Confessions on the 7:45(19)

“I’m home,” she said as she stepped through the front door. The wood floor creaked beneath her feet.

“You’re early. What happened?”

“Things didn’t go as planned.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t worry, Pop,” she said, shedding her coat, dropping her bag. “It was a decent score. And I already have something else going.”

“I never worry about you, kitten. It’s the other guy who’d better be watching his back.”

“You know me better than anyone.”

“That’s true. That’s very true.”

Her phone pinged and, when she saw who it was, she felt an intense wave of annoyance. The missives that came through were typically whiny, panicky.

I don’t want to do this anymore.
It’s wrong.
Don’t you ever get tired?
I think things have gone south here. I want to leave.
She didn’t even bother answering, just went upstairs and changed out of her work clothes into more comfortable attire—jeans, a soft long-sleeved T-shirt, her leather jacket, boots.

“You seem angry,” said Pop when she came back down. He was sitting on the couch, the back of his balding head to her. “It’s never a good idea to act out of anger. That’s when we make mistakes.”

“I’m not angry,” she said.

Don’t you ever get tired?

She did. Sometimes she got very tired.



EIGHT

Geneva

Geneva hated the way winter afternoons started to darken around three. As the light leaked out of the sky, a kind of heaviness descended on her spirit. She turned on the lights in the kitchen, and loaded the dishwasher. The boys, sitting at the table with their snacks, were always a little cranky after school, but more so today. Stephen was sulking. Oliver, as usual, was bent over his book. Something about the energy of the house was just—off.

When she’d arrived that morning, the Murphy family was already gone. She’d used her keys to get in, found a note in the kitchen.

“We all had to leave early this morning,” it read in a scrawling hand—Selena’s or Graham’s, she couldn’t tell. “Please pick up the boys at the usual time.”

The house had been a mess, with breakfast dishes still on the table, the boys’ beds unmade. Not the usual state of affairs. Usually, the boys were eating their eggs and toast at the kitchen table when she arrived. She’d find them dressed in their uniforms, hair brushed, bags and lunch sacks waiting neatly by the door.

Selena liked to do all of those things before work; Geneva knew it made her feel like she’d taken care of things before she headed out for the day. She put notes in the boys’ lunchboxes, special treats sometimes—not too sugary. She was plugged in during the day, always calling right as the boys got home. Available if they wanted her.

It was the complete opposite at the Tuckers’—the kids ran wild, no limits on devices, neither parent wanted to be bothered during the day unless it was an emergency. The Tucker boys would still be in pajamas, hopped up on some sugary cereal when Geneva arrived in the morning.

She didn’t feel as bad about what had happened at the Tuckers’.

But Selena Murphy was a loving, present mom. A faithful wife. A fair and kind employer. She didn’t deserve what was going on behind her back.

Geneva immediately got to cleaning—making the beds, throwing in a load of wash, then the kitchen. It was intimate, wasn’t it, this position? Handling people’s clothes, tucking in their sheets, clearing the plates from which they’d eaten. She thought about that, as she wiped down the counter, how close she was, and yet—not. A paid employee; someone who might be fired at will. As intimate in some ways as family, but in no way as permanent. Expendable.

That word was in her head when she’d noticed a brown dot on the counter. She walked over to work on it. What was it? It was only when it came up on the cloth that she realized.

It was blood.

There was another spot over the by the stove. She cleaned them both, feeling an odd tingling of dread.

Now, the boys ate their snacks at the kitchen table while she unpacked their lunchboxes.

“My teacher hates me,” Stephen said startling her back to the present. He rested a chubby pink cheek in hand.

“No, she doesn’t,” said Geneva, starting the wash cycle.

There had been another chat at pickup. Stephen was acting out, said his uptight teacher. Apparently, he’d pushed another little boy down on the playground. “She knows that you’re a nice boy who can behave better with others.”

“She does hate you,” said Oliver unhelpfully. He was in a mood, too, though Geneva wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t a talker. Stephen would tell all, but Oliver held it in. “She hates you because you’re a brat and a baby.”

“Shut up!” yelled Stephen, reddening and near tears.

“Oliver,” said Geneva easily. “Apologize.”

“Sorry,” said Oliver, sounding not sorry at all.

They were eighteen months apart, acted more like rival gang members than brothers most of the time. But there was a closeness there, too, some rare moments of tenderness. Sibling relationships were so complicated. When Oliver left the room, Stephen followed. They both cleared their plates on the way out. Geneva rinsed them in the sink, thinking of her older sister a moment, that textured mingle of affection and competition, of admiration and resentment. But she pushed the thoughts away as she finished cleaning up.