My Daughter Wanted 800 a Month and Four Days of Babysitting for Her Basement So I Rented My Own Little…
“We made a place for you!”
“You did. I saw the work in it.”
“I told the daycare we might be pulling Sadie out. I told my boss I might be able to pick up Fridays.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Because you didn’t ask! You just smiled and said thank you and went and did whatever you wanted!”
I didn’t raise my voice. I have never once gotten anywhere with that girl by raising my voice. Not when she was fifteen, and not now.
“Honey,” I said. “I’m going to say one thing, and then I’ll let you go, because you’re upset and it’s the kids’ bedtime. I would have come and watched those babies for nothing. I’d have done it gladly. But you told me I’d be earning my keep. I earned my keep with you a long time ago. I don’t believe I owe on it.”
She hung up.
I put the phone down on the table Dale and I bought in 1981. I sat there until the window went dark and the elevator lights came on.
Ten days.
No calls. No pictures on my phone, which she used to send most every evening. Sadie with spaghetti on her forehead. Eli missing a tooth. Nothing.
I’ll tell you the truth about those ten days.
I had my door. I had my two brass keys and my porch swing and my violets. And every evening I sat on that swing in my denim jacket and watched the trucks pull onto the scale. And I wondered if I had paid too high a price.
Because it was never the basement I minded. I’ve lived plainer than that. It wasn’t even the eight hundred dollars, though the arithmetic of it stung.
It was that I’d have been down there on terms.
Every sack of groceries, I’d have been reckoning my share. Every Thursday I was tired and wanted to sit, I’d have heard it in my head. Earning your keep.
A grandmother who lives in the house on wages isn’t a grandmother anymore. She’s the help who loves them.
And when the children got big and the daycare bill went away, what would my keep be worth then?
I wanted to be near those children. I did not want to be owned by the arrangement.
But I’d have traded the swing and the violets and both keys for five minutes of Sadie on my lap. I knew it. And that made it a very long ten days.
What got me through was a shoebox.
I went into Brandt’s on the second day for sunflower seed. Mr. Brandt was standing at the counter with his glasses pushed up on his forehead and about two hundred slips of paper spread out in front of him. Invoices. Charge tickets. A bank statement with a coffee ring on it.
“Lois did all this,” he said. He wasn’t really talking to me. Lois was his wife. She passed four years ago. “Forty-three years she did it, and I never once asked her how. Now the accountant in Kearney wants the third quarter by the fifteenth, and I can’t tell you if Don Swanson has paid for his creep feed since May.”
I set down my purse.
“Do you have a ledger? Or does it all live in the box?”
“There’s a ledger. I quit being able to make it come out about a year ago.”
“Mr. Brandt, I kept the books at the lumber yard for twenty-two years. Double entry. Give me that ledger and that shoebox and a pot of coffee.”
He looked at me like I’d offered to carry the fifty-pound sacks out for him.
It took me three afternoons at the little desk in the back, by the vet supplies.
As it turned out, Don Swanson had not paid for his creep feed since May. Neither had four others. And there was a deposit from July that had been written in twice.
When I got done, the ledger balanced to the penny. And I’d found him a little over two thousand dollars in charge tickets that nobody had ever billed.
He came out to my porch that Friday evening and stood on my one step with his cap in his hand. Men of that age out here do all their important talking with their cap in their hand.
“I’d like you to do that every Friday,” he said. “I can’t pay what it’s worth. But I can knock the rent down to four hundred, if that’d be agreeable.”
“That would be agreeable.”
“It isn’t a favor, Judy. I want you to understand that. You’d be saving my hide.”
“I understand it,” I said. “That’s why I’m saying yes.”
After he left, I sat on the swing a while longer.
There’s a difference. I could feel it, plain as the swing chain in my hand.
Mr. Brandt had come to my door. He’d asked me for what I was good at, and he’d offered what he could. Nobody told me I’d be earning my keep. He told me I’d be saving his hide.
I thought, that’s all I ever wanted from my own girl.
Just to be asked.
On the tenth day, a Thursday, I was frying potatoes for supper when a pickup door slammed out front.
I knew the sound of that door. It’s Todd’s Ford. The driver’s side has stuck ever since he backed into the mailbox.
I turned the burner down and looked out the window over the sink.
Michelle was getting out of the passenger side. She still had her work clothes on, the scrubs with the little cartoon teeth on them from the dentist’s office. Her eyes were red clear around.
Todd came around the front of the truck holding a yellow legal pad. Even from the window, I could see the whole top page was covered in his handwriting.
The children weren’t with them.
I wiped my hands on the dish towel and opened the screen door before they could knock.
Nobody said anything for a second. Behind them, a grain truck geared down on the street.
“Judy,” Todd said.
He’s a big man. Six foot two. He was standing on my front walk like a boy sent to the principal’s office.
“I wrote that number. The eight hundred. That was me, not her. I want that said first.”
“All right.”
“Can we come in?”
“You can always come in. The potatoes are about to burn, so somebody’s going to have to eat them.”
Michelle made a sound that was partly a laugh.
She came up my one step. She stopped in the doorway and looked at my front room. The couch. Her daddy’s recliner. The violets on the sill.
Then her eyes went to the table. She walked over and put her hand flat on it, right on the burn mark where she’d set a hot pan down when she was eleven years old.
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