When I was fourteen I babysat for a couple with
three gorgeous kids, two girls and a boy. The kids’ mother was a ballerina. She
was petite and muscular. The kids’ father seemed to me like a bear, he was so
much bigger than her. And because there was something foreboding about him. I
imagined he contained a dark forest inside his skin. He was handsome, though.
The few times he was the one to relay instructions to me about dinner and
bedtime while the kids’ mother finished getting ready behind their closed
bedroom door, I couldn’t look him in the eye.
I didn’t know much back then, but I knew the
couple was drunk when they returned late at night. They had a ragged sloppiness
about them, like clothes wrinkled from sitting too long in the dryer. How late,
I don’t remember now, only that they stayed out much later than my parents ever
did. If my parents went out, it was for chicken fried steak and a movie. They
were in bed by ten.
When the couple returned, the kids’ father handed
me a wad of crumpled dollar bills. I was grossly underpaid. A bargain, my
friend Steph called me. The family she babysat for lived in a house with
ceilings so high she couldn’t reach them with a broomstick. Two kids versus the
three in my charge, but her hourly rate was three times what the Elliots paid
I put up with it because I told myself they
wouldn’t be able to afford dates if it weren’t for me. Their house was small.
Some of the tiles had come up in the kitchen. Every room looked like an
unfinished craft project.
Also, I was frugal. Scolded my younger siblings
when they begged our mother for toys at the store. Got scolded by her in return
because our mother was not frugal. Years later, after my parents divorced, she
would blow through her half of their savings within two years, despite having a
full-time job and no health problems or other financial impediments.
I put up with it too because I was timid and
eager to please, thus easy to take advantage of, which is to say I wasn’t a particularly
good babysitter. The Elliots got what they paid for.
The kids’ father always drove me home. The
kids’ mother muttered thank you, then disappeared into their bedroom. The glow
that had been in her cheeks on the way out the door was dulled and hardened
when they walked back in.
Without a word, he would hold the front door
for me, just as he had for her some hours earlier.
The drive wasn’t far—a couple miles. Still, he
never said a word about how maybe he shouldn’t drive me home, how maybe he’d
had too much to drink.
Of course, I could have said something. I could
have called and woke my father to tell him to come get me. But I didn’t. Just
like how a few years later, I wouldn’t speak up in so many other circumstances
involving men who would make me feel as small and inconsequential as a gnat. As
that bear of a man drove in silence, as though he were alone, I felt so much
smaller than his ballerina wife, smaller even than his children. In reality, I
was taller than all of them, but I didn’t own my height. I didn’t own anything
about my body other than my shame at being the kind of girl no one gave a damn
about, not even a man with alcohol on his breath, nothing but crumpled ones in