My Professor(93)

The non-disclosure agreement he signed before starting employment with us was ironclad. I almost pity him.

Another call interrupts Rhett’s rambling diatribe about how we all need to be more careful about the people we let into our lives. It’s my lawyers; I’m sure they want me to read the statement they’ve prepared.

I have real work on the docket for today, items on my agenda that matter more than this petty bullshit. I’m angry with Michael Lewis all over again. Angry that he took advantage of my grandmother. Angry that he stole from her and, when caught, didn’t have the decency to slink off somewhere to rot. Now, he’s sucking up even more of my time, which could be better used elsewhere. I cut Rhett off, tell him I’ll see him in Newport soon, and then switch over to line two.

I don’t let my attorney get the first word in.

I make it perfectly clear that I want Michael Lewis obliterated.

No one hurts my family and gets away with it.





Chapter 2





MAREN





“Hold up! Got one more for you!”

I turn to see a guy sporting a hairnet and a white apron thoroughly stained with food. He’s running toward me carrying a black garbage bag, and it’s near bursting. He’s straining under its weight.

“There’s no more ro—” I don’t get the full protest out before he lugs the bag up and over the lid of the cart I’m pushing, piling it on top of all the other trash bags. “—om.”

He gives me two thumbs up. “You got it, right?”

I don’t got it, but his question is clearly rhetorical seeing as he’s already turning on his heels to dash back down the hallway.

“This isn’t my job!” I shout in protest. “Food prep needs to take out their own garbage!”

There’s no reply from him. He’s already turning the corner, leaving me with an overflowing cart filled with refuse. It smells. I’m surprised there aren’t cartoonish squiggly green lines shooting out of it in every direction. I try not to gag as I push it forward.

The dumpsters are outside the nursing home, all the way at the back of the parking lot.

I push the door open and warm air rushes in to greet me. Some kind of sludge seeps out of the side of the cart, and I accidentally step in it. My sensible black shoes—the kind all the orderlies wear—now make a lovely squelching sound with every step I take. I curse that food prep guy to hell and heave in a deep breath as I push the bulky cart over uneven pavement.

Up front, near the entrance of Holly Home, it’s all rose bushes and neatly trimmed hedges. Out back, it’s tired cooks smoking against the wall and blinking flood lights failing to illuminate the curb I smack directly into. Trash spills over the sides of the cart, and for one second, I think this is it. This is the last day I work this job. I’m going to hand in my resignation, yank off this white uniform, and walk out of this place in the buff with my head held high.

The glorious thought dies a swift death once I remember my reality: how long it took me to find this job in the first place and the unlikelihood that I’d find anything better.

This is my lot in life, I remind myself as I make it to the dumpster and start to toss bags up and over the side.

When I’m done, I push the cart back to its spot in the maintenance department, under the opening beneath the trash shoot. Leroy is there, sitting at his desk. He shoots me a hesitant smile.

“Sorry about that, Maren.”

He glances down to his ankle, the one he twisted pretty bad yesterday, making his job here all but impossible. He hasn’t told our boss about it—worried she’ll cut him loose—so I volunteered to step up where I could. My shift is over anyway. I was about to clock out.

I give him a little salute and a smile.

“Hey, it wasn’t so bad,” I say with a wink. “Now I don’t even need to worry about getting in a workout today.”

It’s a blatant joke. Working out is for privileged people who have calories to spare.

Leroy doesn’t laugh. Instead, he holds up half a sandwich wrapped in waxy brown paper.

“Benita brought it down for me from the kitchen. I left half for you.”

I step forward and take it without any preamble about how “I couldn’t possibly.” I could possibly. I’m starving.

I hold it up in thanks and head back out into the hallway toward my locker. Freedom beckons. I have the next hour mapped out in my head like a luxurious dream. I’m going to get out of here in time to catch the 9:05 bus back to the group home. I’ll eat my sandwich on the way and finish it in three, maybe four bites. Once there, I’ll take a quick shower—because no one should be hogging the bathroom at this time—and make it to my bed in the bunkroom with enough energy to read for a little while before promptly passing out. I nearly shiver with delight thinking of how good it will feel right before my boss, Mrs. Buchanan, appears from around the corner. She’s a tall woman with a deep voice and wears clothes that look like they’ve been run through the wash so many times they’ve lost all their color: muted brown, gray, dull blacks.

“Oh good, Maren—I was hoping to catch you before you leave. Would you mind coming into my office for a moment?”

I’ve learned over the years that people look at you differently if you’re a foster kid, like you’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain. I switched schools a lot after my parents died, moved around often. Everywhere I went, I felt watchful eyes on me. Wonder how she got those shoes. Hey, that watch Maren’s wearing looks a lot like the one I lost last week.