“Do you need any help? Do you want me to just buy everything he said for you?”
“No thanks.”
“You sure?”
“Well, okay. I guess it would be easier since you know what he wants.”
“Consider it done.”
Abby dabbed a Q-tip in the bottle of polish remover and touched up a spot on her big toe where she’d gotten a little polish on the skin. “Thanks.”
“It’s no trouble.”
“You can add in some stuff for yourself,” Abby said.
“No, no,” Krissa laughed breezily. She never slipped up.
“I wouldn’t care.”
“What’s your middle name again?” Krissa asked her.
“Lorraine.”
“Thanks. I’ll write it down this time.”
“It’s fine.”
“Hey, Abby? One more thing: No one even has to know about this. I guess what I’m saying is, don’t get all into it and create a LinkedIn account or anything like that. Mr. Greer would rather have it be kind of a low-profile job. You know what I mean?”
“Well, yeah,” said Abby.
“Okay. I’ll email you directions, the job description, company website, all of that.”
“So, were they actually looking to fill this position, or is this something Clark Lorbmeer’s doing as a favor to Randall
?”
“I imagine it was a position they were looking to fill.”
“Okay. That’s good,” said Abby. If Krissa was going to try to sound sincere on her behalf, Abby could at least pretend to believe her.
“You’ll check your email and look everything over, right?”
“Yes. When does this all start?”
“Next week. Next Tuesday.”
When her nails were dry enough, Abby put the spinning tower and manicure accessories away and then returned to the living room where a midafternoon talk show was playing. She sat down, nudging the mute button so if Randall watched the playback of her he would see the program unfolding in the background. As far as she knew, the room wasn’t bugged. Not yet, anyhow. Sometimes all the noise became too much for her to bear. She liked to go into her own head. It was the last safe place. But acts like pausing a show to daydream made Randall nervous.
“What’s this about?” he’d ask as he fast-forwarded through moments of Abby’s day, pausing at incriminating moments like her staring thoughtfully without distractions, or eating junk food, or disappearing for hours and arriving home empty-handed.
Her answer was always a variation on the same theme: “Nothing. You. I had a headache. Nothing. I needed to space out for a minute. Resting my eyes. Nothing. You.”
Upon hearing that she’d soon have a job, Abby’s first thought had been that some freedom would come along with it. Perhaps even something bordering on an adventure. It figured that she’d be working under the watchful eyes of Randall’s lawyer, friend, and golfing buddy Clark Lorbmeer.
Only Krissa had an accurate idea of Abby’s life. But even Krissa didn’t know Abby’s secret name for Randall: He was Papa Rottzy. Because he watched every move she made. And because he was old. And because he was rotten.
It was the name she would have called him if she still had a sister, and if this were her sister’s problem instead of her own. She’d take her sister out for coffee and ask her, “How’s Papa Rottzy? Are you ready to escape from his prison?” She’d be kidding, but she’d be serious. In Abby’s fantasies it was always her trying to help one of her little sisters out of this mess, because there was a big part of her that still couldn’t believe this was her life.