Page 3 of Martha Calhoun

“It’s you he’s taken a shine to, Bunny.”

Mr. Higgins was the bartender and also the manager of the club. He and Bunny went back a long ways.

“It’s all the same,” said Bunny.

That night, when Bunny came home, I asked her again about the babysitting job. “Haven’t you forgotten about that yet?” she groaned. The little Franklin boy had thrown a scoop of chocolate ice cream onto Bunny’s pink waitress uniform, and she was standing at the kitchen sink in her slip, trying to wash out the stain. There was a bare bulb over her head, hanging by a cord. She’d broken the glass shade years ago. Last winter, Eddie Boggs put in a new shade, but Bunny made him take it down. She said she was used to the bright light and shadows—they seemed the way a kitchen should be.

“I’ve got enough things to worry about,” Bunny went on, “without having to worry that you’re gonna give up a good summer job.”

“Well, I did some arithmetic and I figured I can make an extra fifty dollars this summer babysitting.”

“I was never good at arithmetic, and I never relied on it,” Bunny said. “You’ve got to use intuition in these things, and my intuition says you should stay at the country club.”

I was getting exasperated. “The only reason you don’t want me to babysit is you don’t like Mrs. Benedict,” I said.

Bunny sighed. “Oh, take the damn job, then,” she said finally. “I don’t care.”

The Benedicts lived in a brown-shingled house, big and angular, on Parkview Avenue, overlooking Katydid City Park—the opposite side of town from Bunny’s place, but an easy trip by bicycle. My job started on Friday. That morning, I put on a blouse and pants, kissed Bunny goodbye and set out on my bike. I pedalled down Prosperity Street, past the Katydid Tool and Die—the KTD—the subject of constant worry, since half the people in town worked there and rumors were always going around that it was about to shut down. I crossed the railroad tracks and chugged up Center Street, skirting the square, which would be crowded with traffic on a Friday morning. It was exactly eleven when I got to Parkview Terrace.

“Martha!” said Mrs. Benedict at the door. “I think this is perfect!”

“Me too!”

“I adore it!” she said.

“Me too.”

She took my hand and pulled me in. I’d never been inside the Benedict house before. The rooms were high and spacious and the furniture all looked oversized. My first thought was that at last I was in a house that looked as if it had been designed for me. Mrs. Benedict led me into the living room where her children were draped around a huge, boaty sofa. I didn’t really know them well. The oldest, the twins, were eleven. Brenda was a chunky, big-cheeked girl with a fast circle of friends who were always huddled together in some sort of conspiracy. Arnold—in addition to having to live down that unfortunate name—had the bad luck to be skinny and clumsy. More often than not, I’d seen him tagging along with Brenda’s group. Butcher, the youngest, was nine. He was short and compact, with his mother’s dark looks and heavy, sulky eyes. All three studied me grudgingly.

“Do you play poker?” asked Brenda. “That’s our favorite game.”

“No, but I’m sure I can learn,” I said.

Brenda and Arnold exchanged sour glances.

Mrs. Benedict said she was in a hurry, but she took me around the first floor of the house, showing off the furniture and appliances. In the library, an enormous TV sat wrapped in wood, bursting with knobs and dials.

“It’s new,” said Brenda, who’d been trailing along behind.

Mrs. Benedict bustled to get her things together, then lined the children up at the front door. “Goodbye, now,” she said. “The Kool-Aid and sandwiches are in the refrigerator. Be nice to Martha.” She bent down and kissed each of them.

After she’d left, the children lurked around the door. It was clear that Brenda and Arnold were a team and that Butcher was left to fend for himself.

“Well, what do you want to do?” asked Brenda.

“What would you like to do?” I responded, trying to be agreeable. In fact, I’d have loved to get my hands on that television. Bunny’s old TV had been broken for the last couple of weeks and she hadn’t had the money to get it fixed.

Brenda said she wanted to play “purr kids.”

“Yeah,” said Arnold.

Butcher just stood there.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“You know, purrr kids—little children whose parents don’t have any money so they have to starve and try to find food in the forest.”

“In the park,” said Arnold.

---