time in that expensive coat and shoes. You made a better choice this time,â he said.
âI thought I could fit in better this way,â I admitted, feeling a bit embarrassed. âBut lots of people own a coat like the one I was wearing. That doesnât mean my family is rich.â
âMaybe not the coat, but certainly the Mercedes that picked you up. That one probably cost more than a hundred grand, right?â
I nodded my head. It was one of the top-of-the-line cars. But how did he know what sort of car picked me up? Had he been spying on me?
âI was watching when you left, peeking out the window, to make sure you got picked up safe,â Mac said, answering my unspoken thoughts.
âDoesnât matter what car picked me up or dropped me off,â I said, feeling a bit defensive. âAll that matters is that I have to put in my hours, so Iâm here.â
Mac laughed. âLike I said before, thatâs one of the things I like about you, kid. You arenât going to give mesome crap about helping the poor. Youâre here to do a job. Honest. I like that. But you know, there are other places where you could have done your hours. You could have weaseled out of being here.â
âThatâs what my mother wanted me to do.â
âBut you didnât do what she wanted. How come?â
I considered giving him a completely honest answer; I hardly ever did what my mother or father wanted unless I had no choice. âI told you Iâd be here so Iâm here,â I said. That wasnât a complete lie.
âGood. How about if you continue unloading the truck while I finish up making supper. Unless you want to do the cooking and Iâll do the unloading?â
âI think Iâll do the unloading. Lifting I know how to do. Cooking for a hundred people I donât.â
âSame as cooking for two people. Just multiply all the ingredients by fifty.â
I went out to continue unloading. Each time I came in with a box I caught a glimpse of Mac working at the stove. It wasnât just that I didnât know how to cook for one hundred people. I didnât know how to cook for two. Or even one. Iâd never needed to. Berta did all of that.
Berta was my nanny when I was a baby, and then when I didnât need a nanny any more she became our housekeeper and organizer. She had an apartment in our basement and she was always there. My mother said Berta was sort of like the familyâs wife who took care of all the day-to-day business of running our household. I didnât think of her as anybodyâs wife, but she was family. Sheâd always been there. She was there when I came home from school. Because of her, the house was neverempty, and because my father and mother were always so busy with business meetings and travel and of course social things, it would have been empty without her. Filled with lots of expensive thingsâbut empty. I couldnât even imagine what it would be like without Berta aroundâthank goodness Iâd never known and Iâd never have to know.
I guess it also worked out for Berta. She was originally from Guatemala and thatâs where all her family still lived, so I guess in some ways we were like her family too.
Iâd once started to figure out how often I ate with my parents and how often it was just me and Berta for dinner. I looked back for two or three weeks and then stopped. There was no point in quantifying what I already knew. Not that there was anything wrong with eating with Berta. I liked eating with her. I liked being with her.
She had a soft, gentle laugh, and she always seemed to know what questions to ask and, just as important, what questions not to ask. Those were the times I told her the rest of the story anyway. I knew I could trust her. She didnât judge me, although she did offer adviceâ softly spoken with her lilting accent. I loved her accent. My parents told me that
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