Nothing to See Here (13)

“Could I have a bacon sandwich?” I asked Mary. She nodded and effortlessly reached around me and removed the bowl of cottage cheese and blueberries.

I took my coffee and walked behind Mary to the kitchen. “I’ll bring it to you,” she said, looking over her shoulder.

“I’ll come with you,” I told her. “I feel weird at the table by myself.”

She opened a refrigerator that was as big as a car and removed a huge package of bacon. She slapped so many strips in a pan; it must have been a pound. Without ever looking at me, she sliced a loaf of fresh bread and put two pieces in a toaster that looked like both the fifties and the future.

“How long have you been working for Madison?” I asked Mary.

She didn’t respond until the toast popped up. “I have worked for Jasper Roberts for eleven years.”

“Do you like it?” I asked.

“Do I like work?” she asked, frowning. There was an edge to her, but I understood why. Every time the supermarket hired some new doofus, all I wanted to know was how much extra work I was going to have to do to make up for what they didn’t know, how many of their fuckups might blow back on me. But I’d win Mary over. My fuckups affected only me. She’d be safe.

“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.