February, 19th
Richard:
My son left yesterday morning and then I attempted to make myself useful. I went to the kitchen to make a sandwich but opening the fridge reduced me to tears. There were the little jars of chocolate pudding, Maria's favorite dessert, half eaten and oblivious of her passing. I somehow expected they'd be gone along with her but no, there they sat stolidly on the egg compartment. They even had the impertinence of being within their shelf life as if she were returning at lunch to finish them.
Margaret came and made some tea, all the while listening to my old man's rambles on pudding jars and shelf life. She let me sit by the fire and brought my sandwich but I felt I'd choke on it.
In the evening I felt thirsty and wanted to drink some lemonade. I opened the fridge with the same caution one would apply in walking through a mined field but the pudding jars were gone. And that broke me again.
The silence in this house is oppresive. I've always enjoyed silence but not of this kind. This is absence of Maria's sounds, her noisy asthmatic breathing, the click of her knitting needles or the turning of pages of her book, her tinkering and muttering while preparing dinner (she would speak to herself aloud when she thought no one was listening), her praying marking the passing of the days.
Margaret's presence manifests itself differently; she's lighter and has always been noiseless - like a swan, Maria liked saying. She could enter a room unnoticed, which is quite helpful when I'm with a student. Ever since Maria died I'm sleeping in her bedroom and she moved to ours, or better said, mine. I've agreed to donate my wife's clothes and Margaret spent the day doing laundry and quietly organizing things. She has done away with all the medical contraptions and substances Maria needed (I'm not sure what was returned, donated or discarded), and has set aside her mother's papers to be sorted later.
My daughter is here with me, but her gentle company and patient solicitude are not enough. I feel lonely and in need of the company of someone more in my situation. This is why Adam West's phone call comes almost providentially.
February, 21st
Bessy:
Margaret calls me a little out of the blue and we have tea together. She comes to my home and makes pancakes from scratch, which Phil polishes off with teenager's efficiency before bolting off to his room, where he devotes himself to a quite complicated drawing of a city he's been doing for days. Fortunately there are more pancakes for us to eat because they're delicious.
Margaret doesn't mention her grief although it's evident, and I take she needs a change of air. I don't want to burden her with my problems but she seems interested so I tell her about my job hunt. She suggests applying again with Mr. Thornton and trying to make things different this time: she says that for each problem I have I should propose a solution, and that I can't possibly be the only single parent with a school kid working at that shop. She hints that I should get a job not only for my sake but also for Phil's, and on this particular point I wholeheartedly agree.
Going up to Mr. Thornton and asking him for a job is not particularly appealing but I admit my pride has a lot to do with it. I also accept that Mr. Thornton, even if he normally scowls and barks like a bull dog, doesn't allow certain things in his shop that are common currency in other places. The pay isn't fantastic but it's not the lowest either. And there's the proximity to my house: I can commute by foot or bike.
I sleep on it and first thing next morning I call Marlborough Mills and request a meeting with Mr. Thornton.
They don't return my call.
February, 25th
I have understood, perfectly I may add, that Mr. Thornton refuses to see me because I've called every morning of this week and still haven't heard from them. There isn't much I can lose so I hop on my bike and ride to Marlborough Mills. I know Mr. Thornton usually goes out for lunch on Fridays and is back around 1.30 PM, so I wait for him in the parking lot. He arrives a little later and I approach him.
-"Mr. Thornton! Excuse me, Mr. Thornton!", oh my, I feel like a fool running after him in this parking lot.
He slows down and turns his head my way.
-"Mr. Thornton, may I speak to you?" I say a little out of breath for the exercise and the nerves clinching my stomach.
He shrugs and extends his hands apologetically. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I really don't have time right now", he says as he turns, and in three long steps is inside the building and out of my sight.
Oh dang. I check Mary is home by the time Phil comes from school, and I go back to my original spot and wait until he comes out. I stand for nearly five hours and I'm freezing and disheartened, but I persevere for my son and for Margaret. I would be letting both down if I gave up, even if my hopes for getting a job today are almost zero.
Everyone I recognize has left except Mr. Thornton; the secretarial staff, the cafeteria waiters and cooks, the overseers, the technicians, the janitors. The boss comes out long after the last one left and I leap from my spot and almost run to him.
-"Mr. Thornton, excuse me. May I speak to you?" I repeat my earlier words, the most respectful I can pull from my vocabulary.
He looks at me and raises his eyebrows in surprise when he recognizes me.
-"You still here?", he exclaims, "Well, what do you want?"
-"My name is Bessy Higgins, sir, and I used to work as a messenger here. I would like to ask you for a job", I say.
Mr. Thornton takes a moment to reply. I don't know if he's disconcerted by my request or he's just thinking about it.
-"Ms. Higgins, why did you stop working as a messenger here?" he asks while looking over my shoulder and narrows his clear, cold eyes. His turns his gaze to me at the end of the sentence, like a question mark that pins me down to the pavement.
-"Absences, sir", this man makes me feel even more self consciouss than the social worker who came when Phil was born, and that's to say a lot.
-"I see", he pauses just a second. "Well, Ms. Higgins, thank you for your interest in working with us but we don't have jobs for people who don't come."
I hate Mr. Thornton. I hate that his life and mine have been similar, yet just a few choices have made them so different that I have to beg for a job and he has to dismiss me with a wave of the hand.
-"Sir, I would appreciate a yes or a no." I don't know why I stick to this formality but at least I would like to have good manners on my side.
-"It would be a no, Ms. Higgins. What made you think we would hire you?" I wish someone gives Mr. Thornton the slap he deserves.
-"Someone suggested it for the sake of my son" I say through gritted teeth. "But I see it was no use. Thank you for your time", I say and I turn on my heel.
At least I tried.
Mr. Thornton is behind me and speaks again. He walks so fast that I could be running and he could still catch up with me in a leisurely stroll.
-"Ms. Higgins, explain me one thing if you please. Why don't you look for a job somewhere else?"
John:
Up to now the interview had somewhat amused me: I've seen enough of nerve from people I work with to expect pretty much anything. That she had waited for five hours, along with the formality and the mention of a son intrigued me, though.
While she spoke I observed her face, and I thought she looked vaguely familiar but I can't pinpoint exactly where or when I met her before. She's a burly young woman, with blond hair with dark roots and bad skin, the tough traces of hardship I've seen so often. Her name doesn't ring any bells unless she's the daughter of Mr. Higgins, one of the oldest technicians working in the shop.
She stops and faces me, her face red from the cold, her lips in a tight line, her eyes down. I think she takes a deep breath as she looks up and replies:
-"Because at Marlborough Mills everyone keeps their trousers in place".
A chill runs down my spine. Oh, shit. It's embarrassment and humiliation what makes her face go red, not the cold.
As an employee I never approved of inappropriate behavior, as an employer I always made clear it wouldn't be tolerated. That's not the case with fellow managers and I'm aware that mechanic shops are deservedly infamous.
-"I'm glad to hear you hold us in great esteem" I say, but it's like saying nothing.
She nods curtly, turns again and this time I don't call after her.