Barefoot: A Novel

doctor doctor. The most miserable-looking people he had ever seen. That’s what Josh had thought, right from the beginning. And no wonder.

“Are you here al summer?” he said. “Because I saw your friend Melanie at the airport a couple of days ago . . .”

“My sister and I are here al summer with the kids,” Brenda said. “The jury’s stil out on Melanie.”

“She seemed real y nice,” Josh said.

“Nice, yes, that she is. Very nice,” Brenda said. “Hey, you don’t know anybody who needs a babysitting job this summer, do you?”

“What kind of babysitting job?”

“Watch the kids twenty-five hours a week. Go to the beach, the playground, throw the bal , build sand castles, take them for ice cream. Twenty dol ars an hour, cash. We need somebody responsible. And I mean rock-solid. You would not believe the weekend we had . . .”

One thing about lending Didi the two hundred dol ars was that it meant Josh couldn’t quit his job at the airport. He had given her more than half his savings, and no matter what she promised him, he knew he would never see it again. But twenty dol ars an hour cash was a lot more than he was making now. He had taken the job at the airport because of his father, though it was truly dul . The most memorable thing that had happened al summer was when Melanie fel off the steps of the plane.

“I’l do it,” Josh said.

Brenda looked at him askance. “You already have a job,” she said. “And you’re a . . . guy.”

“I’m quitting the airport,” Josh said. “And I like kids.”

Brenda stuck the nipple of the pacifier in the can of Coke, then popped it into the baby’s mouth.

“Porter’s only nine months old,” she said. “He’s very attached to his mother.”

“I like babies,” Josh said. This was only true in the hypothetical; Josh didn’t know any babies. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Didi rise from her desk and start over toward them.

“Can you change a diaper?” Brenda said.

“Of course.”

As Didi closed in, Blaine chugged the Coke like a man who had been stranded in the desert. Josh gently pul ed it away.

“Whoa there, pal. Easy, or you’re going to get sick.”

“You’re available mornings?” Brenda said. “Weekdays, say, eight to one? Porter naps at one.”

“I’m available.”

“You have a car, right? The Jeep? Do you think the baby seats wil fit in the Jeep?”

“Baby seats?” Didi said. She was upon them, sniffing around in an accusatory way, as though what they were talking about were her business if only because it was taking place in admitting, which she considered her domain. She brandished a handful of quarters, as if to spite Brenda, and got herself a diet Dr Pepper.

“They should,” Josh said. He had no idea if the baby seats would fit in his Jeep; he didn’t know what baby seats were exactly, but the longer he stood here with this woman, the more desperate he was for a connection with her. “I can do it,” he said. “I real y want to do it.”

“Do what?” Didi said.

“Do you have a criminal record?” Brenda asked. She wondered how pissed Vicki would be if she hired this guy herself, without consulting Vicki.

A guy. Was that weird? With Ted gone, it might be good for the kids. It would be good for the kids, Brenda decided. It would be good for al of them to have a man around on a regular basis; it would even be good for Melanie.

“Criminal record?” Didi said, scoffing. “This guy is as straight-laced as they come.”

“Okay,” Brenda said. “You’re hired.”

S and on the kitchen floor, a collar around the toilet bowl, dandelions, running out of hot water in the shower, a bug bite scratched until it bleeds, losing the plot strands of Desperate Housewives , the New York Times Best Seller List, damp beach towels, mildew, Ted calling from the road to say he was stuck in a five-mile backup outside of New Haven, Ted calling to say the Yukon broke down and he was at a service station in Madison, Connecticut, Ted calling to say he was going to miss the ferry and not to expect him until tomorrow.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Ted said. “This is beyond my control.”

Beyond your control? Vicki thought. I thought I was talking to my husband, Ted Stowe, the man who rants and raves and throws money at problems until they’re solved. Vicki hated the defeated tone of Ted’s voice. Her cancer was making him helpless. He couldn’t even deal with traffic, or with an overheated engine. He was going to lie down and die.

“I need you here tonight,” Vicki said. “The kids are expecting you. Blaine has talked about nothing else al week. You can’t just not show. Take a taxi to the nearest airport and fly in.”

“And do what with the car, Vick? It’s ful of stuff.”

Ah, yes, the stuff: a case of Chardonnay from their favorite vineyard in the Russian River Val ey that Vicki was craving, the items she’d bought in bulk at BJ’s—paper towels, cleaning supplies, juice boxes, diapers. Then there was Blaine’s bicycle, a carton of the kids’ favorite children’s books, the paints and the Play-Doh, Vicki’s vitamins (she’d forgotten them on purpose because they made her vomit). Her extra suitcases, one of which contained a blond wig.