. Otherwise, get used to the fact that you're one of 'those parents' who will forever be credited with increased crime rates, the popularity of reality TV, and eventually, the downfall of modern civilization."

Satisfied with her reply, she moved on to the second statement: "My spouse spends more than I make."

Although this concept was completely foreign to her, she took a stab at a response.

"Since you don't specify what exactly your spouse is spending your hard-earned money on, or provide a suspected reason for the overspending, I'll go out on a limb and suggest that he or she is seeking to fill a void in their life. Whether it's caused by a lack of quality attention on your part because you're working so hard to support their spending habits (a vicious cycle, I know) or an innate need to 'keep up with the Joneses,' my advice is that you help him or her fill it with nonmaterial things like an unexpected picnic lunch, a bunch of hand-picked flowers, a back rub, or an offer to help them make dinner, clean the house, or do the laundry."

This is so easy. And so much fun.

Feeling more energized than she had in ages, she moved on to the last statement.

"My fifteen-year-old daughter wants to get a tattoo."

With notably more confidence than she had writing the first two, Claire responded with what she would do to her boys if they ever approached her with a similar demand.

"Assuming you are opposed to her desire to permanently deface herself, I recommend the following. First, ask her to hand you her favorite thing ever—be it an article of clothing, a poster, an iPad, a stuffed animal, etc. Then, holding up a black permanent marker, ask her how she would feel if you were to use it on her favorite thing ever. When she balks, explain to her that she is
your
favorite thing ever. Case closed." 

A smiley face emoticon next to her name and contact information followed, as did a call later that afternoon from Dianne Devane, managing editor of the
Gazette
's Lifestyle section, requesting that she come in for a face-to-face the very next day.

So enthused was Claire over this unexpected but wildly exciting career development that she didn't mind in the least when Paul announced over dinner that they would be hosting a cross-country team dinner. In two days.

Having never so much as broken a sweat in high school, the concept of team dinners was completely foreign to her. As she sat at the opposite end of the kitchen table from Paul, stabbing green beans with her fork, she asked, "So the entire team comes here for dinner the night before the meet to carb load?"

He nodded his reply.

"How many boys are we talking? A dozen?"

Paul smirked. Looking toward his oldest for confirmation, he ventured, "What, sixty?"

Luke, a mini-me of his father, shrugged. "Sounds about right."

"Sounds like fun." Claire tore her roll in two and shoved one half in her mouth.